Highland Temptations: Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Adams, Aileen

  Did he have nothing better to do with his time? She resolved to find out whether he had a family, friends, a clan. Ties, somewhere. He’d spoken of a Richard. Who was Richard?

  She needed to know these things if she was to continue riding with him.

  A wet, snuffling sort of noise woke her from a light sleep, and she sat up with a start—only to find the lovely horse nudging her with its nose. The man whose name she still did not know had hobbled it nearby in case they had to make a sudden run.

  “Good morning,” she whispered, scratching the beast behind the ears. “Thank you for saving me last night.” She was rewarded for this with a light nip at her sleeve, and she laughed softly.

  A glance to her right told her the man still slept, even though the sky had lightened quite a bit. Not even the sound of her whispering to the horse caused him to stir. What sort of protector was he if he slept so soundly? He couldn’t be counted on to keep her safe. Who did he think he was?

  Anger stirred deep within her chest, threatening to bubble up in a tirade which would soon pour out of her mouth like boiling oil and scald him within an inch of his life.

  Then, before she could begin, he stirred. He turned his head that his face was fully visible. He was… vulnerable. Exhausted. He reminded her of a child—one with stubble on his cheeks, but a child just the same. His green eyes were closed, of course, red lashes fluttering gently as he dreamed.

  He merely needed to sleep.

  When she looked down at herself, at his clothing, and at the bandages which he’d wound around her feet—then remembered how he’d lifted her and carried her to the water, that she might wash her feet without having to walk on them—her anger cooled until it was all but gone.

  He hadn’t needed to do any of it. And no one had disturbed them. They were safe.

  For the moment.

  “Come,” she whispered to the horse, rising gingerly. She walked on the very backs of her heels, holding the horse’s bridle for support and wondering who led who to the stream. It seemed he was doing all the work.

  They both drank of the cool, clean water, and Shana vowed to never take water for granted again. She thought she might never get enough of the sensation as it flowed down her throat, then again when she splashed it on her face and neck.

  She’d buried her dress at the edge of the stream, knowing anyone might be able to find it if she left it lying about and unwilling to bring it along with her even if it was clean—which it certainly had not been. That dress would always bring memories of those endless, fear-filled days in a cell.

  No need to carry around the memories when she did not need to.

  The last thought she’d had before falling asleep returned to her. How could she ride with him when she couldn’t trust him? Yet how could not trust him when he’d already done so much?

  “What should I do?” she asked her new friend, stroking his mane. “You know him better than I. Can I trust him? Why did he bring you all this way to find me?”

  The horse regarded her with large, dark, soulful eyes but sadly, could not answer her questions or even understand them. He could only chew slowly and thoughtfully on the grass still growing thick at the water’s edge.

  Until he stopped, his ears pointing to Shana. No. To somewhere behind her.

  She scrambled to her feet. Too late.

  An arm like an iron band wrapped itself around her chest, holding her tight against a male body which reeked of unnamed odors and sour breath. “Aye, so this is where ye ran to?” a deep voice whispered in her ear. “I knew I was smart to keep ridin’, lookin’ for ye even though the others bedded down for the night. Won’t they be surprised?”

  Terror froze her like ice while thoughts and images bounced about in her head.

  She opened her mouth, ready to scream, when the point of a blade touched her throat.

  “Now, now, I wouldn’t do that if I was ye. I would hate to cut this smooth throat.”

  What difference did it make? She would rather die than allow this… whatever he was, to take her back. That which awaited her was certainly worse than death.

  She could only die once, while she could be hurt and defiled many times over.

  Suddenly, just as suddenly as he’d taken hold of her, he jerked. His arm tightened.

  “I would let her go if I were ye.”

  Her eyes darted to the side, where her savior stood with dirk in hand, the blade gleaming in the corner of her eye as it pressed to her attacker’s throat.

  “I’ll cut her now,” the man snarled.

  “What good would that do ye? A dead lass will get ye nowhere. Your master would hardly like knowing ye killed the lass he wants to use to lure her kinsmen.”

  “I won’t let ye take her. There’s a price on her head now. Jacob Stuart’s offerin’ it, now that she’s gone, and I plan to collect.”

  “Ye won’t be breathing air, man. Dead men canna collect gold.” He took a step nearer, the dirk never so much as trembling. “Let. Her. Go. Before I skewer ye with my blade.”

  The man let out a harsh, derisive laugh, yet his trembling revealed the depth of his worry. He knew there was no way for him to win. Did he not? Or was he out of his mind?

  “Ye would’ve done it if ye were goin’ to,” he decided with a brash chuckle.

  Which was quickly replaced with a gurgle.

  Her savior took her by the arm and pulled her close, away from the now-dying man who’d attacked her. The long-haired, nameless man had been as good as his word—his dirk sat in the man’s throat up to the hilt, the blade’s point jutting out the other side.

  He dropped to the ground and went still within moments.

  She turned her face away, pressing it against the chest of her hero. Now that the danger had passed, her body shook from head to foot. He might have killed her, or worse.

  “There, there. No need to fear. He’s dead, and good riddance.” Still, he patted her hair, her back. “I wouldna let him harm ye.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I did. I also warned him. He didna pay heed.” He held her away from him, looking her up and down. “Are ye all right?”

  “I believe so.”

  He looked to the body with a snarl. “I’ll bury him. We canna leave him out for all to see.”

  “There is no time to dig a grave!” Panic was beginning to set in now. “He said there’s a price on my head. There will be others.”

  “I know, which means I need to start now. I dinna mean to dig a grave. I can cover him.” He shook his head when she made a move as though to assist in this. “Nay, ye need to stay off your feet. What did I tell ye?”

  “I…” She knew not whether to fly into a rage or burst into tears.

  “Sit down. Keep your feet up, as I told ye, and let me take care of this. I believe there ought to be dried meat in one of the packs. Eat now, while there’s time.” He went to work then, turning his back to her, grunting from the effort needed to lift the rather heavy man from where he’d fallen.

  She looked at him, unable to help herself. He might have been rather young, at that. If he had not chosen to attack and try to kidnap her, he might still be alive.

  He had gray eyes which stared sightlessly up at the sky. She wished they were closed.

  Her hunger was enough to stir her to action. “What is your name?” she asked while she went through one of the packs. “I feel as though I ought to know it, now that you…”

  “William,” he grunted, dragging the man with a hand beneath both arms. Muscles moved beneath his tunic, shoulders and arms straining.

  “Thank you, William.”

  “Think nothing of it.” His tone told her that he truly felt this way. He thought nothing of the fact that he had killed a man with little effort. It was simply something he’d been called upon to do, and now he cleaned up after himself because he needed to do that as well.

  She ought to think nothing of it, for the man who’d died was less than a man. Less than a person. He’d been wi
lling—eager, even—to trade her for a sum. He’d taken delight in having caught her.

  He certainly had not cared what would happen once he’d handed her over to the Stuarts.

  Why should she care that he was now dead?

  The meat she chewed turned sour in her mouth when she watched William pull his dirk from the man’s neck. He’d shoved it in so far, he needed to place a foot on the man’s shoulder before heaving upward. Tossing it to the ground, he then covered the body with leaves and branches until it looked nothing like what it was.

  While he did this, Shana covered all evidence of their fire, then scattered leaves over top in hopes of concealing where it had burned. Anything to avoid drawing attention to the area. Would it be enough?

  He washed the dirk in the stream before sliding it into a leather sheath on his belt, beneath his cloak. “We’ll need to go now.”

  “I am ready.”

  He saddled the horse, then helped her to her feet and lifted her onto the horse’s back as if she weighed little more than a feather.

  “We had best stay off the road for now,” he decided, a frown creasing his brow as he swung up behind her.

  “He said the others who were looking for me had decided to bed down for the night, meaning they might be quite a way behind us.”

  “Aye, I heard him. I still would rather not take chances. It isn’t only a matter of them not seeing us, but also of avoiding being seen by others. Villagers, townsfolk, peddlers. Those looking for us will ask questions wherever they go.”

  Shana shivered as the truth settled into her bones. She would not be safe until they reached this Richard, whoever he was and wherever he happened to be. They would spend their days riding and their nights sleeping out of doors—neither of which frightened her in the least, as she had spent her entire life doing just that.

  Except for all the hatred shown toward her and her people in the past, she had never felt truly hunted. Chased. In peril.

  Until now.

  When William wrapped her in his cloak, his warm body behind hers, she recalled how effortlessly and even carelessly he’d killed the man who might have killed her.

  And she stopped shivering.

  9

  “How many times do I have to tell ye? Two days since we left that stream and you’re still trying to walk.”

  She blew out a heavy sigh which curdled his blood. Two days since he’d buried and left that man behind. Two days of hearing her sigh. At least she sat before him most of the time, meaning he could only see the back of her head.

  If he had to watch her eyes roll while she sighed, it might have been too much.

  “Would you prefer to carry me everywhere? What am I do to when I need to tend to personal matters?” She sat, raising her feet from the ground with a pointed smirk up at him.

  “I should have stopped before now to find shoes for ye,” he muttered, shaking his head at the condition of her bandages. There was no keeping them clean and dry, no matter how he tried or how frequently he saw to her changing them.

  It just so happened they’d hit a stretch of damp weather. Wet wounds were always bound to fester.

  He dropped to one knee, wondering silently when he’d become a nursemaid. How far he’d fallen. How Richard would laugh if he saw this.

  All thoughts of himself fell away once he’d peeled back the last of the linen strips and was unable to hide his dismay.

  She winced, turning her face away rather than looking. “Och, it does not look good,” he murmured as gently as possible. They had not healed in the least, the wounds red and angry, the bruises darker than ever. She had already run over a great deal of ground with her feet cut and scraped before he found her.

  “It hurts,” she confessed through clenched teeth.

  He looked from the soles of her feet into her pained face, twisted in a grimace, and made a decision. “We’re just outside Inverness now.”

  “You said that last night.”

  “Aye, I know I did.” He reminded himself of the pain she had to be in before a sharp retort could escape. “There is bound to be something there which will help ye. I have to find it in town.”

  She gripped his wrists. “You can’t do that.”

  He pulled himself free, patted her hands. “I have to. You’ll only get worse. There must be something I can buy there to help.”

  “I… could find what we need in the woods. My mother taught me how to heal.”

  “Aye, I’m certain she did, but ye need help now. Something strong.” Before she became feverish and glassy-eyed. He would not speak the words aloud, but that was what would happen if he allowed her to go without treatment of some sort.

  “You’ll leave me here, then?” The tremble in her voice cut him to the quick.

  “I have to. I will not be long, I swear it.” He hated the thought, simply loathed it, but the village was no more than a ten-minute trip on foot. “Ye can wait for me on horseback and run if ye hear anyone coming.”

  She eyed him askance. “You trust me to do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if I leave with the horse?”

  “Then I’m a damned fool and the worst judge of character this side of the Highlands.”

  She would do no such thing if she had half a brain. She knew he was her only protector and would not dare venture far without him.

  The way her voice trembled when he told her he’d leave was enough to convince him she would never dare run away.

  “And you’ll be coming back soon?”

  He lifted her into the saddle and rested a hand on her knee. Her eyes met his, and they remained that way for a long, silent moment.

  “I will,” he vowed.

  “I believe you.”

  He nodded. “If ye hear anything that sounds like footsteps or hooves, or if the horse acts skittish—”

  “I know.”

  He lingered another moment, wishing he didn’t have to do it. While he would never have called her weak, this was a different matter. She was a single woman about to be left alone with an army of hunters and possibly even mercenaries snapping at her heels. Men like that were not known for their kindness.

  As almost an afterthought, he withdrew his flintlock and loaded it. “You’ll get one shot, so make it count.”

  Rather than taking it with a shaking hand, as he might have guessed a woman in her position would, her fingers closed around the handle with decided firmness. “I intend to.”

  He wasn’t certain whether he feared or respected her just then. Though he was certain that he pitied the man who thought he could have his way with her.

  He left her before he could talk himself out of leaving her alone, raising his hood once he stepped out of the thickest wood. The thriving town spread out before him, with carts and wagons and horses moving along the roads leading to and from.

  Was she hidden well enough back there? He could only hope. He could also only hope that no one thought it strange a man would enter town on foot. It was a struggle, finding a balance between walking quickly and too quickly.

  He had to get back to her. Every minute he left her alone…

  He shouldn’t have given her his real name. She was smart enough to give him a false one. It had never occurred to him to do the same. What if someone found her and asked who she’d been traveling with?

  As he’d already pointed out, her kinsmen were her kinsmen. She wished to protect them, and that was honorable.

  He was not one of her people. She could easily give him up to avoid worsening her lot.

  A fine rain was falling by the time he reached the outskirts of town, where a handful of cottages sat, and he made a point of avoiding looking passerby in the eyes. Would he appear even more suspicious because of this? There was no telling.

  It seemed better to avoid being remembered as anything more than a tall man in a brown cloak. The mist made his hood necessary, at least.

  His eyes darted about, beneath that cowl, his mind on finding a healer’s
shop somewhere. He had no idea of how to recognize it when he found it. The signs hanging over each business included images which described what the business did. A horse, an anvil, a needle, a loaf of bread. Where was the healer?

  The weather kept no one inside, and he was soon in the middle of a throng of villagers, much to his consternation. Yet the cold, clinging mist meant they made haste to go about their errands and kept their heads down, which worked in his favor.

  After walking down street after street, avoiding splashing himself in the muck which ran like a river before the rows of homes and inns servicing the busy harbor, he found a stone building from which came a mix of odors he could only describe as herbal.

  Stepping inside, he found a low-ceilinged room full to the brim with drying herbs, shelves lining the walls covered in bottles, vials, and bowls. An old woman sat on a stool, grinding a mixture of leaves beneath a stone.

  He cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

  “Do I know ye?” the woman croaked without looking up from her work.

  “Eh… nay.”

  “Why have ye come, then?”

  Was knowing the woman a condition of asking for her help? How did she ever manage to do business with the men who came in on the ships? It was only natural to assume they would need tonics and tinctures for pain, illness.

  “I need help. A friend.” He thought quickly, deciding against telling the entire truth. The woman hadn’t yet looked at him, so he did not trust her. “He was wounded in a fall days ago, but the wounds have not healed and, in fact, look worse. Angry, red, with bruises.”

  “Cuts?”

  “And scrapes, aye. On his feet.”

  “He wounded his feet in a fall?” Now she raised her head, beady eyes peering at him from beneath thick, white eyebrows. She might have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred winters old. Perhaps more. But her hands never ceased in their task as she studied him, and they moved with ease rather than in a halting, pained manner.

  Perhaps she made use of the very potions she created.

  “Aye,” he grumbled, already tired of his lie and of this woman. “Can ye help or can ye not? I’m sure I can find another healer elsewhere.”