How to Ensnare a Highlander (The MacGregor Lairds)

by McLean, Michelle

  The time drew near when she’d have to leave. She probably should have already returned home. She didn’t ask about it, though. She was dangerously close to wanting to stay forever.

  Until then, she would embrace being rash and irresponsible.

  …

  John gathered Elizabet closer and began the trek back up the hill. Her warmth mingled with his, the light floral smell that was uniquely hers enveloped him. She could have walked on her own, but he’d not give up the opportunity to have her in his arms. No matter how ill-advised.

  He carried her to the brook, then set her gently down, kneeling beside her.

  “Are ye sure ye’re no’ injured,” he said, his eyes roving over her for any sign of blood or damage.

  “I promise, I am well. A little bruised, perhaps. But I’ll do.”

  He reached out and pulled a few twigs from her hair, looking at them with a soft grin. “I wouldna think lesser of ye if ye were hurt, ye ken?”

  She returned his smile. “I know. But I truly am fine. My pride, on the other hand, has taken quite a blow.”

  John chuckled lightly. “When I was a lad, my brother fell down a hill, though not so steep as the one with which we just became acquainted. He screeched and blethered until our mother threatened to beat him soundly and give him something to go on about. You made hardly a sound and shed not one tear. Your pride is safe, lass.”

  He hadn’t moved his hand, but instead continued to lightly stroke her hair. Far from finding this insulting, she leaned into his touch. He cupped her cheek, and her eyes nearly fluttered closed.

  This bordered on madness. She was the daughter of his enemy. And for all rights and purposes, his hostage. He should be ransoming her back to her father. Yet all he could think of were those big brown eyes of hers dancing with laughter. Her soft skin beneath his touch. The velvety softness of her lips under his thumb. He’d watched his cousin find happiness with Sorcha and, while he’d envied them to a point, it had never been something he especially desired. The life of domestic bliss was not for him. He craved excitement, adventure. He never thought he’d want anything more.

  Until her. Elizabet sparked a craving in him for an excitement and adventure of a different sort. If he could find happiness with one person in the world, chances were good she was the one. That the possibility didn’t exist meant he should shove the idea from his mind as fast as he could. But he didn’t want to let go yet. “I believe I promised ye some berries,” he said.

  “I believe you did.” She smiled up at him, and his heart must have knocked into a lung, because he suddenly found it difficult to pull in a full breath. Her beauty at that moment, with her hair in a tangle and dirt smudging her face, would make even the angels in heaven cry.

  He led her to the clump of bushes that grew in the shelter of the woods, grinning at her delighted gasp.

  “Bilberries!” she said, reaching out to pluck one. She popped it in her mouth, her eyes closing as she chewed.

  “We call them blaeberries. Shall we take some back with us?”

  “Please. Oh, but we didn’t bring a basket.”

  “Nay worries. We can carry them in my kilt.”

  He reached down to lift the front of his kilt, and she rewarded him with a scandalized shriek before slapping the fabric out of his hand. He grinned. “Ye didna wish for any berries, then?”

  “I’ll carry them.” She gathered a few folds of her skirts to form a pocket.

  “But, lass.” He leaned closer as if to impart a secret. “Ye’re exposing a bit of flesh if ye do that.” He nodded down at the inch of ankle now visible.

  She raised a brow. “A far sight better than what you’d be exposing,” she said.

  His laugh echoed through the woods.

  They gathered enough berries to fill her skirt and then sat on the banks of the creek to eat their fill.

  “Oh,” she said, glancing down at a tear in her skirt. “I must have caught it on a branch.”

  He examined the rend. “Och, it’s no’ but a small tear. I can mend it for ye.”

  Her eyes widened. “You do your own mending?”

  “Of course. Most men spend a fair amount of time away from home, hunting or fighting. We’d all be running about naked as the day we’re born if we couldna throw a stitch or two. I could knit ye a nice pair of stockings if ye have need as well,” he said with a wink.

  She squinted at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “No?”

  He rummaged in his sporran, coming out with a needle shoved in a bit of cork, already threaded. Then he gathered her skirt, his hand tightening on the material with the sudden urge to delve beneath it. She watched him, her breath catching in her throat. He tugged on the skirt so she had to scoot closer. The temptation burned through him. So strong. She must have known it. Felt it. Yet, she did nothing but move even closer to him, until her skirts pooled in his lap and her bare legs were inches from his own.

  He swallowed hard and dragged in a slow breath, trying to calm the buzzing in his head and the fire in his blood. The lass was still healing. And even if she were not, he’d not take her like some rutting animal on the dirty banks of a creek. Not the first time. And not under these circumstances. Even if she was willing.

  He relaxed his hold on her skirts and spread the material out so he could properly line up the torn fabric. The tension between them eased as he made quick work of the tear, both of them focused on the mundane task rather than their proximity to each other.

  When he finished, she examined her skirt with delight. “It looks good as new.”

  “Well, almost,” he said, though a warm pleasure at her praise spread through him.

  “I’m impressed.”

  He waved that off. “Och, it’s nothing but a task even the wee ones can do. I’ve been mending most of my own clothes since I was a lad.”

  She laughed. “I’m trying to picture my father sitting before the fire knitting his own stockings. I don’t think he’s ever pulled his own stockings on, let alone mended them.”

  The mention of her father sobered John, bringing him back to an unwelcome reality where, by all rights, the woman before him should be firmly in the enemy camp. He couldn’t see her as such, though. No matter how he tried. She wasn’t his enemy. She was…Elizabet.

  He reached out and wiped the small smudge of dark-red juice from her lip, and she froze. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, her lips parted with a small sigh. The heat from her mouth warmed his thumb, beckoned to him. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss so gentle he could have imagined it.

  She pulled back enough to meet his gaze, though she stayed within the circle of his arms. “You said you wouldn’t kiss me until I asked,” she said with a small smile.

  “Ye can ask me later.”

  He cupped her face and brought her closer, tasting the sweet juice on her lips. She melted with a soft moan, and he crushed her to him, his blood roaring in his veins.

  His lips moved over hers, urging them to part. He delved inside, drawing her closer when another moan escaped her. He needed to stop. Now. Before the mad desire raging through his body at her touch completely consumed them both. And then she draped tentative arms around his neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him deeper. And he was lost. Let the consequences happen as they would. Every last one of them would be well worth it, if he could spend five more minutes in her arms.

  The sound of leaves crunching was his only warning that someone had discovered them.

  He jumped up and spun around, his dagger in his hand, already crouched in a battle stance.

  Malcolm looked at him, eyebrows raised. John gave his cousin a sheepish smile.

  “I’m surprised ye let me get so close,” Malcolm said, a gentle rebuke in his voice. John sheathed his dagger with a frown. Malcolm was right. Had he been an enemy, it might have been too late. And Elizabet would have been in danger.

  “It won’t happen again,” he promised. He turned around to help
Elizabet to her feet. “Lady Elizabet, may I present Malcolm MacGregor, Laird of Glenlyon.”

  Her eyes shot to John’s, no doubt in surprise that he’d introduce her to someone so prominent. Though with Sorcha visiting frequently and making no secret of her identity, Elizabet already knew their location. It mattered little now if she met everyone at the keep. Then again, the more people she met, the more likely she could discover his identity. He wasn’t sure he cared anymore, though he should.

  She gave Malcolm a quick little curtsy, and he nodded at her. “My wife has brought ye some stew and bread, I believe, as well as fresh clothing.” His eyes briefly traveled over the stained chemise visible beneath her shawl. Though merely cursory, blandly curious at most, John had the sudden urge to protect Elizabet from the other man’s gaze. He stepped in front of her, and Malcolm’s eyes widened. John hadn’t realized he’d moved until Malcolm gave him that look. And the amused shake of his head did nothing to improve John’s mood.

  Elizabet moved out from behind him and watched their visitor with curious eyes. He didn’t like that she wouldn’t stay put and let him protect her. But the fact that she put him at her back, all her focus on Malcolm, spoke of a trust in John that sent a thrill through him he’d never felt before. One that he had no right to feel. Still, he reveled in the fact that she trusted him to guard her back instead of feeling the need to protect herself from him.

  “Go on up the path there,” he said, pointing it out to her. “The cottage is right at the top. Shout if ye need me.”

  “I can see why they call you the Lion,” she said to Malcolm, completely ignoring John’s request. He took a deep breath. She may trust him, but that apparently didn’t extend to following his orders.

  Malcolm gave her a wry smile. “Aye?”

  “The hair, the eyes…”

  “Elizabet,” John said.

  Her gaze switched to him, and he jerked his head toward the trail. She opened her mouth to protest again, and he gave her the sternest look he could muster, though part of him wanted to laugh at her temerity. In a strange place, faced with a man like Malcolm, and her natural inclination was to interrogate him.

  She sighed and flounced away. As soon as she was safely out of sight, John took his mask off and rubbed his face.

  “Do ye never take it off in front of her?” Malcolm asked.

  “No. Was there something ye needed, Cousin?”

  Malcolm’s damnable eyebrow rose again. “Aye. I need my able-minded kinsman back. He seems to have been replaced with a madman who doesna ken his arse from his head.”

  John looked at Malcolm with surprise and then shook his head with an amused smile. “As bad as all that, is it?”

  “Worse.”

  “Aye, I ken. But there doesna seem to be a damn thing I can do about it.”

  Malcolm shook his head and chuckled. “They do have a way of mixing a man up, no doubt about it. But ye need to stop this, John. Ye’re putting more than yer own life at risk.”

  John sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “That wasna my intention, Cousin.”

  “Aye, but that’s no matter now. Is she betrothed to that bastard Fergus Campbell?”

  John scowled, trying to tamp down the sudden burst of fury that flowed through him at that name. “Not officially, I dinna believe.”

  “Well, according to the messenger who arrived today, he apparently believes otherwise and is being a nuisance at court, though so far only among certain circles. Her parents are apparently trying to keep the whole situation quiet. But Fergus has been petitioning the king and trying to rally discreet support to find her and to capture the Highland Highwayman so that he might be brought to justice for the heinous crime he’s committed in taking her. He won’t stay discreet for long.”

  John shook his head. “He wants her family connections and her estates. I have my suspicions as to why, but no proof as yet. He doesna love her.”

  Malcolm’s eyes widened at that. “Do you?”

  John’s gaze shot up. “Of course not. I’ve only just met the lass.”

  “Aye, well, sometimes that’s all it takes. I knew the moment my own new bride held a dagger to my throat on our wedding night that she was my true mate. And we’d known each other only a day. Though we were both stubborn about it. Once we truly got to know each other…well, if it’s the same for you…”

  John had a sudden image of Elizabet pulling a dagger on him as well. What was it about a woman wielding a blade that made her so irresistible?

  He sighed. “No. It’s not.”

  Truthfully, he didn’t know what he felt for her. He wanted to protect her, make her laugh, spend hours talking to her, spend hours doing nothing but being with her. And spend hours kissing her until she moaned his name and begged him to take her. But love? It couldn’t be that. They’d known each other only a couple weeks. He wasn’t even sure what love was. And even if he did, he could never act on it.

  The last thing he wanted was a woman in his life. Women were fragile, even the strong ones. Too much could happen he couldn’t protect them from. Especially a headstrong woman like Elizabet. Oh, he loved the fire in her. But it made her reckless. He’d never felt so out of control with a woman in his life, and it unsettled him far more than he cared to admit. He’d lost too many women he loved to ever allow himself to love another. His mother in childbed. His sister to a fever. But he couldn’t deny Elizabet had ignited something within him.

  The time had definitely come for him to return her home. “No,” he said again, though even he could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

  “Are ye sure, John?” Malcolm asked quietly. He’d known John since they were boys. Had been raised together like brothers. No one knew him better. Most of the time John cherished that connection. Now was not one of those times.

  “What I feel for the lass doesna matter. She is better off far away from me. But I dinna like abandoning her to that bastard Campbell.”

  “Neither do I. We’ll find out what he is up to. For all our sakes. I doubt he’s forgotten our part in his downfall.”

  “Aye, that’s the honest truth.”

  “Regardless, the lass needs to go back. It’s one thing if ye mean to offer for her. But she’s no’ a pet, John. Ye canna keep her.”

  “I ken that well enough,” he snapped. Then he sighed. “Apologies, Malcolm. Ye dinna need to tell me. I’ll take her home. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “Ye needn’t rush off quite so soon. Ye can take a few days—”

  “No. It’s time.”

  Malcolm watched him, and John tried not to squirm under his gaze. “All right, then. I’ll send Tim up with supplies for your journey.” He clasped John’s shoulder. “Be safe, Cousin. And return soon.”

  “I will,” John said, his heart heavy. He’d return when he could, and his life would go back to what it had been. And it would be lonelier and sadder for what he’d almost known and lost. But there was no help for that. They were no good for each other. Though if any a woman came close, it was her.

  He watched Malcolm walk away, and then he donned his mask and turned back to his cottage where Elizabet waited.

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabet patted the horse, giving his nose a good rub. “Must we continue on so soon? Surely resting for a day or two wouldn’t do any harm.”

  Jack gave her a small, intimate smile, the type she’d only dreamed of getting from a man. While she didn’t look forward to returning home and all that it entailed, the actual journey had been far more pleasurable than spending all day on a horse should be. Largely due to the fact that she had to ride with Jack, nestled in the cocoon of his arms. Several days of such riding had made her strangely attuned to him.

  He boosted her onto the horse and settled in behind her. “Dinna fash. We should arrive at the cottage in a few hours. Then tomorrow, I’ll take ye to a place where ye can arrange to be taken home.”

  Her heart fell. “So soon? I thought it would take longer.”

  His on
ly response was to tighten his arms about her and nudge the horse onward. In truth, they’d been traveling for nearly a week, sleeping in the rough in the wee hours of the night and traveling as many hours as they could sit the horse. She’d spent every instant completely wrapped up in Jack. Her senses filled with the masculine scent of him, her body becoming accustomed to every shift of his muscles, every beat of his heart. He held her so gently, yet firmly enough to keep her secure. She would have been happy had the journey taken a month, despite the discomforts of travel.

  The secret of his true identity still ate at her. He was a MacGregor almost certainly. And someone who commanded respect. Someone close to the laird of Glenlyon and his family. Perhaps Jack was family as well. Not that his family mattered so much to her. But she longed to know his true name.

  She turned her face in to his chest, nuzzling against him. He murmured something to her. Gaelic words that she couldn’t understand, though she could guess, as his arms tightened about her again and his lips grazed her neck. She tilted her head, giving him better access. If she only had a few more hours with him, she had every intention of making the most of them. She raised her arm, reaching behind her to thread her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Keeping his lips imprisoned on her skin. His tongue darted out, tasting her, and she gasped and arched against him. He whispered again, more unintelligible words that still branded themselves on her heart.

  When his teeth gently nipped at her neck, she twisted around, fusing her lips to his. The movements of the horse beneath them created a rocking motion that had her nearly dizzy with desire and craving his touch. She turned as far as she could, trying to get closer. Her body ached for something she didn’t know how to ask for. All she knew was that she wanted more. Wanted his hands on her skin. His lips on her body. Him. All of him.

  He kissed down the column of her throat, his lips trailing over every inch of exposed skin he could reach until he finally stopped, wrenching himself from her with a great intake of breath.

  “Enough, lass. I canna bear to touch so much of you and yet so little.”