Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (2 page)

“Only an indolent Sassenach would grow her hair to such a glorious length,”
Iain MacKinnon murmured as he slowly ran his fingers up and down the thick braid.

Yvette’s
breath caught in her throat, unable to recall the last time that she’d been touched by a man. As he continued to finger her tresses, she tottered unsteadily.

Placing his left hand on her shoulder,
the barbarian held her in place as he reached for the knife at his waist. Then, before Yvette could even utter a word of protest, Iain MacKinnon hacked off the bottom half of her braid.

“Sweet Mary!
Are you mad?” she screeched, protectively clutching what was left of her plait to her bosom. “What thief refuses to take a woman’s valuable jewelry, but instead steals her hair?”

“I am no’
a thief. And I am no’ a madman,” the laird replied calmly as he next cut a strip of plaid fabric from the folded length that hung from his left shoulder. Strolling over to the linden tree rooted several feet away, he used his knife to tack both the strip of fabric and length of braided hair to the gnarled trunk. “The Earl of Lyndhurst will recognize the MacKinnon plaid. He will then know that I was the one took from him his only child.”

Just then, a
handsome man with tawny, sun-burnished hair stepped forward. Like the laird of the mercenary band, he stood well over six feet in height. “When the earl receives the ransom demand, he’ll know soon enough that ye abducted Lady Yvette,” the man remarked.

His expression resolute,
the laird of Clan MacKinnon shook his head and said, “I dinna intend to ransom her . . . I intend to kill her.”

To avenge what that bastard Lyndhurst
did to me and mine
, Iain MacKinnon silently appended, his vindication a long time in coming.

One of
his kinsmen, a burly red-bearded man named Hamish, winked slyly. “An eye for eye, eh, Iain?”

“Aye,” he grunted, pulling a dirk from his boot.

Although it would take more than one noble Englishwoman’s death to atone for what happened at St. Ives’ kirk. Even if he slew a legion of English whoresons, it wouldn’t make up for what happened. Nor take away the painful heartache.

Which is why Iain
wanted the Earl of Lyndhurst to know firsthand the sorrow and finality of losing a loved one. So he would be forced to experience the inconsolable grief that came with death. But more than anything else, he wanted Lyndhurst to suffer as he had been made to suffer these last three years.

As he approached
Yvette Beauchamp, dirk in hand, the highborn lady stared haughtily at him, refusing to beg for mercy.

Damn the woman!

And damn her for smelling of the heather and the sweet morning mist.

Try though he might
, Iain couldn’t get the image of her plucking a sprig of purple heather out of his mind’s eye. A delicately fashioned woman, in that instant she’d seemed as ethereal as the wisps of mist that had hovered about her graceful figure, imbuing her with an otherworldly beauty.

“Do you not care if ye live or die?” he
inquired, wondering why he didn’t just slit her throat and be done with it.

Long moments passed as
Yvette Beauchamp stared at him, her innocent yet world-weary expression reminiscent of a statue of the Madonna that Iain had once seen in the cathedral at Edinburgh.

“I do not know that I have every truly lived,” she said at last, Iain having to strain his ears to hear her softly murmured reply.

Oblivious to the fact that she teetered on the brink of death, Yvette Beauchamp stood motionless, showing no fear. Having seen his share of faint-hearted soldiers scurry from the field of battle, Iain couldn’t help but admire her courage, surprised that Lyndhurst’s get would exude such valor.

D
etermined to avenge his brother Kenneth, Iain raised the dirk. The instant the blade touched the pale, fragile skin of Yvette’s neck, his cousin Diarmid stepped forward and forcibly grabbed Iain by the forearm, forestalling the inevitable.

“You said naught about killing her!”

“I’m saying it now,” Iain grated between clenched teeth. “So step aside and let me get to it.”

Diarmid gave no ground, displaying the contentious stubbornness
that characterized their clan. “I canna do as ye ask.”

“I didna ask, I ordered,” Iain hissed, unaccustomed to having his decisions questioned, particularly by a man ten years his junior.

“Whether ye asked or ye ordered, I still willna do it,” Diarmid replied, his expression steadfast.

Not only was the tawny-haired man his cousin, the twenty-four
-year-old Diarmid MacKinnon was also his trusted steward. Nevertheless, Iain was the MacKinnon, the laird of Castle Maoil. The woman’s fate was his to decide. None present could gainsay him in the matter. Not even Diarmid.

“If ye don’t let go of m
y arm, ye’ll live to regret it,” Iain warned.

“So be it,” his cousin said with a shrug. “
But I willna stand by and let ye take an innocent life. For all that she is an English countess, she had nothing to do with what happened at St. Ives. Instead, ransom her for a hefty sum. God knows we could use the gold.”

“And how much do you
think Kenneth’s life was worth?” Iain countered scornfully. “A hundred pounds? Two hundred? Mayhap even a thousand pounds? If ye can set a price on Kenneth’s life, ye’re no’ the man I took ye to be.”

Infuriated,
Iain took a deep, fortifying breath, his anger fueled, not only by his cousin’s dissent, but by the memory of what transpired on that treacherous day at St. Ives’ kirk. Even now, three years later, he couldn’t erase from his memory the image of his twin brother’s broken, battered body. Nor put from his mind the craven English earl who thought so little of Scottish honor.

To Iain’s surprise, t
he woman whose fate was vehemently being argued, stood silent, seemingly unconcerned that his blade was pressed against her tender flesh.

Truly, she is a
stone Madonna
.

Yet there
was also something inherently vulnerable about Yvette Beauchamp’s regal, unblinking pose. Perhaps it was the visibly rapid pulse at the base of her throat, that small, tell-tale movement indicating that she was not as removed from the situation as she pretended to be. Fascinated despite his hatred of all things English, Iain was unable to tear his gaze from that pale expanse of skin, the erratic flutter of Yvette’s pulse putting him in mind of a sparrow in flight.

With slow deliberation
, delighting in the perfection of her beauty, Iain raised his gaze as he peered into Yvette Beauchamp’s soulful brown eyes. In that instant, he wondered if he’d ever gazed into eyes so enigmatic, so infinitely sad.

‘I do not know that I have every truly lived.’

What in the name of all that was holy did she mean by that inscrutable remark? How can a person eat, sleep, fill their lungs with air, and not count themselves among the living?

As he continued to stare at
Yvette, her pupils suddenly dilated, turning the irises an inky shade of black. At hearing her breath catch in her throat, Iain involuntarily pulled his hand back several inches, removing the dirk from her throat.

Diarmid, as wily as any Scotsman, intently observed the silent exchange,
making Iain self-consciously aware that he’d been staring at the Sassenach as if he’d never seen a woman before.

“Step aside, cousin, so I can exact my vengeance,” Iain ordered
gruffly to mask his discomfort. Taking the woman’s life did not sit easy with him, but it had to be done. He could not let his brother’s death go unanswered.

“Such matters are best left to
The Almighty,” Diarmid avowed, tightening his grip on Iain’s forearm.

“I canna wait that long.”

“And what if I told ye that I know of a sweeter vengeance?”

Iain snorted
derisively. “I’d say ye were talking through yer arse . . . as usual.”

The retort caused
Hamish and the others to convulse with laughter, more than a few of them making ribald remarks about the body part in question.

Ignoring his chortling kinsmen, Diarmid said, “Set a ransom of two thousand pounds. ’Tis a princely sum, but it will enable us to buy arms from the French
. Then, when Edward Longshanks marches his English army into Scotland to challenge Robert the Bruce’s claim to the throne, we’ll be ready for him. If ye want revenge for what happened at St. Ives, seek it on the battlefield. Driving a sword into Lyndhurst’s heart will be a far sweeter vengeance than killing a defenseless woman.”

“Don’t speak to me about ‘defenseless’ women. How many defenseless Scottish women has
Lyndhurst killed or widowed?”

Rather than answer the question put to him,
Diarmid said, “Ye’re about to let yer hatred of Lyndhurst get the better of ye, cousin.”

“
Then perhaps ye can tell me what I’m supposed to do with the bloody woman while I wait for Lyndhurst to pay the ransom?” Iain hissed, not yet persuaded. “Even if I throw her into the dungeon, it’ll cost hard-earned coin to feed and clothe the wench.”

C
ontemplatively putting a hand to his chin, Diarmid appraised the ‘wench’ with a leisurely air, the earl’s daughter peering through both men as though they didn’t exist.

“She’s verra beautiful.”

“I didna noticed,” Iain muttered.

“
And ye’re lying through yer teeth. Ye can’t come within two feet of the lovely lady without getting a cockstand.”

Unable to deny the charge, Iain scowled and said, “Yer point?”

“Make her yer mistress.”

Hearing that,
Yvette Beauchamp’s eyes opened wide.

At last,
Iain thought,
a reaction from the stone Madonna.
And given the way that her arched brows drew together in the middle, he surmised that she was none too pleased with Diarmid’s suggestion.

Damned haughty Sassenach!

“I’ll not bed Lyndhurst’s get,” Iain snarled, angered by the lady’s obvious disdain.

With a baffled shake of the head, Diarmid said,
“Why not? She is first and foremost a lovely woman. Most men would be happy, nay, overjoyed to warm their bed with so tempting a morsel.”

“I told ye:
I don’t want the English wench.” Even as the words fell from his lips, Iain knew they rang false.

Sweet Jesu, she
was
a tempting morsel. With her sable locks, crimson full lips, and fathomless brown eyes, Yvette Beauchamp possessed an exotic beauty rarely seen amongst the Celtic people.

Clearly, she’s o
f Norman descent
, he thought, the lady wearing her highborn French blood as if it was a suit of fine clothing. Her regal bearing and arrogant posture notwithstanding, Iain wanted nothing more than to ease the ache in his loins with the lovely Yvette.

What
does it matter if she’s Lyndhurst’s daughter?

Diarmid was right. He could use the woman to line his pockets
and
satisfy his baser needs.

“Ye’ve been too long without a woman,” Diarmid said
shrewdly, having correctly intuited the direction of his thoughts. “Take yer ease with this one.”

“Aye, I will,”
Iain announced. As he shoved the dirk into his boot, he caught a momentary flash of repugnance on Yvette’s face. Uncaring, he said to her, “Serve me well and ye shall live. Anything less and you will die.”

Dutifully nodding her head, Yvette said,
“I understand, my lord.”

“My lord
master
,” he corrected, curious to see how far he would have to push to incite Yvette’s magnificent ire.

“My lord master,”
Yvette repeated dully, her gaze fixed upon a point just beyond Iain’s shoulder.

Annoyed with the impassive expression on her face
– as though he was beneath the lady’s contempt, let alone her consideration – Iain reached for the dirk that he’d just slid into the top of his boot. Fingering the small silk purse and jeweled scabbard that hung from a leather girdle, he carefully watched Yvette’s reaction as he slid his knife blade under the cord that secured both items. When she disinterestedly glanced away, Iain angrily sliced through the cord.

After stuffing t
he jeweled scabbard into the wide belt that encircled his waist, he opened the silk purse, pouring a handful of pennies and a large key into his palm. The key he immediately flung aside, while the coins he jingled in his hand.

“’Tis alms for the poor,” Yvette informed him
in a wooden tone of voice, still not deigning to look him in the eye.

Iain
returned the coins to the purse. “Far be it for me to come between a great English lady and her obligation to the poor and needy of Scotland,” he said mockingly as he slipped his fingers under Yvette’s girdle and retied the purse. As he did, Iain could feel her belly quiver at his touch. A reaction that pleased him immensely, proving that the lovely Yvette Beauchamp was not the stone effigy she pretended to be.

“
Mount yer horses!” Iain barked in the next instant to his milling kinsmen. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

Striding toward the roan steed content
edly munching on a clump of dried grass, Iain hefted himself into the saddle. With an impatient gesture, he motioned Yvette to his side. Extending his arm in her direction, he offered his hand to her. “Come, woman. Ye’ll ride behind me.”

For several moments,
Yvette stared at his outstretched arm. Then, with a resigned sigh, she placed her hand in his.

Iain took a moment to savor the softness of her skin before he pulled her upward. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched
the lady pull and tug at her skirt and mantle as she situated herself sideways on the horse.

“Ye’ll not be able to ride like that,” he matter-of-factly informed her when the lady scooted backwards, putting as much distance between their two bodies as
she possibly could. “Not unless ye want to take a tumble off the backend of the horse.”

When that got no response,
Iain kicked the beast into a quick trot to prove his point.

With
an unladylike squeal, Yvette hastened to wrap her arms around his waist. As she clung to him, Iain could feel her breasts gently bouncing against his backside. Almost instantly, his manhood swelled.

Already l
ooking forward to bedding the lady, Iain smiled broadly.