Ensnared by the Laird (Four Horsemen of the Highlands, Book 1)

by Emma Prince

  “It isnae broken, at least. It will likely pain ye for several days or a sennight, though.”

  He rocked back on his heels as she tucked her foot under her skirts once more, not meeting his gaze.

  A laden silence stretched between them.

  “I told ye I would hunt ye down, find ye,” he said. Yet instead of a harsh chastisement, the words came out unexpectedly gentle. “Dinnae attempt to escape again.”

  Her eyes flicked up to his then, and he was surprised to find a stubborn glint in them.

  “Why not?”

  His jaw tightened. “It isnae safe for ye to wander about. Too many will try to take advantage of ye.”

  “And I am safer with you?”

  Damn it all. He opened his mouth to argue, but she had a point.

  “The fact is,” she continued, her voice tight, “you pose a far greater danger to me, for your only guide is your need for revenge. If it means hurting my brother, you’ll do your worst to me without a qualm.”

  “Aye, I am using ye as a pawn to get to yer brother,” he shot back. “But…Christ, lass, I willnae… I would never…”

  He hissed an exhale, raking a hand through his hair. He’d hoped his threats would keep her frightened of him, and therefore docile. That made him a heartless bastard, to be sure.

  But it curdled the contents of his stomach to hear that she thought he was no better than that worthless excuse for a man in the woods.

  It was time to let at least part of his ruse go. For his scheme to work, Murray still needed to fear that his sister was in real danger, and believe Domnall capable of hurting her. But Ailsa didn’t have to think the same.

  “I need ye to understand something,” he said, holding her with his gaze. “I willnae hurt ye. I willnae raise my hand to ye—ever. I willnae force myself on ye. I willnae touch ye at all except out of necessity.”

  Her eyes widened, but he continued before she could cast doubt upon his words.

  “Aye, I’ll let yer brother think the worst, but that doesnae mean I’ll ever make good on those threats. Ye are no’ in any danger from me.”

  He drew in a breath, latching onto another promise he could make. “What’s more, I’ll let ye go after I find Murray. Ye can return to Stalcaire Tower, or wherever yer heart desires. Ye can be free of this, lass.”

  Two flags of color sailed high on her cheeks. “You’ll let me go free, but only after you’ve killed my brother?”

  In any other circumstance, he would find her loyalty toward her brother and her courage in standing up to him admirable. But he knew what Murray had done. He felt himself hardening inside, turning to cold stone.

  “Ye clearly understand naught of the man, else ye wouldnae defend his life.”

  “He’s my brother,” she retorted.

  “He’s a traitor and a murderer.”

  To his satisfaction, a flicker of something akin to uncertainty lurked behind her dark eyes. Still, she pulled her knees to her chest and crossed her arms around them, effectively putting up a wall against him.

  He released a frustrated exhalation. Bloody hell, he’d meant to reassure her, to make her feel safe with him, and instead he’d reminded her that he was a monster bent on murdering her only remaining family.

  “I meant what I said,” he muttered, working his jaw. “I willnae harm ye, and I’ll let ye go once I’ve lured Murray to Tullibardine. The days between then and now can pass smoothly between us, but I cannae allow ye to escape again.”

  Her gaze slid from his, and she looked at everything but him. After several seconds of silence, she dipped her chin grudgingly.

  “I will not try to run away again,” she whispered. Then she huffed bitterly, lifting her injured ankle. “Not that I could, even if I wanted to.”

  He eyed her for a long moment. Something about her elusive gaze sent a ripple of unease through him. Nay, she was not completely tamed just yet. He would have to watch her like a hawk, especially once her ankle healed. And he’d have to keep that damned horse tied tight at all times.

  But for now, despite the spark of resistance that flickered behind her eyes, all he could do was take her at her word.

  * * * *

  Ailsa watched as Domnall rose and set about building a fire. Though the sun burned in a crystalline sky overhead, the October air held a sharp edge.

  She sat, her knees pulled to her chest, as he laid several fallen branches across one another and removed flint stones from his saddlebags, showering sparks onto a patch of dried moss. The wood was slow to catch, and smoky, but eventually he coaxed a warm, cheery blaze into existence.

  All the while, she remained silent. Watchful. Yet inside, a storm brewed.

  Deep down, she was not surprised that he’d kept his word—he’d hunted her down, never giving up until he’d found her and brought her under his power once more.

  What had shocked her, however, was the surge of gratitude she’d felt when he’d appeared. Aye, gratitude. That was the only word she could use to describe the heat that had suffused her, the ache in her chest, the flutter like a delicate moth’s wing in her stomach. She refused to make sense of the strange feelings any other way.

  As she watched him move about their makeshift camp, she shoved down those same feelings. It would be mad to contemplate them further, when he was for all intents and purposes her enemy.

  Aye, he may claim that he wouldn’t hurt her, that she was safe with him. Some trusting, vulnerable part of her even believed it. But she couldn’t go soft now—not when her brother’s life hung in the balance. The budding sentiments she felt toward her captor would only get Andrew killed.

  She willed herself to turn to stone inside, just as she’d seen Domnall go firm and cold when he’d decided to take her hostage. She had to think like the hardened Highland Laird, not like the gentle, sheltered lass she was. To get what she wanted, she would have to become as ruthless as he was.

  And what she wanted was to save Andrew’s life.

  Domnall had been far too prescient when he’d declared that she must not know her brother at all. He was right, in a way. She knew Andrew only as the frowning, stern man who passed through her life once or twice a year.

  Yet the blood that coursed in his veins ran through hers as well. They were bound together by that blood, given to them by a mother and father who had been stolen away all too soon. All that remained of their parents, of their family, resided in Ailsa and Andrew.

  Andrew had accused her of caring naught for her family, of acting selfishly when she’d refused to marry Lord de Laney. Now was her chance to prove that he had been wrong, that she would do whatever it took to protect what was left of her family.

  Which meant stopping Domnall.

  Ailsa squeezed her fists against her legs, swallowing the burning bile that raced up the back of her throat.

  Aye, she had to do whatever it took.

  She had to kill Domnall MacAyre.

  Chapter Ten

  Ailsa got her opportunity sooner than she’d expected.

  Two nights later, she woke from a deep sleep with a start. The horse had shifted where he stood tethered several feet away, snapping a twig.

  Her gaze shifted to the opposite side of the still-smoldering fire, where Domnall should have lain wrapped in a length of checked wool plaid.

  But the spot was empty.

  Ailsa’s eyes darted around the camp. The weak orange light pulsing from the coals revealed naught but the horse surrounded by motionless trees and shadows.

  A flicker of movement and a muffled splash had her whipping her head around. Just beyond the tree line, the loch sparkled with moonlight, flashing like a blade. The surface rippled as something moved within the water. Or someone.

  For a brief moment, her thoughts ground to a halt at the realization that Domnall must be out there, swimming. Naked. An image darted through her mind of Domnall, gilded in cold moonlight, his wet skin glistening like a seal, every hard line and angle of him touched by the silky water. />
  She jerked to a crouch, hastily shoving away the ridiculous musings. Remember yourself. Remember your task.

  If he was naked, then he wouldn’t bear the dagger he carried in his boot. He would be defenseless, caught off-guard. Aye, he certainly wouldn’t suspect this of her.

  Two days past, he’d proclaimed that they would remain beside the loch to give her time to heal and rest. Internally, she was grateful. She could hardly do more than hobble a few paces away to see to her needs behind a dense clump of underbrush. Her ankle throbbed anytime she bore weight on it, or even when she was upright.

  Despite that, he’d barely let her out of his sight. In fact, more often than not, Ailsa could feel the heat of his gaze lingering on her. She would look up to find those piercing blue eyes fastened to her, and the now-familiar flutter would start in her gut even before she could look away.

  The days had passed in taut silence, with Ailsa huddling close to the fire and Domnall stalking about their makeshift camp like a restless wolf. He occasionally retrieved stale bannocks, dried meat, and once a small apple from his saddlebags, but he never left her alone to replenish their provisions or let his horse stretch his legs.

  Until now.

  He must have assumed she wouldn’t wake from her exhausted sleep while he bathed. But it seemed he’d been thwarted by his horse yet again.

  Ailsa rose slowly, testing her ankle by resting the tip of her boot on the ground. A dull, pulsing ache flared up, but the pain wasn’t unbearable. Mayhap she was finally turning a corner toward improvement.

  She limped as quietly as she could to the tree line. Her movement caught the horse’s attention. His head swung toward her, one dark, glossy eye fixing on her. But to her relief, he didn’t make a sound.

  From behind a thick-trunked pine, she peered out at the loch. Domnall stood chest-deep in water that must have been bitterly cold. Yet he seemed unfazed by it. He did not hunch or shudder. Nor did his teeth clack together with chills. Instead, he was methodically scrubbing one arm with a rag.

  Blessedly, his back was to her. She could tell because moonlight bounced off his muscular, water-slicked shoulder blades, casting him in silver. His copper hair clung damply to his nape, which flexed with his movements.

  Her gaze darted to a dark pile of clothes between her and the water’s edge. Beneath the discarded garments, she could make out his boots. The dagger must be there.

  She cursed silently. She would have to leave the cover of the trees to reach his clothes. The only protection she would have from his sight was a clump of gorse that only stood a little above her knees.

  If she hadn’t been scared out of her wits, she would have snorted dryly. As if her greatest obstacle was a bush that wasn’t tall enough, and not the fact that she intended to kill a man.

  She had never killed anyone before—never even contemplated it. She didn’t even like to squash the spiders that occasionally skittered through Tullibardine. She preferred to catch them in a bowl or cup and set them free out a window.

  What would it mean to take a life, to end the breath of another and send his soul…who knew where? Would she damn both him and herself to hell for all eternity? Even if killing him meant saving the life of another?

  Ailsa sank her teeth into her lower lip to stifle a moan. Nay, she couldn’t go soft now. Not when MacAyre was vulnerable, and she in a position to save Andrew.

  She stole another glance at Domnall’s back. He’d switched to scrubbing the other arm, his muscles bunching and stretching as he worked. With a steeling breath, she darted as fast as her ankle would allow from the cover of the pine tree, scrambling for the gorse.

  She dropped to her knees, hunching as low as she could behind the shrub. The pounding of her heart filled her ears, but she strained to hear some indication that Domnall had seen her. A splash sounded out in the loch, then a few moments later, another.

  With a shaky exhale, she set about rummaging through his clothes. He might not have noticed her, but he could return to the shore at any moment.

  Ailsa shoved aside his tunic and trews. When his belt buckle clacked softly against a rock, she froze, her breath turning to daggers in her lungs. But again she heard naught from the loch other than a soft splash or two.

  When she uncovered his boots, she dove a shaking hand into one. Naught but empty leather met her fingers. She hastily switched to the other boot. This time, she felt the hard outline of a blade tucked between two layers of the calfskin.

  A hair’s breadth before her mind knew what she was doing, Ailsa yanked the dagger free, surged to her feet, and whirled around all in one motion.

  Mayhap it had been some preternatural instinct, or simply a noise so soft that her tightly-wound senses intuited it before her brain did.

  Domnall stood a pace away at the water’s edge.

  For one long, shocked heartbeat, they both stood motionless as statues.

  In that frozen moment, her eyes widened on what filled her vision.

  Domnall looked like some pagan sea god, all glistening strength and slicked muscle. Even from a few feet away, he towered over her. The cords in his arms and shoulders were etched in moonlight.

  Her gaze followed a trickle of water from his dripping locks down his broad chest and into the deeply grooved muscles of his abdomen. And below that—

  She caught a flashing glimpse of his manhood nestled between long, powerful legs. Then all of a sudden he was moving, closing the distance between them before she could even blink.

  Nay. Her window of opportunity slammed shut with the same lightning speed as Domnall. The hand wrapped around the dagger flew up in a feeble attempt to defend herself, but he caught her wrist in an iron grip even before she could bring the blade down toward his chest.

  With a slow squeeze, he torqued back her wrist. The tip of the blade lifted away from him to point harmlessly at the night sky.

  Ailsa fought desperately to maintain her grip on the handle. But to keep her wrist from snapping, she was forced to arch into his body, pressing herself against him even as she bent her arm back and away.

  It seemed he was only toying with her, for after a long, taut moment locked together like that, he applied the slightest additional pressure to her wrist. The dagger immediately went clattering to the pebbles underfoot.

  “Ye shouldnae have tried that.” His voice was low and velvet-soft.

  He instantly relaxed the torque on her wrist, but his grip remained firm, like an iron shackle imprisoning her.

  All at once, she became aware that she was plastered like a second skin to his wet, naked frame. Everywhere they pressed together, he felt like living, fire-heated stone. He was all granite angles and planes, forcing the softness of her body to conform to the hard contours of his.

  The sudden, sharp inhale through his nostrils told her that he, too, was acutely conscious of their position. His chest expanded in short, ragged bursts against hers. Her own breath came uneven and thin, as if she couldn’t get enough air even as her head was swimming with it.

  Each pulling breath brought in a lungful of his clean, masculine scent. It felt as though it surrounded her, invading her senses, until she was almost drowsed by it, lulled into a languid torpor. It lured her closer still.

  Her gaze drifted up to his. His eyes sparked pale blue like two struck flint stones. They burned into her with a fierce hunger she’d never beheld before, like he would devour her if given the chance.

  She traced the rest of his features with her gaze. This close, she could see the copper bristle of day-old stubble on his face. A muscle ticked in his sharply angled jaw. And his lips…

  How had she not noticed them before? They were slightly downturned at the edges, but looked shockingly soft, especially in contrast with the rest of his chiseled visage.

  Despite the frost-tinged night, the air suddenly grew hot and thick around them. Her eyes lingered on his mouth, transfixed. Aye, he could easily devour her. Why did that thought not terrify her? Why did it instead send war
mth racing across her skin and pooling in all her intimate places?

  There was no logical explanation for what she did next. Mayhap it was the foolish curiosity of a sheltered girl. Mayhap it was the mad desire to grab the wolf by its ears, as it were, and find out what would happen next.

  In that moment, it no longer mattered, for Ailsa didn’t think. Instead, she acted on instinct alone.

  Rising on her toes, she closed the distance between them and met his lips with hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  For a long, wrenching moment, Domnall remained motionless against her, his lips frozen in either shock or disgust, Ailsa couldn’t tell which.

  Embarrassed heat raced up her neck and into her face. Oh God, why had she done that? He must think she was some sort of sick, twisted, idiotic—

  All at once, he was kissing her back. Nay, not just reciprocating, but taking control of the kiss.

  His lips were just as soft as they’d looked. Yet they were also firm and commanding. They caressed and explored, sending tingling sensation shooting across her skin like the ripples on a pond’s surface.

  The hand that was still wrapped around her wrist tightened reflexively. The other lifted to her hair, his fingers burrowing deep until his blunt nails dragged across her scalp. She shuddered as sparks of sensation followed his touch.

  Distantly, she noted her own hands drifting up to rest on his bare shoulders. Taut muscle jumped and twitched under her fingertips. His skin radiated heat like a blacksmith’s forge despite the chilly air and the even colder water that still clung to him.

  A ragged noise rose from somewhere in his throat. Then the hot velvet of his tongue was flicking against the seam of her lips, asking entrance.

  Ailsa had no idea what to do. This kiss had already gone farther than any she’d experienced in her life.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. Her mind flitted back to when she’d been a girl of nine summers. At that year’s Beltane festival, she’d cornered an eight-year-old Ferguson lad and convinced him to practice “tongue-kissing” with her.