Read My Fair Highlander Online
Authors: Mary Wine
My Fair Highlander (3 page)
Jemma mounted her horse, taking the chance to leave the yard before one of the other knights worked up the courage to challenge her. She had done what she should, performed to everyone's satisfaction, but there was part of her that still ached for her father. She needed a ride, even a short one, even if she knew that she had been using her riding to escape from harsh reality. Tonight, she would use the ride to soak up the life about her.
She wasn't escaping today, simply tempering the feelings of loss that still lived inside her. Her mare took to the open land quickly, stretching her legs out after being kept inside most of the day. Above Jemma the sky was afire with gold and crimson, the night breeze beginning to whip up around her. It turned her cheeks cold, but she only laughed. Her dress was good English wool, and on her feet was a sturdy pair of boots that kept her ankles warm even when her skirts flipped up and away from her legs.
She crested a hill and gasped when she found herself galloping toward a body of armor-clad men. The mare let out a frightened squeal before rearing up. Fear making her skittish, the horse pawed at the unexpected arrival. Jemma battled to remain in the saddle, but it proved impossible with the mare so far up on her hind legs. Jemma's thighs lost their grip, and she fell to the ground while the horse landed on her front feet and charged off, away from the men who had frightened her.
Jemma lost every bit of breath in her when she hit the ground. Pain speared through her from the side of her hip where she landed first and then all the way through her body, right up into her mouth. Her teeth slammed together so fast, every tooth hurt from the impact. All the pain felt trapped inside her, building and burning while she struggled to draw in one single breath. She was powerless to do anything but suffer. Her heart felt as if it might burst, and her lungs burned for want of air. Dark spots danced in front of her eyes before she managed to force her jaw open and suck in a breath. It wasn't large enough, but it kept her vision from darkening further. Pushing it out, she drew another one in, this time succeeding in filling her aching lungs.
“Well now, what have we here? A wild Scot woman off to meet with her lover?”
Men snickered all around her, the sound frightening beyond belief.
Jemma drew in another breath and narrowed her eyes at the one who had spoken. The sound of their laughter might be frightening to someone who was easily scared, which she was not.
I dare not fall into panic's grasp . . .
The men halted their horses, ringing her while they stared down at her from beneath the visors of their helmets. There were at least thirty of them, and not a single one offered to help her off the ground. Pain still maintained its grip. Her hips became numb, or there was simply too much pain for her mind to feel it all. Dragging in a few more breaths, she succeeded in restoring her sight. What she viewed wasn't pleasant. Smirks decorated the lips of those men watching her. They were unkempt, their faces sporting several days' worth of whiskers. The armor they wore was darkened from lack of polish, and their behavior further attested to their lawless nature.
“I believe our fortune is looking up. Here's a treat for us all to sample. I hear these Scottish bitches like their men rough and randy.”
“You have no right to wear the plumes of a knight with immodest speech such as that.” Jemma pushed herself up and winced at the new pain that resulted. Her hips were no longer blissfully numb. Red-hot pain pierced them when she forced her body to stand.
“Mind your tongue, wench, or I'll cut it out.” He even pulled a small dagger from the top of his boot to threaten her with. The blade was dark, and a shiver raced down her spine when she realized that it was dried blood that made it so. “I don't take orders from women.”
“I am Jemma Ramsden, sister of the Barron Ryppon.”
The man with the dagger spat on the ground in front of her. “You are what I say you are, and listen to me wellâclaiming to be noble-blooded carries a high punishment.” He swung one leg over the back of his horse and hit the ground with a thud. His gaze settled on her chest, and the tip of his tongue appeared to take a swipe along his lower lip. He reached out and struck her across her face. It was a vicious blow, one that sent her tumbling away from him.
“Listen to me, lads, these Scots will stop at nothing to protect their thieving way of life. I have heard of Lord Ryppon, just like the rest of you, and I tell you this. No border baron would allow his gently bred sister to ride across the border land with her thighs spread over the saddle. She lies.”
“I do not. I am Curan Ramsden's sister. The border land is no place for weak-kneed daughters, and that is why I was never taught to shiver at the sight of my own shadow.” Jemma wiped a hand across her mouth, removing the blood trickling out of the corner. “You will keep your hands off me, sir.”
“Hands?” He snickered again and reached down to cup his crotch with one of his mail-gloved gauntlets. “I'm planning on putting more than my hands on you. I've got a thick English cock for your lying Scottish flesh to entertain. We've been charged with finding your queen, and it has been too long since me and my men have had any fun. Ryppon would never let his sister out of his fortress this late in the day. You're riding out to meet your lover, and I plan to help you get the tumble you came out here looking for. Get on your back if you want it without pain.”
There were a few low grumbles of agreement that sent a chill down her back. It was icy cold and full of dread, but Jemma held her chin steady.
“You'll keep your hands from me, sir, and that is the last time I will tell you so.”
“Good. I'm sick of your talking.”
He reached for her, and she lifted her leg to plant her foot squarely on top of the crotch he'd so blatantly tried to threaten her with. Her boot pressed down on top of soft flesh before the knight let out a strangled cry. He stumbled backward a few paces, sending a surge of hope through her, but it was short-lived. With a vicious snarl he turned to glare at her. Fury lit his eyes, and he let out a foul curse while rubbing his injured flesh. Lust mingled with that anger, making her fight against the urge to back away from him. It was instinct, but Jemma forced her feet to stand firm. She refused to crumple at his feet; doing so would only seal her fate because he was the sort of man that preyed on those less powerful than himself.
“You'll pay for that, bitch! I'm going to enjoy watching you bleed when I'm finished with your cunt.”
He lunged toward her, his comrades cheering him on. But his grasping hands never touched her. Instead, she heard the pounding of hooves so close she knew the horse was going to trample her beneath its deadly hooves. She stood still, accepting that fate instead of the one the unkempt knight had planned for her. Jemma actually smiled, taking in a deep breath in anticipation of the horse crushing her body beneath it.
But no pain punctured her body. In its place a hard arm scooped her off her feet, pulling her up and on top of the beast that had galloped into the ring of Englishmen. The sudden appearance of that rider sent the English into a frenzy of panic. Their horses reared, and she heard the sound of their armor shifting. There were cries and curses, but most of it was drowned out by the sound of the horse she'd been tossed across. Her head went over the saddle to hang down on one side. She gained a crazy view of the ground and hooves all moving too quickly to make sense of from upside down. The fact that she had declined to eat supper suddenly served her very well, for there was nothing in her stomach to sicken her.
A hard hand pressed her down, helping to keep her on top of the horse. A new sound rang out around her; it was a solid chanting in Gaelic.
It looked as if the English knights had found what they were searching forâthe Scots they so arrogantly believed themselves better than.
For the moment, she prayed that the Scots won.
Chapter Two
T
he Scots didn't need divine intervention.
he Scots didn't need divine intervention.
They took the English by surprise, which gave them the advantage. Streams of tartan-wearing men surged over the hill, the horses following close behind each other. The English had been ringed around her, their attention on what their leader was doing. Now their horses reared up, fear in their eyes. With no warning, the Scots chanted again, and their deep voices boomed around the startled English like thunder breaking above their heads. The fading light lent more strength to their attack for it seemed as if they materialized out of the night.
“Hold this for me, Bryon.”
Whoever had pulled her off the ground tossed her once more. This time she landed in a tangle of her own clothing on the ground at the feet of a small group of younger boys. Jemma snarled as she tried to get her head upright, but the bouncing of her head upside down had muddled her senses. It took several moments for her sight to stop spinning, and still more time to gain control of her body again. She kicked at her skirts because they seemed to be stuck, trapping her feet where she could not use them. A soft male chuckle drifted over her ears before she was hooked beneath her arms and lifted up.
“Is that better now, lass?”
The voice was young but hinted at approaching manhood. Jemma lifted her face to stare at a youth with shoulder-length hair and a round knitted bonnet tilted off to one side. He couldn't be more than fifteen, but the boy was a full head taller than her and there were several more standing near him. They looked down the hill with eagerness shining in their eyes. Most of them failed to keep their feet still, but they remained where they were and strained to watch what was happening below them.
Jemma turned and gasped. The sound of men clashing against men was horrific, far more so than any description might have prepared her for. She saw nothing noble about it, only the brutality. Most of the English failed to pull their swords. The Scots closed in on them with clubs, striking them off their horses. In the close quarter of the battle, the crude wooden weapons proved more effective than the swords hanging in their scabbards. Several of the English found themselves thrown by their frightened mounts. Men strained to stand beneath the weight of breastplate armor, some of them falling beneath the hooves of their own comrades' horses. Screams filled the night, and it was impossible to tell whose cries came from which man because the fight was in such close quarters. Her mind tried to sort it all into understanding and had difficulty making sense of it.
But she did notice the lack of slaughter. Those clubs, although painful when they struck, did not spill enough blood to kill because they had been aimed at unseating the English. The Scots swung low, to catch the men below where their breastplates offered protection, knocking the English off their mounts like melons. She'd witnessed her brother teaching his younger charges just such a task and never understood how brutal it might be when employed. A shiver raced over her skin as she watched, too stunned to turn away.
The Scots herded their enemy into the center of them, riding around them to keep the fallen English contained. The youths behind her suddenly began to run after the horses that had left their English masters to the mercy of the Scots. The boys mounted and then began to tie the reins of the other horses together until they had a chain of riderless horses trailing behind them. They leaned over to catch the dragging reins but maintained their seat in the saddle using legs with an amazing amount of strength. Her eyes strayed back to the men who had rescued her; they were stronger still, hard men who appeared undefeatable in spite of their lack of armor.
“This is an act of war upon England,” roared the knight who had so recently tried to assault her. He'd been knocked to his knees.
“I'll agree with ye there, man, but Scots who just committed the act of war.” The man talking was clearly the leader of the Celts. His voice was edged with solid authority, and his men became quiet while he spoke. He sat tall atop a huge stallion that was as black as midnight. His sword was held in a confident grip, but it was his expression that sent a shiver down her spine. Hard and edged with fury, he glared at his captives while pointing the deadly tip of his sword at their leader.
“This is Barras land and yer in Scotland, which makes ye the invaders.”
“We are sent on the king's business to bring his son's bride to where she can be raised well and protected.”
The Scots grumbled, their words muffled, but it was clear that they were not friendly. Their leader chuckled, drawing Jemma's attention back to him.
“Ye're here to try and steal my queen, man, and that is something that I'll not be having.”
The English knight spat on the ground. “We will not be allowing you savages to raise the future queen of England. She will be raised away from the pope's grasp.”
The amusement that had coated the Scotsman's face faded until there wasn't any hint left.
“Dinna call me a savage, man, no when I just had to stop ye from raping the first woman ye came across like some horde of bastards straight out of hell.” The sword point reflected the rising moonlight. “You're on my land, and ye will nae be raping any woman here, be she peasant or noble.”
His land? Jemma stared at the Scot, shock holding her in its grasp. Laird Barras didn't look at her, his attention directed at the English knight, but it felt like he was conscious of her. It was the oddest feeling, but she would have sworn that he was angry on her behalf.
“The bitch needs to be taught her place.”
“You English have no place calling us Scots savages. We do nae teach by using the back of our hands across a woman's face.”
The English knight succeeded in rising to his feet. He sneered at Laird Barras. “You just want the bitch for yourself.”
“What I want is to run ye through and spare this world of having to tolerate ye. But I believe I'll leave ye here to face her brother when he hears of what ye have been doing with his sister. From what I hear, Lord Ryppon is nae a man to be crossed.”
The English knights shifted, and many of them cursed. They looked as though they wanted to panic once more, but the Scots allowed them no space to escape through their ranks.
“She's a lying whore.”
Laird Barras grinned. “Nae, man, she spoke the truth, and I would not care to be wearing yer boots when the sun rises. That's the only reason I'm going to leave ye alive, to be eaten by one of yer own kind. I find that idea just a little bit more appealing than ridding my land of yer stench myself. But only a wee bit so if yer a smart man, ye'll get off my land before I change me mind.”
He slid his sword back into the sheath strapped across his back. The movement highlighted arms thick with muscle. Lifting the sword above his head caused him no strain. One hand held the reins, and he wheeled the stallion around to face her. She felt his attention settle on her more than she saw it. The last of the sun was gone, night closing around them like a curtain. But she still witnessed the relief that passed over the Englishmen's faces. They helped one another to their feet and looked at the Scot with relief shimmering in their eyes. Many of them crossed themselves with thanks because it was a relief they had not expected to feel. The reason was harshâhatred. It radiated from the Celts who sat on their horses watching their leader. Allowing these Englishmen to live only meant that they might kill their relatives sometime in the days ahead. Armed Englishmen riding across Scottish land only meant one thing, and it had nothing to do with friendship.
As she had just learned. The English would use violence to gain what they wished without any remorse. She looked at the dirty plumes crowning the knight's helmet and decided that they fit him well.
“If ye've any sense, ye'd start for the border before Ryppon discovers what ye were about with his sister.” Laird Barras leaned down over the neck of his horse. “And if I see ye again on my land, I'll not leave ye drawing breath to test my goodwill again.”
His voice was hard as stone, leaving no doubt that he was a man who would not hesitate to kill. He looked every inch the warrior, but Jemma discovered herself grateful for his harshness, even drawing comfort from it. The man was saving her life and sparing her a painful death, too. The English didn't wait but began walking toward England. It was humbling to set armored men on their way without their horses, but to return the animals would see the men becoming a force to be reckoned with once more. Laird Barras proved to be merciful by sparing their lives, but he was no fool.
He turned to look at her. The night sky was beginning to fill with tiny points of light, and that starshine cast him in white light, making him appear unearthly, like a god from legends past. A Norseman Viking who swept across the land, unstoppable because of his sheer brawn.
A ripple of sensation moved over her skin, awakening every inch of her flesh. It should have been impossible to be so aware of any single person's stare, but she was of his. His stallion snorted and pawed at the ground a moment before he pressed his knees into the sides of the beast. Lament surged through her, thick and choking as she anticipated his leaving.
He pulled the stallion up alongside her, a grin of approval curling his lips when she remained in place without a single sound passing her lips. Jemma found herself too fascinated to speak. Too absorbed in the moment to ruin it by allowing sounds to intrude.
“Up with ye, lass. This is not the sort of company ye should be keeping.”
He leaned down, his thighs gripping the sides of his horse to keep him steady. Her gaze strayed to his thighs, and she stared at the bare skin that was cut with ridges of muscle, testifying to how much strength was in him.
“Take my hand, lass. I'd prefer not to have to pull ye off the ground again.”
But he would. She heard that clearly in his voice. That tone of command that spoke of a man who expected his word to be heeded no matter what her opinion might be.
Of course, staying was not something she craved. She lifted her hand and placed it in his outstretched one, only to pull it away when his warm flesh met her own. That touch jolted her, braking through the disbelief that had held her in its grasp. Her body began to shake while her face throbbed incessantly from the blow that had been laid across it. She suddenly felt every bruise and scrape, her knees feeling weak as the horror of what she had just faced sunk in deep to torment her mind with grisly details. Details of what the English had been intent on doing to her. The idea of touching any man was suddenly repulsive, and she clasped her hands tightly together.
“I thank you for your . . . assistance . . . but I will return to . . . Amber Hill.”
Jemma looked around for her mare, but in the darkness it was difficult to determine which horse was hers. The younger boys had several horses each, and she couldn't decide which one belonged to her. She suddenly noticed how cold it had become, and the darkness seemed to be increasing, too, clouds moving over the sky to block out even the star shine.
“Give me yer hand, lass. 'Tis time to make our way from this place.”
His voice was low now and hypnotic. Lifting her face, she found his attention on her, his eyes reflecting the starlight back down on her. Jemma lifted her hand but stopped when she felt her arm shaking. The motion annoyed her, but there seemed to be nothing she might do to banish it.
“Do it now, lass. This is nae a safe place to linger.”
“But is going with you a safe thing to do?” She truly wondered because he looked so at ease surrounded by the night. All his men sat in their saddles without any outward sign of misgivings or dread for the deepening darkness. Her words didn't please him. His expression tightened, and something flashed in his eyes that looked like pride. A soft grumbling rippled through his waiting men.
“I will nae strike ye.”
Which was better than she might expect from the horseless Englishmen standing nearby. For all that they were her countrymen, she discovered more trust inside her for the Scots. There was no real choice; she hungered for life, and the Scot's offer was her only way to hold on to that precious thing.
Lifting her hand, she placed it firmly against the one offered. Barras closed his hand around her wrist, and she jumped to help gain the saddle. He lifted her up and off the ground to sit behind him.
“Hold on to me, lass.”
There was no other choice. She had to cling to him, press her body up against his in order to share his saddle. Her thighs rested against his, and the motion of the horse made their hips move in unison. The thick scabbard strapped to his back was the only barrier between them. She actually welcomed the hard edges of the leather scabbard because it kept her from being completely immersed in his body. There were several things she should have been dwelling onâthe English left behind in the night, or the way her brother was most likely going to have her flogged for riding so late in the day. There was also Synclair to consider. The knight was going to be far more than unhappy with her for slipping out the moment his attention was taken away from her. He was not a man who made the same mistake twice.
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