My Highland Bride (21 page)

Ronan’s mouth puckered into a scowl. The shadowed lines of his face grew deeper in the flickering light of the fire. His disgruntled huff misted in the freezing air as he rose and tossed another chunk of wood in the center of the flames. “We have a long journey ahead. Ye must keep up yer strength. I willna have ye grow ill.”

Kenna studied Ronan. His displeasure at her not eating seemed real enough. Was he actually concerned for her welfare? Well, she guessed he would be concerned. After all, if she didn’t survive the trek through the Highlands, he’d be forced to go to the trouble of finding another suitable female to steal.

Kenna rubbed the back of her hand across the icy tip of her nose. Ronan was an odd bird; she’d give him that much. She would’ve pegged a man willing to kidnap a wife as a selfish brute only concerned with pleasing himself. But Ronan really didn’t come across that way. He almost seemed…nice? Yes. He seemed nice. Kenna pulled the hood of the cloak closer about her face and propped her chin atop one hand. How could a kidnapper seem nice? Kenna shifted with a deep sigh.
Hunger and weariness must be toying with my mind.

With a short limb as thick as his forearm, Ronan raked the hottest coals around to Kenna’s side of the fire. Welcome heat radiated against her face with a skin-tingling toastiness. Ronan balanced more logs on their ends around the fire, forming a teepee of fuel that would burst into a full-fledged bonfire once all the moisture from the logs was gone.

Kenna uncurled with the increased heat like a cat stretching on a hearth. Another glance at Ronan’s displeased scowl almost made her laugh. No, Chieftain Sutherland did not fit her idea of a heartless kidnapper.

Her gaze meandered around the ring of firelight, settling briefly on each of Ronan’s men. Chieftain Sutherland also appeared to have the unusual habit of collecting human strays. What little she had snatched hold of in the few minds she had managed to breach was that each and every one of Ronan’s men had come to be members of Draegonmare after finding themselves alone in the world. And the more she plied the men with questions, the more Kenna came to realize that not once had anyone mentioned Ronan’s having a blood relative in Clan Sutherland, living or dead. The man appeared to be the lead orphan of them all.

Kenna shook her head. Ronan Sutherland was a definite mystery. What little she had seen of Ronan’s ability to block her gifts also worried at the back of her mind. How was that possible? He’d mentioned that someone had warned him “it would be so.” Who the hell knew so much about the Sinclairs that they could advise Ronan about their powers? Granny had warned they must take care and not flaunt their gifts. Kenna thought they always had. But Ronan appeared to know all about them. How could that be? A sense of uneasiness gnawed at the back of her mind like a forgotten thought refusing to be recalled. And what kind of beast had Liam referred to when she’d frightened him with her imaginary dragon? What was Ronan’s story and how dangerous was he?

Kenna spread her thawing fingers closer to the fire. Maybe if Ronan was so concerned about her welfare, he would finally give her a little necessary information. She shrugged the cloak more comfortably about her shoulders as she scooted nearer to the fire.

“Just exactly how long of a journey do we have left? It seems we’ve been traveling quite a while.”

Ronan didn’t answer, but his quick sideways glance confirmed he’d heard the question. Kenna wanted details. Where were they? At least if she knew how far they had traveled, she might know halfway when to expect her rescuers.

Ronan finally stirred from his unblinking focus on the flames. “Many days,” he replied in a vague tone. “They will ne’er find us before we reach Draegonmare. Ye would be far better off if ye accepted yer fate and moved on. Yer life will no’ be so bad as ye fear.”

“I think I’m more of an expert on my fate than you are.” Kenna pulled her hands up into the folds of the cloak and rolled back into a sitting position beside the fire. “And stop reading my mind. That is just rude.”

Ronan chuckled as he leaned against the boulders of limestone layered at their backs. “Listening to another’s thoughts are no’ among my gifts.” Ronan nodded at Kenna. “And I dinna have to read yer mind. Yer face reveals yer thoughts.”

“No’ among my gifts.”
Kenna studied him closer, then flicked a hand to encompass the woods around them. “Well…since we’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, care to explain your gifts? Apparently, you already know mine. Fair’s fair, don’t you think?”

All amusement left Ronan’s face as he stared into the fire. “In due time, all will be revealed. ’Tis best t’wait…for now.”

Kenna stared glumly into the spiking orange flames of the now roaring fire.
Lovely.
The man was afraid to bare all about his supposed gifts, but he didn’t fear revealing their location with a freaking bonfire. She wiped her cheek against a fold of the cloak and sniffed back the tide of dismal emotions crashing inside her so that Ronan wouldn’t see them—indeed, he hadn’t been the first person to tell her that her face gave her away. Kenna blinked hard against the renewed threat of tears as Colum’s teasing smile came to mind. Where the devil was he? It had been two days—or had it been three? Colum had to be okay. And he
was
coming for her—he had to be—she wouldn’t allow herself to believe otherwise.

Ronan stood and motioned to Liam. “Bring Lady Sutherland another oatcake. She hasna properly maintained her sustenance. We must no’ allow her health to fade, lads. We must take care of Draegonmare’s new lady.”

Liam’s dark eyes widened. The uneven fringe of hair hanging down across his forehead did little to hide his apprehension. His eyes grew rounder still as he stared first at his master, then glanced toward Kenna as though she were the imaginary three-headed dragon about to toast him to a crispy crunch.

“Make haste, Liam.” Ronan rose from his crude seat and glared at the lad.

Kenna tucked her face into a fold of the cloak and giggled. Poor Liam. He hadn’t forgotten the vision of the monster she had planted smack in the middle of his mind. Too bad Ian had been there to interrupt her hold and break Liam free. Her gaze slid to Ian. The odd young lad’s face was devoid of all expression as he scraped a whetstone down the length of a sword.

Unfortunately, it appeared Ronan had prepared his men regarding memory manipulation and taught them how to free themselves of it. Kenna found that discovery mildly disturbing. It possibly meant Ronan Sutherland had been plotting her abduction for a while. But how had he known of her gift so quickly? She’d been in Scotland only a couple of months.

Kenna held her hands to the fire, wishing she could use the roiling coals to contact Granny and let her know where she was. She glanced about the encampment. She didn’t dare attempt such a thing. Not with all the men watching.

Granny had always stressed they had to keep their abilities hidden safely behind closed doors and among trusted friends. More than one time runner in their long line had been put to death for making the fatal mistake of flaunting her abilities to the wrong folks at the wrong time. Maybe that’s what Ronan feared when he’d said it wasn’t the right time for him to share his gifts? He couldn’t be a time runner—time runners were always female. He hadn’t appeared to have any strange power over natural elements like fire or water, so chances were he wasn’t a druid. But what then? What could his secret be?

A palm-sized chunk of what looked to be a dried glob of baked oatmeal shook just inches from her nose. Kenna glared at the trembling oatcake and shook her head. “I don’t want it, Liam.”

“Have pity on the poor lad, dear wife. Take the oatcake afore he shakes himself t’death.” Ronan stirred the coals of the fire, smiling at the crackling yellow sparks spiraling up into the darkness.

“And I am not your wife.” Kenna snatched the oatcake out of Liam’s hand. The boy darted to the other side of the camp as though chased by the hounds of hell. Kenna stared down at the oatcake and started to toss it into the fire, but one glance at Ronan’s warning look stayed her hand.

“Stop calling me Lady Sutherland, wife, or any other form of endearment. Call me Kenna or Lady Sinclair—nothing else.” Kenna broke off a bit of the cake and grudgingly tossed it in her mouth. Nutty. Chewy, and yet crunchy. Not as stale and tasteless as the one she’d eaten earlier. Must be because she had refused anything resembling a full meal since she had been captured. “I am not your wife,” Kenna repeated. Maybe if she said it often enough, Ronan would give up and release her.

The hint of a smile teased across his lips as Ronan stirred a stick through the glowing red coals. “Ah…and that is where ye err, m’dear. I have publicly addressed ye several times as ‘wife.’ Doing so gives notice of m’claim and m’rights.” The smile disappeared, and Ronan’s face settled into the expression of a determined man bent on seeing things through.

Kenna forced the bite of oatcake down past the lump in her throat. She had heard of such “marriages” in Scotland, but never dreamed she would find herself trapped in one. “I hardly consider your men ‘public.’ I think you’re going to have to come up with something better than that to make people believe I’m your wife.”

“When ye publicly acknowledge it, or yer body grows round wi’ m’child, either or both will be proof enough that we be married. All will know ye as Lady Sutherland.” Ronan dropped the stick into the flames and faced her.

The glint in Ronan’s quicksilver gaze scared the living crap out of Kenna. She tucked what was left of the oatcake into an inner pocket and tightened her arms around her knees. Kenna swallowed hard and lifted her chin. Might as well get this over with and grab the bull by the horns. Granny always said a fight was easier won when you faced it head-on.
If you act like you’ve already won the battle, you plant seeds of doubt in your opponent’s mind.
Lordy, she hoped Granny was right. A lot was on the line this time. “So you’re telling me you’ve got no problem with forcing yourself on defenseless women as well as kidnapping them?”

Kenna pushed up from the ground and widened her stance against the stone embankment. She might not be able to hold him off forever, but he’d damn sure have some major regrets over forcing himself on her, and would end up with some permanent scars for his trouble.

Ronan’s left eye twitched at the corner and his mouth flattened into a displeased line. He clasped his hands at the small of his back, then turned and slowly walked away. He paused and stared down at the ground just before stepping out of the ring of firelight beating back the darkness. “No, m’lady. I am no mauler of women.” Then he turned and faced her with one hand pointing to the center of her chest. “But I am yer husband, and no man will e’er steal away what I have named as mine.”

Chapter 24

Smoke. Colum halted Rua again and turned in the saddle to better face the cutting touch of the wind. The faintest hint of acrid charred wood came to him again. The sharp breeze stung against his face, whispering the promise of Kenna’s location.

Rua fidgeted sideways on the dirt path. The horse tossed his great head and snorted out an impatient grumbling whinny. No matter how cold the weather, ever since surviving the stable blaze the beast hated any hint of fire. Colum nay blamed him. He’d nearly lost Rua that terrible day.

Colum urged the horse in a slow scanning circle, senses alert for every hint the Highlands had to offer. The mountains had grown eerily quiet, as if the land itself held its breath—waiting; silently watching. Even the yipping howls of the wolf pack had ceased.

Rua rumbled again and turned back into the wind. “Aye, Rua. Ye smell it too?” Colum patted the horse’s thick neck. “Have no fear, m’friend. ’Tis just the flames of those we seek. Our Lady Kenna must be close. I feel it in m’verra bones.”

Rua snorted harder and pranced a few feet forward, then nervously pawed at the ground. For the first time in days, the tension knotting between Colum’s shoulders lessened a notch. “Aye, laddie. I agree. ’Twill be good to have our lady back where she belongs.”

Colum nudged Rua onward, keeping the horse to a slow, quiet pace. Though he had no idea how far ahead those they sought might be, there was no need announcing their presence with Rua in full, thundering gallop. Little rest had nay seemed to bother the great animal, but Colum knew the warhorse’s stamina was directly related to Rua’s fondness for Kenna. Rua heartily approved of Kenna’s presence anytime she visited the stable—especially since she always brought him treats. The temperamental horse would ne’er tolerate many, but he adored the Lady Kenna.

The tang of smoke grew stronger. Colum eased Rua into a slow, silent walk up the trail. The hardened path narrowed to barely the width of a wagon as it rose to a sharp incline. Colum sat taller in the saddle, constantly searching the wood. The wind brought the smoke from somewhere off to the left. Colum pulled Rua to a stop. The dense copse of trees had darkened to an impenetrable murkiness on both sides of the road. He would have to travel the rest of the way on foot; there was no helping it. The scent of burning wood was nay enough to pinpoint the exact location of Sutherland and his men. ’Twould be ill advised indeed to ride into the center of the bastard’s camp. Keeping Rua to the road might be faster, but it risked certain discovery.

Silently, Colum slid from the saddle and smoothed a hand down Rua’s shaggy neck. “I leave ye to yer own for now. But stay ready. When I return, our Lady Kenna will be with me.”

Rua agreed with a sharp toss of his head and a low-pitched grumble. Even the horse seemed to realize stealth was in order.

Colum paused with his hand atop his sword’s scabbard, strapped to the saddle.
Nay. Too cumbersome for this battlefield.
If a blade had t’be used, it best be the dagger. Good close and just as deadly if thrown from a short distance. He pulled free his longbow and quiver of arrows.
Aye. Even better.

Satisfaction settled Colum’s resolve as he smoothed a palm along the polished belly of his favorite bow—the treasured gift he’d thought foolishly lost. Diarmuid had a conscience after all. He’d pressed the weapon into Colum’s hands when news of Lady Kenna’s kidnapping had spread through the keep. Colum snorted out a bitter, silent laugh. Diarmuid had also made Colum swear an oath of secrecy about his returning the weapon. After all, he’d said, he had a reputation t’keep. But both men realized this bow was meant for such a task as this. ’Twas swift and silent.