Highlander Unchained (22 page)

“Flora!” he yelled, running farther into the sea toward her.

He thought her head turned, but he couldn’t be sure. Without thinking, he dove into the waves and started to swim as if his life depended on it, every stroke strong and determined. He’d grown up swimming in the waters around the Isles and usually won the speed events when his clan participated in the Highland games, but the current of the sound was ruthless. The time it was taking to reach her seemed interminable. He checked her position every time he lifted his head to take a breath.

He was about halfway there when he heard her voice. “Lachlan…”

It was so soft, he thought he’d imagined it. He paused for only a second, then heard it again. “Lachlan…” The plea in her voice cut through him like a knife. He heard her hope. Her trust. She believed in him. And it ate at him. He couldn’t let her down.

“Hurry. I can’t—”

The choking sound stopped his heart. Her head bobbed once with the waves and disappeared.

“Flora!” The voice that tore from him was not his own. He felt as if his heart were being ripped out of his chest. She was only about fifty feet away. His body exploded with uncontrollable rage. He wasn’t going to be able to reach her in time. “Hold on!” he yelled, even though he knew she couldn’t hear him, right before he dove into the water.

He swam to the place he’d last seen her. Swam until his lungs were about to explode. Only knowing that hers were doing the same kept him going. He tried opening his eyes underwater, but the salt burned and it was too damn dark to see anything. Swimming near the bottom, he reached around blindly, grabbing for anything.

His lungs were burning, screaming for air. He couldn’t hold his breath much longer.
Think of her. She’s drowning, damn it.
He was frantic now. Reaching wildly around him. Suddenly, mercifully, he felt something. His fingers tangled in something too fine to be kelp. Her hair. He could have cried with relief. He’d found her. Pulling her harshly against him, he wrapped his arm around her stomach, holding her snuggly under her ribs, and shot to the surface.

When his head broke through the water, he gasped in air. But she still fell limply against him. Lifeless. “Flora!” He heard the raw panic in his voice. Panic that had shred the last bit of his reserve. He couldn’t lose her. Instinctively, he jerked her hard against him, hitching his arm against her stomach. The swift movement caused her to spasm, and she choked, seawater gurgling from her mouth. He turned her around to face him. Cradling her face in his hands, he urged her with his voice. “Flora. God. I’ve got you. Can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered and closed. But she was alive.

He pressed his lips on her forehead, tasting only salty seawater. She was like ice. He brought his face to hers, cheek to cheek, and felt the unmistakable wisp of her breath on his neck. Shallow but true. His skin prickled, every nerve ending flared at the sweet sensation. But he could not savor it for long.

The danger wasn’t over.

Rolling her around so that she floated on her back, he swam her to shore. A much easier proposition than on the way out. Reaching the safety of the beach, he lifted her in his arms, wrenching her from the steel jaws of the sea that had tried to claim her.

He carried her a few feet up the beach and set her down carefully, kneeling beside her.

“Flora.” He shook her shoulders gently. “Wake up.”

She looked so still. So horribly still. “Flora.” He shook her gently, his chest squeezing painfully. “Please wake up. I need you to wake up.”
I need you.

Her eyes fluttered again and then—blissfully—opened. And he found himself looking into the achingly familiar fathomless depths. He felt a rush of relief so strong, he could have wept. Instead he kissed her.

He knew there wasn’t time, that he had to get her back, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to know that she was alive.

His mouth covered hers in a searing kiss, as if he could warm the cold from her lips with the heat of his passion. He kissed her with a raw desperation born of fear. With all the intensity of the emotions she’d exposed inside him. He told her with his lips what he couldn’t admit to himself.

In that one brief instant, he told her so much. When he lifted his head, her eyes met his and he could see her surprise.

“Lachlan, I…” Her eyes fluttered again, then closed as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

For a moment, he thought she’d died. Fear gripped him again as pressed his hand against her chest, relieved to feel the precious beat of her heart. He swore, still breathing hard as he gathered her in his arms again. The currents of the sound had sapped him of his strength, but he knew that if he did not get her back to the keep, to warmth, she would die.

There was nothing more he could do for her until he got her back to the castle. Her shallow breath against the open V in his shirt would be all the assurance he would have. He held on to it like a precious talisman. A lifeline that gave him strength where there was none.

His breath came hard and heavy between his lips. His legs burned with each dragging step across the sandy beach. Her normally insignificant weight grew heavier and heavier as he climbed swiftly and steadily up the rocky path. Pressing on. Using every last reserve of energy.

He wouldn’t let himself think about how cold she was. How long she’d been in the freezing water. He swallowed. How long she’d been underneath. He wouldn’t think about the pallor of her skin resting against his sopping shirt. Her bloodless lips. The dark shadows under her eyes. It was just the moonlight….

God take him, she wouldn’t die.
He wouldn’t let her. As if by the sheer force of his will, he would defy anyone, God or man, who sought to take her from him.

She was his. She’d belonged to him from the first moment he’d seen her. And not because of his devil’s bargain with her cousin Argyll that would ensure his brother’s safety and his clan’s future. No, the truth was far more elemental than that.

The fierce pounding in his chest did not lie. Gilly had been right. He did care for her. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t deny an emotional attachment to a woman—he’d thought himself dedicated to his family and clan alone. He was wrong.

Finally, he’d reached the top of the path and his horse. Beyond exhausted, he was moving mechanically, instinct, forged by years of pushing himself to the limit of endurance, taking over. He needed every last ounce of it right now. After laying her across his saddle, he mounted behind her and nestled her in his arms again, then rode hard for the keep.

He didn’t take the time to explain to the men he passed along the way but simply ordered them to spread the word that he’d found her and to return to the castle.

No longer able to feel her breath against his skin with the wind of his ride, he held his hand against her chest, needing the surety of her beating heart, but terrified by how soft and faint it was—and how dangerously slow.

He entered the gate to a flurry of activity. Activity that stopped as soon as he came galloping inside, soaking wet with his precious bundle limp against him.

Gilly and Mary must have been watching by the door, because they appeared beside him before his feet hit the ground. Some of his men, appraising his condition, moved to help him, but he held them back, his whole body shaking with effort. No one else would touch her. She was his.

“You found her, thank God,” Gilly said. Drawing nearer, she gasped and voiced the fear that had made the courtyard as quiet as a tomb from the moment he entered. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Her voice broke into a sob. “Is she dead?”

“No!” he said savagely. “She still breathes. But I need to get her inside and warm.” He plowed up the forestairs, savoring the blast of heat as he entered the keep. Not hesitating, he headed straight for the stairs.

“Where are you taking her?” Mary asked, hustling along beside him.

His face was grim as he gave his sister a fierce stare. “To my bed.”

Chapter 10

Lachlan didn’t think about the symbolism or the propriety of having Flora in his bed. All he knew was that it was warmer in his chamber. The fire would still be burning. And he knew exactly what had to be done.

Mary’s eyes widened, but she didn’t argue, though clearly it worried her. Not because she feared that he would do something untoward—she knew him better than that—but because she knew what it said. Taking Flora to his room, rather than any other, amounted to a public declaration of his intentions. She was his, and he was saying as much.

Lachlan didn’t give a damn what anyone thought, he wanted her with him. It was as simple as that.

Though in the back of his mind, he realized that when it came to Flora, nothing was simple. It hadn’t been since the first day he’d laid eyes on her.

Taking two steps at a time, he quickly reached the second floor. Since the moment he’d entered the castle, he’d been focused on one thing: getting her warm and dry as soon as possible. Moving from the stairwell into the corridor outside his chamber, he turned back to his sister. “Bring me blankets, fresh clothes, anything to make her warm.”

Mary nodded, keeping step with him. “Oh, Lachlan, why did she do this? Was she so unhappy here?”

He felt a sharp pang in his chest.
Yes
. But seeing the guilt on his sister’s face, he said, “I don’t know, lass.”

“I thought she liked us.”

“She does.” He glanced down at Flora’s face, cold realization shuddering through him. “It has nothing to do with you or Gilly,” he said firmly. “She left because of me.”

Mary gave him a long, tormented look before hurrying to do his bidding.

It seemed half the castle had followed him up the stairs, including Gilly and Morag. Shifting Flora’s weight to one arm, he opened the door with the other, immediately feeling the welcome blast of heat.

Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how cold he was himself. So attuned was he to Flora’s needs, he hadn’t noticed his own shivering. Dread engulfed him, knowing that he hadn’t been in the frigid water nearly as long as Flora.

He had to move fast.

Forcing himself to relinquish her, if only momentarily, he carefully laid her down on his bed. And for the first time, he examined her in the light.

He felt a stab of fear so acute, it gave him a vicious jolt. If he hadn’t just felt her heart beating against his hand, he would have thought she no longer lived. Not a touch of color warmed her pale skin. Her long, thick lashes lay in tiny icy spikes against her pallid cheeks, her normally red lips were a deathly shade of blue, and her golden hair seemed frozen, plastered in long sheets to her head.

He gazed at her with his heart in his throat. She looked so small and fragile. And so horribly still. Like a wax doll he’d once seen.

To leave him, she’d risked her life. That she would take such a risk to be rid of him hit like a lead ball in his chest.

He checked her still, damp cheek with his hand. God, she was cold. If he didn’t do something drastic, she was going to die.

After unfastening the wool cloak from around her neck, he quickly started working the ties and hooks of her gown.

Hearing a noise behind him, he turned to see Morag adding another block of peat to the fire. But a roaring fire wouldn’t be enough. He needed a way to bring her body temperature up fast. Very fast.

Lachlan exchanged a meaningful look with his old nursemaid. Morag moved to help him, but he shook her off. They both knew what had to be done, but he would do it himself.

“Is there anything I can do?” Gilly asked.

His gaze flicked to his sister standing hesitantly in the doorway, a few of his men—including Alasdair and Allan—behind her.

He shook his head, forcing himself to stay calm, though panic welled in his chest. “Not right now, lass.”

Mary bustled in, setting down the extra plaids and clothing at the foot of the bed. Seeing what he was about to do, she blushed with understanding.

“Come,” Morag said to Gilly and Mary, “there is nothing we can do for her now. The laird will do what needs to be done.”

“But what—” Gilly broke off as Morag shuffled her out of the room, her question and Morag’s response lost behind the firmly shut door. Though bold and adventuresome, in many ways his youngest sister was still an utter innocent.

Cursing his large, cumbersome fingers and the intricacy of even a simple gown, he started tearing off her clothes, doing his best to preserve her modesty. Though he knew there was no other choice, he also realized she would be embarrassed at best and furious at worst. Perhaps he should have let Morag help, but he couldn’t stand aside. She was his.

He paused, catching sight of the amulet hidden under the layers of clothing. Though part of him wished it had fallen to the bottom of the sea—taking the curse with it—the other part of him was happy for Flora because he knew how much she treasured it. He removed it from her neck, attributing the tingling in his fingers to the cold. He made quick work of the rest of her wet garments, removing them piece by piece until she wore only her shift. And then he took that off, too.