Stuart, Elizabeth (2 page)

She
had ceased to struggle immediately after her abduction, recognizing at once
that it would be useless against the armed might of her captors. Staring down
at the gauntleted hands capably holding the reins before her, she shivered. Who
were these raiders and what harm did they mean?

The
rain settled to a steady drone and the wind finally dropped as the horses
struggled to the summit of a rock-strewn hill. The men drew rein in the dubious
shelter of a dense stand of shivering Scots pines, allowing their mounts the
first breather in over an hour of hard travel. Without a word, Anne's captor
shifted his arms about her. He drew her closer, tugging at her wet cloak.

At
that provocation Anne struggled to life. She disliked the feel of his doublet
against her back, of his sinewy arms pressing tightly about her shoulders.
Heart pounding, she choked back the scream that sprang to her lips. She'd not
have him laugh at her fear.

"Hold,
lass. I mean you no harm," the man said softly, his surprisingly courteous
voice softened by the lilting burr of the North. "This plaid of mine'll
turn some of the rain. Mayhap it'll keep you from perishing o' the damp."

Trying
to fling herself from the saddle, she twisted in his arms. She had heard tales
enough of these wild Highlanders!

"Hold,
lass," the outlaw hissed again, crushing her against his chest. "I'll
no' be drenched because you've no' the wit to keep still!"

His
words finally penetrated her fear. Trembling, she forced herself to sit quietly
while the man carefully wrapped his plaid about them both.

The
shadowy figures of the raiders clustered silently about them in the falling
rain. Anne stared at them, a feeling of utter helplessness sweeping over her.
"W... what do you plan to do with me?" she asked, disgusted with the
quavering of her own voice.

"There's
no time to discuss the matter now, and I'm no' your man. Be assured you stand
in no danger, though. My name is Donald, mistress, at your service."

A
tiny spark of hope flamed to life in her breast. "Then take me back to my
father's men. See me safe to Ranleigh and you'll be richly rewarded," she
promised eagerly.

There
was a slight pause, then the man chuckled softly. "That I canna' do, lass,
though I'll try to please you in all else."

He
nudged his horse forward through the dripping trees, his clansmen following slowly,
saving their animals. With a sinking heart, Anne wondered at her fate. Despite
his assurances, it must be none so pleasant.

The
journey continued through the night with the men alternately walking and
cantering their horses through the increasingly rough countryside. The rain
stopped, and an occasional star peeked briefly through the thinning clouds. The
men rode single file now, following a tortuous path that snaked among huge,
scattered boulders and scrubby trees, climbing ever deeper into the brooding
mountains.

Hours
passed, and though Anne could not trust her voice, she longed to know if they
intended to ride all night. Her head throbbed, and she felt permanently stuck
to the hard leather of the saddle. Fortunately, the cold had numbed her so, she
no longer felt the ache in her back and legs. She wanted to rest but was
terrified of what might happen when they stopped.

"Here
we be," Donald finally whispered. "Pluck up now, lass."

Anne
straightened, straining her eyes to see into the darkness ahead. Where were
they? She could see naught save the blackness of towering granite walls.

The
trail suddenly twisted to the left, and they plunged unexpectedly into the
midst of a large, armed camp. The horses surged forward into the clearing,
which was little more than a narrow cleft in the mountain protected from the
sides by rising cliffs. No fires could have been seen by pursuing English
soldiers, even if they were hot on her trail, which she doubted.

Anne
stared about bemusedly as the flickering light of the campfires threw weird,
dancing shadows over the walls. Men and horses milled about the narrow glen in
confusion, while outside the circle of firelight, a darker-than-night form
moved in the shadows. Donald nudged his mount forward toward that hint of movement.

A
large black horse stepped nervously into the light, half rearing at the sudden
noise and bustle about the fire. Anne glanced at him in admiration, her
attention sliding quickly past his powerful, flailing forelegs to the stiff
figure on his back. The man curbed his mount easily, his harsh expression
unchanging as he turned his stern gaze upon her.

The
meeting of their eyes was like a physical jolt, Anne's own widening in awe as
she caught her first good look at the man. He was dressed in midnight black,
his heavy cloak swirling about him in the wind, making him appear, for a
moment, like some winged apparition from hell. Renewed fear tensed the muscles
of her fatigue-relaxed body. The devil himself had come to claim her! Would
this nightmare never end?

Indicating
she was to dismount, Donald swung her from the saddle, but even her own body
now conspired to betray her. The cold, wet, fear and long hours in the saddle
had taken an incredible toll, and to Anne's dismay, her numb legs buckled,
sending her sprawling ignominiously in the mud at the Highlander's feet.

She
sat limply where she'd fallen, in a muddy puddle left by the spring storm. Icy
water soaked the velvet seat of her skirt, wetting her in the only place that
had been reasonably dry. Shivering uncontrollably, she lifted her head, more
cold, wet, and utterly miserable than she had ever before been in her entire
life.

A
restless moonbeam suddenly lit the drenched clearing, gleaming silver against
the glittering blade at the Highlander's belt. He flung back his cloak,
unconsciously revealing his powerful frame as, hands on hips, he grinned down
at her in amusement. "Good evening, mistress. I'd ask you to sit down, but
I can see you've already decided to make yourself comfortable."

At
his humorous sally, a coarse guffaw of laughter rippled from the men, twisting
Anne's humiliation even deeper. She stared at him in resentment. Light from the
moon and the campfires played over his strongly sculpted features, touching the
sharp angles of his face with burnished bronze. His cold blue eyes gazed
haughtily out at her from beneath dark, mobile brows.

As
she watched, his mouth curled up in a mocking grin, revealing the flash of
even, white teeth. "And have you looked your fill, mistress?" he
asked. "God's body, gentlemen! Should I not be flattered the daughter of
an English earl finds a MacLean so intriguing?"

Furiously,
Anne tore her eyes from his. Fear and shame struggled for supremacy in her
breast as she realized she had been caught staring at the man in admiration.
Her face burned, and she kept her eyes focused on the muddy forelegs of his
mount. She'd not answer him. Hadn't her mother told her often enough it was a
man's world? Silent endurance meant survival for a woman.

"What?
Have you nothing to say?" he mocked. "Perhaps it's because we've not
been properly introduced." He bent forward in a half bow. "Sir
Francis MacLean, chief of Clan MacLean," he grinned, "and chief
annoyance of Robert of Glenkennon, at your service, mistress."

So
the Highlander was her father's enemy! Now at least she knew why she had been
taken. Slowly she raised her eyes to his. The man was laughing at her.

Lashed
by the knowledge of his contempt, a saving surge of anger washed through her.
"I've no interest in knowing your name, sir!" she snapped. "My
father will hang you soon enough."

The
amused smile faded from MacLean's hard face. Eyes narrowing grimly, he rested
one arm on his sword hilt and leaned insolently toward her. "You'd best
remember where you are and to whom you speak, mistress," he warned softly.
"If you wish to see me hang, you'll mind your tongue... else you'll not be
around to enjoy the sight."

The
sustaining anger seeped away. How ridiculous she must have appeared, sitting in
a muddy puddle spitting like a bedraggled kitten. Highlanders were a cruel and
ruthless lot if even half the tales she had heard were true. And doubtless her
father would care little if she came to grief at their hands, despite her
earlier boast.

Fear
and misery surged in her and with them a powerful urge to weep. Her fate now
rested solely in the hands of the arrogant outlaw glaring down at her. Sinking
back dejectedly into the mud, she raised her chin a notch, fighting to hold the
humiliating tears at bay.

"For
Christ's sake, Francis, don't frighten the wits out of the poor lass,"
Donald said sharply. He slipped from his mount, slapping his numb hands
together to restore their circulation.

No
flicker of feeling crossed MacLean's impassive face. Anne stared at him, her
own tenuous composure dangerously near the breaking point. "I'm not afraid
of him," she put in quickly, dashing the wet hair out of her eyes.

MacLean
threw back his head and laughed, the rich sound echoing back from the granite
walls of the glen. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, mistress." His words
broke the breathless tension among the gathered men. They chuckled and nudged
one another in obvious relief.

Throwing
one long leg over his saddle bow, MacLean slid from the back of his sidling
stallion. He tossed his reins to a waiting clansman and strode to Anne's side.

Anne
shrank back instinctively, the Highlander's towering frame alone enough to
inspire her fear. Dear God, would she never learn to govern her tongue? He was
going to strike her now for her insolence. She only hoped she would have the
strength not to cry out.

MacLean
gazed at her in silence. In the uncertain light, the harsh lines of his face
seemed to soften somehow. "Let's get you to the fire," he said
brusquely. Taking her arm in a bruising grip, he dragged her to her feet.

In
spite of her determination to walk unaided, Anne was shaking so hard from
exhaustion and cold she could scarcely stand. Before she realized his
intentions, MacLean scooped her up in his arms and strode across the clearing
toward the fire.

She
tried to struggle but quickly realized the futility of the effort as his steel
arms tightened their hold. She had thought Donald strong, but this man seemed
carved of the same dark stone as these mountains.

Depositing
her on a log beside the blazing fire, MacLean gazed down at her, his cold blue
eyes missing nothing. "Walter..." he snapped, jerking his head toward
a young clansman standing nearby. The lad nodded, disappearing immediately into
the shadows. "You're soaked through," MacLean said harshly. "Off
with those wet things."

Anne
stared up at him knowing a sudden fear so elemental and overpowering it made
all that had gone before it seem like naught. She clutched the sodden folds of
her cloak tightly about her, struggling desperately to steady her breathing. So
now it would begin...

The
tall Highlander read her thoughts easily. "Just your cloak and gloves,
lass," he said more gently, turning at once as the young clansman returned
with a length of red and green tartan.

Taking
the cloth, MacLean dropped it over her shoulders. He smiled slightly as she
jerked away, shamed by the weakness of her own shaking limbs and the paralyzing
fear that must be so evident to her enemy.

"Don't
be too hard on yourself," he said softly. "You've been in the saddle
the better part of a day, and have held up well for a lass... far better than I
expected." He studied her in silence, then flashed a mocking smile.
"It's that good Scots blood in your veins. You're half MacDonnell, lass,
and I've yet to see one that wasn't pluck to the backbone."

Anne
glanced up at him in amazement. Few people knew her mother hailed from the
MacDonnell clan. Before she could question him, MacLean reached into his
doublet and drew out a metal flask. Removing the top, he held it out.
"Drink," he commanded, "it'll warm you."

Anne
shook her head. She would take nothing from this man. Did he think to make her
drunk?

"I'll
not have you die of the ague," he informed her. "Will you take it
like a good lass, or shall I force it down your throat?" He bent his dark
head so close she could see the flames reflected in the pupils of his eyes.
"Believe me, I'm quite capable of doing so."

The
intensity of his gaze stopped her breath. "I've no doubt," she
snapped, holding out a hand for the flask. Her eyes meeting his defiantly, she
lifted it to her lips for one small swallow. She'd not give him the
satisfaction of humiliating her in such a manner.

The
liquid fire took her completely by surprise. She coughed and gasped for air as
the raw whiskey burned its way down her throat and into her stomach. She glared
at MacLean from watering eyes. Had he poisoned her?

A
look of unholy amusement danced in MacLean's eyes as if he took a perverse
delight in her discomfiture. "Take a deep breath, lass," he
commanded. Taking the flask from her unresisting hand, he raised it to his lips
and took a long pull. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and tossed
the flask to a nearby clansman. "Pass it about among the men as far as
it'll go. It'll keep us warm till we've food to line our bellies." Without
another look at Anne, he sauntered off into the night.