Highlander of Mine (27 page)

Chapter 33

I
n the dead of night Duncan woke when someone loudly knocked on the door of his mother’s house. Er,
his
house now. The thought made his heart pinch.

It was so dark he could hardly make out Fleur’s hand fluttering up his chest.

“What is that?”

There was just enough light to make out her dainty fingers, which he caught then kissed. “I’ll find out. Wait here.”

She giggled and lowered the sheet. Even without much light, he saw her bare breasts, her skin always glowing. “Good idea. I don’t think I should answer the door like this.”

He growled and found one of her soft nipples with his mouth, capturing it and suckling. She grabbed hold of his hair to tug him closer, but he pulled away. Fleur made an irresistible pouting noise, and he almost kissed her when the banging erupted throughout the house again.

“Duncan, ye there?”

“Who’s that?” Fleur asked, sounding worried now.

He shrugged. “I’ll find out. Be back soon.”

“Yes, please hurry back.” She pulled the pale sheet back over her chest, but he saw the shadows her nipples made, peeking through the fabric.

He moaned. Turning away was torture. Somehow he managed the feat, finding a plaid and wrapping it around his waist. Jesus, this had better be important. Stomping through the house, he couldn’t quite figure who was calling for him. The voice was so raw, desperate.

Yanking back the front door, he stared at Rory. “Lord, ye all right?”

Rory was covered in soot and drenched from water or sweat or both. He shook his head. “Sorry to bother ye, but there’s a fire, probably set by Fleur’s lads, down by Cave Smoo. With the wind hitting it just so, it’s goin’ to sweep into Mr. Brown’s field.”

“Damn.”

Rory nodded.

It was then Duncan saw at least a dozen of the young troops a little beyond Rory, all blurry eyed as if recently roused, but looking ready to fight the threatening flames.

“Can ye help with the fire?” Rory asked.

“’Course, o’ course. I’ll get dressed and be right back.”

Duncan assumed the troops and Rory would set to without him, let him get outfitted then catch up. But Rory stood on the porch, looking at Duncan with narrowed eyes. Closing the door slightly, Duncan rushed to Fleur’s bedchamber. He supposed he could call it his now too.

He made sure the door was latched before he said, “There’s a fire, darlin’. I need to help.”

“Oh.” Her voice dripped with disappointment. God, he liked the sound of that. But then she said, “Oh! Should I come and help?”

He pleated his plaid on the floor, then slid on a shirt. “Nay. Sleep. I’m sure ‘tisn’t too bad.” He donned his hose and boots quickly. Wrapping his plaid around his waist, he belted it into place. Finding his broach to gather the ends over his shoulder, he pinned it.

“But I can help.”

His eyes had adjusted to the dark, for he saw her sit erect, her beautiful breasts perking up, begging for his mouth. He nearly moaned again. “I ken ye can help. And if we need more hands, I’ll come and get ye. But for now, why don’t ye sleep?”

“Will you come back to me all smoky and sooty?”

“I’ll wash up before I come back to ye.”

She shook her head. Still on the bed, she knelt on her shins. The night light made erotic shadows of her body, curving lusciously around her waist, flaring out at her narrow hips. “I want you to come back to me dirty.”

He softly chuckled, wanting so much to touch her, touch her everywhere. “I love yer wicked mind. I’ll come back to ye dirty. Mayhap ye’ll need to clean me?”

She nodded and flashed him a vixen’s smile, her white teeth glinting in the dark. “First, you’ll make me dirty, then we’ll clean up afterwards.”

At that he did growl and nearly catapulted himself onto her. “Lord, ye make it difficult to do anything other than to be in bed with ye.”

“I was hoping so.”

He leaned over, aware of his erection tenting his plaid, but tried to kiss her quickly, not as passionately as he felt. She didn’t help, with her little tongue darting in his mouth. But somehow he pulled away and was out the door, trying to calm his cock before the others saw.

“Let’s go,” he said to Rory when he was on his porch.

Rory appeared to glare at him for a quick beat. But then again, it was hard to make out his expression. His face was dark from soot, and the night was indeed obscure. He smiled a moment later, his teeth bared, the whites of his eyes seeming to gleam a little too much.

Before Duncan could think much of it, they jogged through the garden, out the gate, then down the road. Duncan saw the thick smoke, clouding over the stars and smelled it. He just couldn’t see any flames yet. The odor wasn’t what would burn close to Cave Smoo—grass and heather, that slightly sweet-smelling smoke. This reeked of wood and something wet, like seaweed. Odd.

The young troops said their condolences again and asked if he needed anything. Wasn’t that kind?

Duncan also thought it was a bit abnormal that only Rory had soot on his face, his plaid. The troops looked freshly stirred from bed, like Duncan. Briefly, he thought about staying on as their lieutenant, but the thought of becoming a farmer with Fleur, reading to her his stories in their spare time, and having several little girls won him over. That was what he wanted.

As much as he missed his ma, and he missed her something fierce, he couldn’t help but look forward to the future. When he was a wee lad, before Albert, he’d felt this excited about life and what it could hold. He hadn’t experienced this delirious and hopeful sentiment since then, which had been decades. Lord, Fleur was so good for him. He hoped to God he was as good for her. He’d spend the rest of his life trying to be, that was for certain.

So deep in thought, Duncan hardly noticed that no flames licked along the shoreline or beside the road. As he ran, he noticed no fire close to Smoo, yet smoke was all about. Was the fire out already? About to ask Rory, Duncan heard one of the young troops make a strangled noise. Glancing in the direction of the gurgling moan, he could barely make out the shadows of men fighting. His young troops were under attack. It was so dark he could hardly see friend from foe but knew the enemy from the way they pointed their pikes at him. Jesus.

Wheeling around a pike, Duncan found the owner of the weapon and pummeled him with a punch upwards. The attacker fell with a grunt. It had been months since he’d felt another man’s jaw against his knuckles, and the pain tore up his arm momentarily. But he steeled himself from further reaction. Another assailant tried to move a pike his direction. That was the problem with wielding such a long weapon. It took too long to maneuver in hand-to-hand combat, like this. Duncan avoided the stick then jabbed the man’s jaw, and he went down as fast as the first. Realization dawned: the men he fought wore loose breeches, thick leather vests, and helms that only came from England.

The English had arrived. Cromwell’s army was attacking!

He only thought of protecting Fleur. She had to stay safe. He’d kill them all to keep her from this. An English soldier wielded another hefty pike at him, but he easily plunged the sharp end into the sand, kicked that same sand in the man’s face, then pummeled an elbow into the soldier’s nose. The English combatant groaned and fell backwards.

Duncan glanced up in time to see Rory standing over the soldier, shaking his head. An English fighter raced toward him, and Duncan shouted to warn Rory. But then the captain calmly raised one of his hands at the running soldier. Shocking Duncan senseless, the helm-wearing man stopped in his tracks.

“I told ye, not a man is to be hurt.” Rory’s voice was disturbingly composed.

The English soldier nodded and shouted an order. Instantly, the fighting ceased, but the Englishmen began to shackle some of the Highland troops lying dazed on the beach.

Duncan straightened, trying to understand what was happening. Gutting him was the knowledge that Rory had betrayed him—him and the young troops. Rory had sided with the English.

One of the Highland lads jumped into action, fighting an English soldier. Duncan flew into a fighting fury too. Leaping through the air, he kicked one of the soldiers closest to him. The heel of Duncan’s boot tore into the face of the English soldier and made a satisfying crunching noise. Then Duncan lunged toward Rory. One of the English soldiers rammed himself in front of Rory, taking the blow meant for the captain. Duncan’s aim had been off, and he’d hit the soldier on the side of the helmet, rather than Rory’s face. Even so a thick, metallic thud sounded across the bay. The soldier went down with a groan, and Duncan wasn’t too sure if he’d broken his hand. Pain radiated from one of his knuckles. But he cocked his arm back, ready to strike Rory, when his former captain lifted a spyglass for defense.

“Ye’d kill Fleur if you hit me.” Again, Rory’s tone was much too calm. Eerily so.

Duncan froze, feeling the words skid down his spine like ice.

Rory had been wincing slightly, but then relaxed and straightened, extending the spyglass to Duncan. “Have a look for yerself. I have four English soldiers ‘round yer house. If I don’t give them a signal, they will break through the doors and kill her. Probably rape her first, since the English are barbarians to women.” He’d spoken in Gaelic, Duncan was sure, so the English soldiers surrounding them didn’t know what he’d said.

Duncan finally took a shaky breath and glanced in the direction of his mother’s house,
his
house, the house he would give to Fleur.

Another lad fought an English soldier, but soon enough the dozen troops, not a one of them twenty years of age yet, were confined in shackles and chains.

“How could ye?” Duncan was surprised he could talk. All he thought of was Fleur, saving her. How to do that?

Rory looked surprised. “That’s none of yer business, Duncan. ‘Tis about time ye kenned yer station, boy. I’m not a man to trifle with. I’m the son of a laird.”

“Soon to be laird.” An English accent wafted toward Duncan, and he searched through the dark night for its source. Finally, he saw four men emerge from the cave. One of them was obviously an officer of some kind, holding a lacy kerchief to his nose, as if the Highlands stank.

The officer stalked closer to Duncan. “This is the man you spoke of, MacKay?” His Gaelic nearly perfect.

Rory nodded.

The Englishman smiled. “He probably
can
plow a field without the use of an ox.”

Having enough of the talking, Duncan plowed his fist into one of the English soldier’s faces, then circled low to kick another’s legs out from under him. He turned again, but this time found himself face to face with the end of a sword. Stilling, he stared at the officer.

“You didn’t tell me he’s had training,” the English man said. “He’s a soldier.”

Rory grimaced. “He’s been a mercenary, aye. But he won’t be a trouble to ye.”

Duncan stared at Rory, barely able to control the black rage.

Rory smiled at Duncan. “I’ll kill his bitch if he gives ye any trouble. Do ye hear me, Duncan? Ye’re going to do as I tell ye, then as the English captain says. Ye’re going to march south with the troops, get on a boat, and find yerself in Virginia. Else I’ll kill Fleur. I’ll kill her myself. Once ye start marching south, the soldiers will leave yer house, and I’ll keep her safe. Unless ye try to escape. If ye make one move to get back to her, to get back to Scotland, I’ll kill her. I hate to do it. But I’ll do it nonetheless. If ye cooperate though, then she’ll live a long life here. I’ll move her in to the castle, and she’ll live the life of a real princess, which ye never could give her.”

The English captain’s sword faltered, and he sheathed it in a polished move. “I say, MacKay, this sounds more like revenge than political strategy.”

Rory turned to the officer. Even with the stars dampened and shedding little light, Duncan saw his face had turned into twisted, poisonous rage. “’Tis none of yer business what this sounds like.”

The English captain frowned. “Don’t take that tone with me, Highlander.” He’d spit out the last word as if it were profane.

Then Duncan decided to try once more to save Fleur, to do something. It was desperate, and he knew that was never good in war, but this was his life, his love, he was fighting for. He tumbled to the sand and rolled into another English soldier’s legs, taking him down quickly. Punching, kicking, and flailing about, he finally stopped when he felt a sick stab slice across his shoulder. Then he heard such a familiar sound, everything in his body instantly numb.

What was that noise?

He couldn’t think, couldn’t recall, as his legs gave way under him. Falling fast, his vision blurring, he finally realized that wet thudding blast had been something hitting the back of his own head. The night went completely black then, even though he clawed at his consciousness, trying with everything in him to rescue Fleur.

Chapter 34

A
fter waiting an eternity for Duncan, executing a million sexy poses on the bed for him to discover when he was done putting out the fire, Fleur huffed and threw on a shift. Maybe she should help. If it really was a small fire, he’d have returned by now, right? Donning a plaid, she walked out of the room she now shared with Duncan.

Weird, but she didn’t smell smoke. An hour ago, she thought she’d detected a little more than usual, but nothing now. Normally, there was a constant smell of smoke from kitchen stoves and the like. Sometimes it smelled of peat, and she had to admit she loved that scent. Placing a hand on her heart, she reaffirmed it to herself. Her mind was made up. She would stay here with Duncan. She’d miss Rachel and Ian so much. But she might make other friends eventually. In the meantime, she had Duncan, and she’d never known love like that before.

Wasn’t that peculiar? She hadn’t even thought about her job.

She didn’t need it anymore, she surmised, that’s why she hadn’t thought about it.

She’d miss it, but not like she would have if she hadn’t let herself fall for Duncan. She felt completely different. Clean. Fresh. New. This was her life now, and she loved it.

Something clicked against a window in the kitchen, and Fleur wrapped the plaid tighter around her shoulders, feeling tingles of fear tickle down her spine. She wished Duncan would come back already. But wasn’t that like him to be a hero right now? He was so...virtuous. Sure, she’d met some great people in her life, Rachel being one of them, but Duncan was truly valiant, astounding in his bravery, and all hers.

God, it was long overdue, the man needed to know how she felt about him. She loved him.

More clacking against the kitchen window made Fleur’s heart race, ascending to her throat. She tried to swallow down her fear, but then something scratched against the window.

A crazed bird?

Another noise at the window didn’t make her think it was some blind fowl wanting inside. This sounded very human, someone who was persistent. Ducking down, she crawled closer to the window, looking out but saw nothing.

Then a small pebble crashed against a pane in the glass right in front of her nose.

Yes, very human.

“Fleur,” someone whispered.

The voice was not a man’s. And for a heartbreaking moment, she wondered if Helen had...Helen was gone, she had to remind herself. Tears rushed to her eyes, and her heart pinched, but she stood to see who the hell it was throwing rocks at the window.

No one.

She glanced in every direction, but the person who had thrown the stones wasn’t there. About to give up, she saw a huge shadow walking into her view. Hunkering down, she made sure she could see the man, but he couldn’t see her. Fleur didn’t recognize him. There weren’t a lot of men from Durness, but she could identify all of the males by now. This man was big, almost as giant as Duncan. He appeared to be wearing some kind of metal getup, looking like a conquistador. Her stomach bottomed out. Oh God, soldiers of this time wore the same kind of suits, didn’t they? A metal helm, metal vest piece, and thick leather jackets to protect from arrows, swords, and the weak bullets spit at them.

Fleur couldn’t breathe for a moment, could hardly think. A soldier, more than likely an English, New Order soldier, was in her back yard. Something scraped against the kitchen door, and she flinched, holding the plaid closer, as if that could protect her.

“Lady Fleur,” a thin whisper sounded through the door, “’Tis me, Jamie.”

It did sound like one of her lads, not quite a man’s voice and held a bit higher from desperation and panic.

The English soldier was fifteen feet from the whisper, from Jamie. With her heart pounding in her ears and throat, she scurried to the door and unbolted it, then quietly opened it.

She almost cried when she saw it was really him, on his knees, hunched over in a dark plaid, camouflaging most of his body. Letting him in, she closed the door as softly as she had opened it. Placing a finger over her lips, she then pointed to where the soldier stood. Jamie nodded.

An odd strangling noise erupted from where the English soldier was. Jamie carefully angled his head to the side and lifted himself like a trained soldier to see out of the window. Fleur didn’t know what was more shocking, that a little fourteen year-old boy knew how to protect himself from such violence, or the noise that was getting louder. Mimicking Jamie, she tilted her head similarly and saw with one eye out the glass the large soldier clutched at something around his throat. There were eight boys, four on each side, of a rope looped around the soldier’s throat. They tugged until the huge man fell to his knees. The whites of his eyes became glaringly visible. Then the soldier plummeted, face first, into the ground.

“Jesus, I hoped that’d be more quiet,” Jamie whispered.

Fleur gripped onto the boy’s arm. “Duncan.”

That was all she could think about. Where was he? What had happened?

Jamie nodded solemnly. “My lady, they have him.”

Fleur winced, the words hitting her as if Jamie had struck her with his dirk deep in the belly. No, in the heart.

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’ ha’ believed it,” Jamie said. “But Captain MacKay led yer man away with a few of his troops, led ‘em close to Cave Smoo, where there were English soldiers who’d filled the place with smoke, so no one could see, then captured them.”

Captured them.
Captured her Duncan. Her man, Jamie had called him.

Being frightened for so many years, so scared of making the wrong move, so scared she wouldn’t gain approval, Fleur was unfamiliar with the anger that suddenly pounded through her veins. It snarled and snapped for action.

“Duncan’s been captured by English soldiers? And Rory did this?” She didn’t recognize her voice. It was deeper than usual. Calm. Menacing.

Jamie glanced at her askew, but then nodded. “Aye, Rory’s sided with that damned Cromwell, it seems.”

Her heart no longer thundered in her ears. An eerie silence ensued.

Rory and his English cronies had taken Duncan from her?

“I’m going to kill Rory.”

Jamie’s eyes widened momentarily, then he nodded. “I would for ye. He’s on his way here.” Jamie took a sip of a breath. “There are four soldiers ‘round yer house. Well, three now, thanks to my men. And we’ll take out the others and Rory too.”

“Rory’s on his way here?”

“I’m guessin’ so. He seemed to head this direction.”

“And he stole Duncan to give to the English?” It made her angry with herself that she needed to hear it one more time, but she did. She needed to know in no uncertain terms that Rory was the cause of this. Plus it helped give her time to think about what to do next.

“It appears so, aye.”

That settled it. She’d hurt Rory, make him pay for what he’d done. No. Wait. She needed Duncan back.

“Duncan—” She’d meant to ask what was to happen to him, but could only say the love of her life’s name.

Jamie came closer and patted her shoulder. “I have five of my men following the train of English soldiers and the captured men. We’ll take care of the English here, and that shite, Rory. Pardon my language, my lady. Then we’ll fight for our captured men.”

That was the second time skinny, too-young Jamie had called his boys his men. At another time, Fleur would have found humor in that. She’d think it was funny. But it wasn’t. She didn’t comprehend until just then that the lads Jamie spoke of were more men than they should have been. They’d been orphaned by war, forced to become fighters for their survival, then for each other. And they were somehow loyal to her, because she’d fed them a few times and loved listening to their stories and how they talked to each other. It had reminded her of her cousins when they were young. Yet her affections were more than that. Being around Jamie and his gang reminded her of...her. Forced to grow up before her time. But Jaime and the boys came out swinging, while Fleur had tucked herself into a book, like a bookmark. Looking back, Fleur no longer felt shame for what she had done, being frozen in fear. But right now, she preferred Jamie’s tactics.

“Thank you.” Tears sprang to her eyes, but she promised herself a good cry once it was over. For now, she had to get her man back. “Let me talk to Rory.”

Jamie’s dark brows furrowed.

“Rory needs to pay.”

His brows knitted together all the more, but his glistening eyes softened. “The plan is to take out the English guards ‘round yer house, one by one, quick and quiet. Then Rory.”

They both heard deep baritone voices talking at the front of the house, and they stilled instantly. The voices were very much men’s, not the lads’. Jamie turned back to Fleur, gripping both her arms now.

“I’m here to protect ye,” he whispered.

“Thank you. But let me handle Rory.”

The voices quieted as Jamie’s grip tightened. The boy was so much a man already, he probably could protect her. She believed that with every thin muscle in his body he’d try to save her. That gave her a powerful surge of energy.

But this was one fight from which she wasn’t going to back down.

Thunderous banging rapped on the door. “Fleur, ‘tis Rory. I need to talk to ye, lass.” His voice sounded calm, if not a touch pleading. There wasn’t an ounce of panic or recrimination in it.

Something about that, about the lack of guilt flamed Fleur’s chest until all she felt was seething outrage. Blue-purple élan flooded her arms and legs, making her feel as though she might be able to pick up a car if she needed to.

“Let me handle Rory, Jamie,” she ordered.

The lad gave in with a solemn bow of his head. “I’ll hide in a nearby chamber. I’ll be here if ye need anythin’.”

She nodded, then pushed him into her room. After making sure he couldn’t be seen, she swept to the main door—the door Helen had shown her through, shown her a different life to live, one full of love, and now Rory was about to rip all of that apart.

Jeez, Coyote had been right about him. But why? Why would Rory do any of this?

The whys didn’t matter when Duncan was somewhere out there in harm’s way.

Deciding to appear calm, she answered the door, after pulling the plaid a bit tighter around her. She had fashioned it over one of her shoulders, as Duncan had, but it was long and brushed against the floor as she walked. It would be a hindrance when attacking Rory, so she’d have to get rid of it when she found her moment.

Slowly she opened the door, wondering if she looked nervous, panicked, angry. He appeared as if he’d been covered in soot, as if he truly had been fighting a fire, and had tried to wash it off before coming here. He dripped seawater from his darkened hair—the scent strong, acidic, and alarming.

“Rory.” She let him in, not sure if she could say much more.

He looked her down and up as he passed, assessing the plaid. Surprising her, he fingered the wool, stopping to stand too close. “This—these colors are from the MacKay crest.”

She glanced down at his hand far too near her breast.

“Did Duncan ever tell ye he’s related to me?”

She blinked, stunned. What an odd conversation to have, and it distracted her as was his hand. Wanting to give in and grimace from his proximity, she bit the inside of her lip to keep from showing her emotions.

“He’s from noble blood, like me,” Rory continued. “But his father’s father wanted nothing to do with the title and settled for a life as a farmer. Patrick MacKay, Duncan’s father liked the life too and never fought for a title, married a commoner.”

“Helen?”

Rory nodded and stepped even closer, inspecting the plaid all the more, his fingers grazed against her collarbone. The scent of smoke suddenly became more pungent, watering her eyes. But she could smell something else on him. A sickly sweet aroma, similar to the earth, similar to copper. Blood. Was it Duncan’s? She stepped back, but he grabbed hold of her arms.

“Duncan’s line had more noble blood than even my brother’s and mine. I often wondered if my brother breathed easily once Duncan left. He was the only threat to the lairdship.” Rory yanked her closer, his stomach touching hers, his chest against hers. Panic seared through her arms and chest. Rory merely chuckled as if he were telling campfire stories. “But then my brother, the idiot, gave Duncan a job when he returned from Sweden. A high-ranking one at that, working with me. I wondered if my brother had gone mad. If Duncan were close to what once had been his, then wouldn’t the man want it all the more? My brother, though, thought I was being paranoid, thought Duncan was no threat.” Then he pulled Fleur that much closer, enveloping her in a too tight embrace.

Disgusted and wondering if she would vomit, Fleur held still. Her uncle had taught her how to do this, how to get close to an enemy, his weak spots more accessible.

Rory huffed in her ear. “I guess my brother was right after all.”

Adjusting herself slightly, Rory didn’t seem to notice as she slid a leg between his. He
did
notice though when she slowly held onto his shirtsleeves, fisting them for balance. As fast as she could, she hefted her knee with all her might. He was quick though and had his own leg against hers, shifting his pelvis away from injury. She’d missed, damn it! Then she started pounding on his leather-clad chest, trying to reach his face to yank off the skin.