The Highlander’s Stolen Bride_Book Two_The Sutherland Legacy

by Eliza Knight

  One seductively arched brow rose. “What’s wrong with dried venison?”

  Eva had not been expecting a question like that. At all. “There is nothing wrong with it…” she drawled, trying to decipher if he was teasing her or not. “Only that perhaps they might enjoy a tasty repast instead? A heartier meal? Besides, I want to do something nice to show that I appreciate they’ve not eaten me yet.” She said this last part with a little laugh.

  The laird’s nostrils flared, and his eyes blazed with a heat she felt all the way to her toes. Zounds… What had she said to make him look at her with such…hunger? Images of his lips nibbling over her neck had her eyes widening as she took in what he might have imagined—or was it all in her head? Why did the idea of him doing just that entice her so much?

  “All right,” he said tightly. “But ye might have better luck catching something crawling around as ye did the other night.”

  Eva’s cheeks heated all the more, and she blew out a breath. “Very funny.”

  A crooked grin curled his lips. “Aye. Verra funny.”

  She tapped her toe and resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “Well, what will it be?”

  “Aye. I’ll catch ye a rabbit or two.”

  “Thank you.” Excited that he’d agreed to her plan, she headed back in the direction of where she’d seen the herbs and mushrooms. When she’d been a lass, her mother had taught her, Jacqueline, and the other village girls how to find things that were edible in the forest. It had become a game throughout the years. Even now, when she visited with her sister or the women in town, it was customary to bring something they’d found in the forest along the way.

  Emotion filled her chest, and sat back on her heels and stared up at the sky. The pain of losing her mother never dulled. It was an ever-present ache in the center of her heart. God, how she prayed her mother was truly still alive. Tears threatened, but she couldn’t let them fall. She had good memories. Many of them. And she thrived on those. Drawing in several steady breaths, she forced herself to focus on the task. Herbs. Mushrooms. Any edible roots.

  She gathered the items in a makeshift basket she made with the outer layer of her gown. Part of her chemise was exposed as she headed back toward camp, but given she’d seen several of the men without their shirts, and she’d been riding in a rather unladylike position for days, them seeing a few inches of her chemise was nothing.

  She spotted the lad who had the pot, and smiled without pretense. “May I borrow your pot, sir?”

  “What for?” he asked none too happily, eyes raking over her in much the same manner the other warriors did.

  “I’m going to make a stew.” And you’re going to like it.

  “Nay, ye arena.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  That took her aback. His laird had given her permission to do so, so why was he suddenly denying her? Mistrust clouded his eyes, and his face was wrinkled in distaste.

  “Please, sir. Laird Dornoch has given me permission and has even gone to fetch a rabbit.”

  Unable to deny that, he begrudgingly went to his horse to untie the pot. She was certain he was going to toss the heavy iron vessel at her head by the look of him, but instead, he held it out and waited for her to load her items into its center and take it from him. A good sign she might be able to slowly etch away at the stony resolves of the men.

  “Thank you.” Eva smiled, but he did not return the gesture. Instead, he just grunted and backed away from her, obviously not giving her his back as though he expected she would stab him.

  Well, she’d known it wasn’t going to be easy. Progress would come in small measures, and she’d accept the giving of the pot as a small victory.

  “Wench is making a damn witch’s brew. Going to poison us all.” The murmured words put a damper on her spirits. How dare he insinuate such a thing? And with her not even out of earshot? Barbarian. Accusations like that held strong in the minds of the superstitious, and even the not so superstitious. An accusation like that could get a person killed. Eva quickly surveyed the men, and though they all looked at her much the way they had before, none of them seemed to have a spark of fear or sudden bloodlust.

  Eva pursed her lips, preparing to defend herself, but he walked away, and she’d not the energy to go after him and make a fight out of it. While his behavior did make her angry, she wasn’t about to commit murder by poisoning them all, even if they were dangerous.

  Besides, she could empathize with the warriors’ feelings, even if she didn’t agree. If she had been in their place, she might have behaved the same way. To these men, she was an enemy. Even if she knew that to be the furthest thing from the truth, they didn’t know any better.

  And she’d given them no reason to trust her. This stew, while it might seem like a minor thing, was a big step in the direction of peace. Not simply because she couldn’t deal with their glowers and barely contained hatred, but because who knew how long she was going to be among them. For her own sanity, she couldn’t imagine spending months facing hostility. Perhaps if they saw this gesture for what it was, they would start to warm to her.

  And if they warmed to her, their laird may not toss her in a dark, cold cell, and instead allow her some free rein.

  Or was that too much hopeful thinking?

  Only steps away from camp, Tomaidh approached Strath with purposeful steps. “My laird.”

  “Aye?” Strath slowed enough to allow his friend to reach his side then increased his pace through the forest, wanting to get a safe distance from camp before he started firing arrows.

  Tomaidh had that march about him that he got when he was questioning his laird’s logic. Strath was fairly certain what he wanted to talk about and was fairly certain he didn’t want to hear it.

  At last, Tomaidh spoke. “Do ye think it is wise, my laird?”

  “What? Hunting?”

  “Allowing the lass to make a stew for our entire caravan.”

  Strath shrugged. “I’m tired of dried venison.”

  Tomaidh shook his head. “We all are, my laird. But the lass… She was to wed the enemy. Her father is a powerful lord in the north of England, certainly at fault for many of the calamities we were sent to fight against.”

  “I dinna need a lecture from ye, Tomaidh. Ye tell me things I’m already aware of. Or do ye think me so addled I wouldna recall where we took her from? The king wanted to know if she was alive. Delivering her will answer his question.”

  Tomaidh held up his hands and took a step back. “I trust ye, my laird. I didna mean to make it seem otherwise.”

  Strath continued forward. “The lass will not cause us harm.”

  “How can ye be sure?”

  Strath paused, seeing a rabbit in the distance who’d stilled from munching on greens. He lifted his arrow, lined up his mark, and took the shot. “I feel it in my gut.” As he retrieved his arrow, he eyed Tomaidh. “Ye said ye trust me.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then ye and the men will follow my lead when it comes to our prisoner.”

  “We always do. I trust ye.”

  “Good. Just as I trust ye.” Strath clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I appreciate ye coming to me.”

  Tomaidh nodded. “She is verra beautiful.”

  Strath grinned. “Is this going to be another lecture?”

  “Nay, nay. But I have to ask…”

  “Ask then.”

  “Is she truly a prisoner?”

  Strath lightly shoved his friend away and continued marching through the forest to find another rabbit for the stew. “She belongs with us.”

  “Belonging is different than being a prisoner.”

  “I know.” He cleared his throat. “To be clearer, she is mine, under my protection.”

  “Yours.”

  “Aye.” Strath wasn’t even completely sure what he meant when he said it, only that it felt right.

  Lady Eva was under his protection. And if circumstances were different, he might actually
make her his in truth. Binding. But for now, telling his men she was under his wing of protection ought to be enough to have them warming toward her, for he’d seen the wary expressions that passed between them when she approached.

  Suddenly, a realization came to him. He trusted her.

  Ballocks.

  Eva took the pot down to the water, ignoring the murmurs from the men. She rinsed the herbs and vegetables, filled the pot with water, and brought it back to camp. There was no fire, not as they had the other days, and she could only think they’d refrained on purpose. No matter, she knew how to build a fire, and she would not allow their reticence for her or her darn stew to take her down.

  She set the pot in the perfect spot to build a fire and then moved off toward the edge of camp to gather twigs and larger pieces of fallen branches. With the heel of her boot, she broke the larger branches into smaller, more manageable pieces. After gathering the wood, she took the pile back to camp and stacked them in place, clearing debris from around the edges until it was perfect. Then she realized she didn’t have a flint to light the blasted thing.

  Every man in the camp seemed suddenly busy, their backs to her after. They must have realized what she needed and did not want to give it to her. But Eva was determined.

  Biting her lip, she knelt next to the pile, recalling the trick her mother had showed her on one of their excursions. She picked up a sturdy yet thin piece of kindling and placed its tip on one of the larger pieces of wood. Clasping the kindling piece between her palms, she started to quickly rub her palms back and forth, twirling the kindling against the larger piece of wood. Heat built up in her palms at the same time the wood started to give off just the tiniest amount of smoke.

  Eva couldn’t help but smile. It might have been a few years since her mother had taken all the ladies out for a wilderness excursion, but the skills she’d learned hadn’t faded.

  Just as her mother had showed her, Eva blew lightly on the smoking wood and kept on twirling. Men in the camp had started to inch forward, but she ignored them. No doubt, they were surprised she knew how to do this. She was sure every Scottish lass was born with skills to survive outdoors—especially since she’d heard it was rare to have a hearth in a Scottish house or castle—but she knew how even more rare it was for an Englishwoman to build a fire from nothing but wood.

  From the surprised murmurs of the warriors, it was obvious the idea of Eva starting a fire had never crossed their minds. While she’d heard rumors about the Scots, she’d also heard what they thought about the English. That the women were like babes who couldn’t survive without the help of men or servants. That left to her own devices, an English lady would perish for lack of skill at feeding one’s self. And what was it the man had murmured earlier, that she was going to make a witch’s brew? Englishwomen were witches—bah. Mayhap they would even think the fire she was slowly growing now was some feat of magic rather than skill.

  With her churlish thoughts, Eva had slowed her rubbing, and the smoke started to dissipate. Nay! She wasn’t going to lose, not with all these curmudgeons betting against her. With renewed determination, she picked up the pace, blew gently, and watched the smoke increase. Shortly thereafter, a small amount of tinder sparked from the shavings of the wood created by her ministrations. Eva blew gently on a spark and held the tip of her kindling stick to the glowing ember. Within a moment, it also started to smoke and glow, until a flame leapt up from its tip.

  She’d done it.

  A secret smile curled her lip, and she kept her gaze toward the ground, not wanting to see the faces of the men who surrounded her, certain their disappointment at her succeeding would put a damper on this moment of triumph.

  Warmth flooded her chest, and at that moment, she was fairly certain her mother was right there with her, holding her, hugging her. A ray of hope. With the end of a stick, she poked the pieces of wood in her makeshift campfire until the flames leapt from various pieces, and then she placed her pot of water on top to boil. If there was a moment to be proud of herself, this was it.

  And she knew her mother would have been proud.

  All she needed to do now was add the ingredients. Tearing the herbs and plopping them in the pot was easy, but she needed a knife to cut the mushrooms and root vegetables.

  This time, Eva did look up, but as soon as she raised her head, the men all avoided her gaze, pretending to be busy.

  At that moment, Laird Dornoch returned with two rabbits and a few squirrels. He nodded at her fire and the slowly warming water.

  “Smells delicious.”

  “You exaggerate,” she said with a roll of her eye. “’Tis only wood burning that you smell.”

  He laughed. “Soon it will be meat.” He held up his catches.

  “Nicely done,” Eva said with a smile.

  He nodded and settled down near her to prepare the meat for cooking. Eva watched him for a moment, not surprised to find the way he worked to be precise and accurate. Then she recalled her need to cut up the vegetables.

  “Can I borrow a dagger, my laird?”

  “What for?” He glanced up at her and winked. “To kill me and cook me up?”

  Eva blushed at his teasing and pointed at her pile. “Nay, I want to chop these.”

  He scanned the vegetables and then pulled a small dagger from his boot and wiped it on his plaid. “Will this do?”

  “Aye. Thank you very much.” The handle was warm from where it had been pressed to his skin.

  “Who started the fire for ye?” he asked while he continued his ministrations.

  “I did it myself.” Eva chanced a look at him through her lashes.

  He shook his head and chuckled as though she’d just told a joke.

  “I’m serious.” She chopped some of the mushrooms a bit too energetically in irritation. Was it so impossible to imagine a woman could do such a feat? Or just her?

  “Did ye really?” He stopped what he was doing to once more look at her, awe in his regard.

  “Aye. And without a flint.” She couldn’t help bragging a little and thrust her chin out.

  The laird’s eyes returned to her fire, a newfound respect etched on his face. “Skill with a fire is rare in a woman. While I’ve an affinity for sparking flames, I’m not certain my sisters would know. Where’d ye learn to do that?”

  Eva’s mind snapped to what she’d seen of the burned out village, and she couldn’t help but mutter, “You of all people know exactly how one starts a fire.”

  Once she’d spoken the words she wished she could pull them back. She waited for the explosion. For him to knock over the pot and perhaps toss her into the flames, but a flicker of confusion flashed over his face.

  “My lady? I dinna take your meaning.”

  Eva licked her lips. “’Tis nothing.” She tried to wave it away, but he pressed.

  “Ye’re referring to something. I’m not an idiot.” And then it must have dawned on him. “I see. All roads dinna lead to the same place, lass. ’Haps I should have known ye had the skill all along. ’Twould seem ye and your kind are fond of fires.”

  Everything about his statement gave her pause. What could he possibly mean by that? Why did it feel like he was turning the tables on her?

  “My kind?”

  “English bastards.”

  Such venom filled his voice that she sat back with the knife paused in the middle of a root vegetable. Just another reminder she was this man’s prisoner, that he had no cause to be kind to her. A drop of English blood and she was lumped in with everyone he hated. Despite his flirtations, the teasing, and smiles, this was a stark reminder of exactly what they were to each other. She’d been a fool to read anything more into it.

  Eva stood and brushed her hands against her skirts, leaving the food where it was. Everything that had happened in her life over the past two years culminated in a rush of anger.

  “Well, at least I’m not a murderer. A destroyer of lives,” she said.

  “Are ye nay?” He looke
d up at her slowly, accusation in his gaze.

  “I am not.” She spoke each word loudly, clearly. “But I’ve witnessed firsthand the violence you have in you.”

  The laird leapt to his feet then, his eyes glaring accusations. “And ye hide the harm ye cause others behind your skirts and refinery.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “And ye know nothing about me.” His voice was quiet, cold, an exacting declaration of just how stupid she’d been.

  “I know enough.” Eva straightened her shoulders and waited for the punishment that had to be coming.

  “What? That I attacked your castle and knocked your lover on his pompous, vile head?”

  Eva bristled, and for the briefest of moments, she wished she had picked the wrong mushrooms for the stew so she could watch him writhe in pain. She was immediately contrite for her mean thoughts.

  “You attacked my castle unprovoked and murdered my father’s men. Then you wrenched me from everything I know and love.”

  “What could a woman like ye know of love?”

  His words cut her. She knew a lot about the love of a mother, the love of a sister, the love of friends. But his words only served to remind her she was naïve in the ways of loving a man. Still, she couldn’t let him know that his words hurt. “More than you, I imagine.”

  He grunted in response, a cloud filling his features and then swiftly disappearing. “Maybe so.”

  What demon from his past had just attacked him?

  Oh, why should she care? She should be throwing the dagger clutched in her hand at his heart.

  “I’ll tell ye one thing, Princess,” he said as he sat down to finish skinning the animals and preparing the meat for her to put in the stew, all the fight apparently gone from him. “I dinna kill innocents. I protect my people, my countrymen and women.”

  She wasn’t certain how to take his words. Was he saying she was not innocent, nor a Scot, and could therefore not expect protection? Well, she wasn’t surprised.

  “I’ve never killed anyone. My soul is clean,” she said confidently.