My Highland Love: Highland Lords Series (42 page)

Her eyes widened and he consigned his lust
to hell when she jerked her head aside. This woman was no serving
wench to be bedded without preamble. Still…he released the breacan
and, with a finger to her chin, brought her to face him again. Her
gaze dropped to the leather wristband as he slid fingers around the
nape of her neck and into soft tresses. No doubt a mistake to kiss
her again so soon, but the quiver hovering on the edge of her lips
was more than he could resist. He lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips remained closed, but the promise of
a soft response was evident in the tremor he sensed. Iain released
her. She righted herself and threw her head against his chest in an
obvious attempt to discomfort him. He answered with a low growl and
hugged her closer.

An hour later, Iain commanded a halt. He
dismounted and reached for his captive. She shoved his hands
away.

Iain gave a weary sigh. “Come, sweet. I am
too tired to do battle tonight.”

He pulled her from the saddle. She threw her
arms around his neck, hugging herself to him. His loins sprang to
life. Blood roared through his ears and a mental picture leapt up
of her beneath him as he pounded into her gloved warmth. The haze
of desire evaporated with her cry of pain. Murky clouds hovering
over ash and pine trees snapped into focus and understanding
hit.

“
Christ
,” he muttered. He hadn’t
considered the possibility she wouldn’t be accustomed to so many
hours in the saddle. He reached around and rubbed the knotted
muscles in her back. “The pain will pass in a moment.”

Her hands slid down his chest. Iain stifled
a groan at the thought of those fingers continuing downward. She
batted at him and he released her.

“There is a stream within the trees,” he
said. Suspicion formed in her eyes.

“You need not worry, lass. No one will
bother you.”

Her gaze shifted to the sword strapped to
his horse. “Mayhap I should be allowed protection?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d
give her use of his
sword
from now until eternity, but he
squashed the impulse. “I give my word that no one, least of all me,
will venture near you until you ask.”

She hesitated, then turned. He winced when
she reached to massage the small of her back as she limped across
the rocky ground toward the trees. Tomorrow, he would be sure to
halt throughout the day so she could rest from the saddle. If she—a
thought struck.

“Lass,” he called.

She halted, her back to him. “What is your
name?”

An instant of silence passed, then she
turned. “You should have asked Father Brennan before you stole me.”
She whirled and disappeared into the trees.

Iain stared, openmouthed. Was the wench
refusing to tell her name? He swung his gaze to where his comrades
sat, only to discover they looked just as dumbfounded as he. Iain
took a step after her, then broke into a broad grin. So, the doe
would revenge herself on the hunter.

* * *

Victoria burrowed within the surrounding
warmth. Vague recollections seeped past the unfamiliar smell of
damp wool and fresh pine. She stretched her arms in a slow, lazy
action, bringing a rush of cool air down along her limbs. She
lowered her arms to her sides and her left elbow hit something
hard. In a flutter, the night sky met her startled eyes and she
froze. The warmth she nestled against was her captor.

Her body shook and Victoria concentrated on
the night sky, forcing her eyes to locate the Summer Triangle. In
the westernmost point lay the blue-white star of Vega, the main
star of the constellation, and Lyra, the brightest of all the stars
in the triad. Lyra, the lyre. She fought the tears that stung her
eyes and followed Vega to the east to Deneb, the dimmest of the
stars. To the south was Altair.

Might these old friends yet guide her home?
Loneliness assailed her at memory of home, the home she had known
before Montrose Abbey and long before Richard. Victoria forced back
tears and traced a mental line from the familiar Lyra to Cygnus the
Swan to Aquila, then the Eagle, and still farther west to Hercules.
She located the Dog Star, Sirius. Judging by the constellation high
in the sky, a hard ride would bring her to the abbey before her
jailer woke.

Victoria looked at the guard. He leaned
against a tree at the edge of the clearing, wrapped in the blue and
red plaide of his clan, head slumped against his chest. With a
final glance at the MacPherson lord, she wriggled down the length
of the pallet onto the wet grass. Dew penetrated her dress and
chilled her knees. She paused, but aside from soft snoring, all
remained quiet. With shaky hands, she pulled her skirt to her
thighs, and slithered away.

Victoria crawled until she reached the
tethered horses, then rose and approached the gelding that served
as the packhorse. She eased nearer until he permitted a hand on his
back. The moon ducked behind a cloud, and the animal allowed her to
lead him into the forest.

Inside the murky depths, she spied a large
rock and edged across the rough ground until her fingers met cold
stone. Gooseflesh raced down her arms.

Reward for her freedom was sure to be a case
of pneumonia. She scrambled atop the boulder, then steadied the
gelding.

“It will be a shame to see those tender
hands bound.”

Victoria froze, leg mid-air. She detected no
movement in the darkness, but her heart leapt.
He is
near.
She swung her leg across the horse, but before she
could spur him into action strong fingers gripped her arm and
yanked her into Iain MacPherson’s arms.

A chuckle, deep and warm, sounded near her
ear. “We are alone, sweet, if you wish to beg my forgiveness…”

She shoved at his chest, surprised when he
released her.

Silence stood between them for a moment
before he spoke again, this time his tone dry. “You prefer the
punishment then?”

Victoria backed away. Her heel butted up
against a large branch, and she fell back with a cry. She braced
for the weight of his body on top of hers.

* * *

When they stopped the next afternoon, Iain
retrieved the dirk in his boot and cut the ropes that bound the
lass’ wrists. She snatched her hands back and massaged the
rope-chaffed skin as she backed away from him.

Iain stretched out against a tree and
watched her through half closed lids. She paused in her inspection
of the thinly wooded surroundings to examine a dog rose bush, then
brushed her fingers across the dark pink flower. As if aware of his
scrutiny, she looked his way, but when he didn't move she seemed
satisfied he was dozing.

At the order to mount, he hoisted her onto
his horse and stepped into the saddle. Arm wrapped around her, he
trailed one of the dog roses he had picked from the tree along her
cheek. She stiffened.

Iain leaned close and whispered in a thick
Scottish brogue, “
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightsome lily of every pleasure, richest in bounty and in
beauty clear, and in every virtue that is held maist dear, except
only that ye are merciless
.”

He placed the rose on her lap.

His captive fought drowsiness, but at last
melted into his arms two hours before Iain stopped for the night.
He lowered her to one of his men, then dismounted. Iain took her
and caught sight of something fluttering to the ground in the
bright moonlight. He squinted and his chest tightened upon
recognizing the dog rose he had given her that afternoon.

The flower had been purposely crushed. He
shifted his gaze to her face cradled against his chest, the words
of the poem echoing in his mind, ‘
except
only that ye are
merciless.
’ Aye, only a woman as lovely and delicate as a rose
could cut the most hardened warrior in two and never lift a weapon.
Her eyes fluttered open. Tenderness gave way to desire, then
amusement with her indignant intake of breath.

“Put me down.”

The effect of her haughty tone was undone by
the breathless rise and fall of her breasts. She struggled and Iain
lowered her to the ground. This time he ignored the rose, crushed
beneath her feet.

She gave no outward show of noticing when,
once again, a pallet was laid out for her between him and Eric.
Iain envisioned her snuggling close to him in the night, her round
buttocks pressed against him as it had been last night. He hardened
with the picture of her lifting her skirts and nestling close—the
erotic picture vanished with the appearance of the guard assigned
to patrol the forest surrounding the meadow where they camped.

Their eyes met, and Iain read the message
that intruders had been spotted. His men surrounded Victoria with
him in the forefront. Twigs rustled beneath horses’ hooves a moment
before four men emerged from the dark cover of trees.

Iain recognized the Fraser plaide and would
have relaxed but for every man’s attention moving past him to his
captive. “It is me you need attend to, not the lass,” he said,
bringing all but one man’s eyes to him. “Is your companion
stupid?”

The warrior at the head of the band twisted
to look back at the offender. “Idair,” he snapped.

Idair’s gaze lingered an instant longer
before shifting to Iain.

Iain focused on the leader. “What is your
business on my land?”

“We are passing through on the way to
Easedale.”

“How is your laird, Liam?” Iain asked. The
peace Iain had negotiated with the Frasers came after a thirty-year
feud waged by Iain’s father on Liam Fraser for running off with
Iain’s mother before they were wed. The treaty was still too new
for Iain to be certain Liam had forgotten—or forgiven—the fact that
Iain’s father had forced Lily to marry him despite the fact she
loved Liam.

“He is well.” The man’s voice broke through
the memory. “Have you any food to spare?”

“Bread and cheese. You are welcome to it. If
you choose, you may stay the night.”

The man nodded his thanks. “Aye, we will.”
He motioned to his companions and they dismounted.

Iain faced the lass, breaking the formation
of his men around her. He tucked her beneath his arm and started
toward their pallet. Her wary gaze tracked the Frasers as they led
their horses to the MacPherson tether line.

“Who are they?” she asked. “Frasers.”

“They are friends?” She looked up at
him.

“We made a recent treaty with them.” He
halted in front of the tartan. “No shenanigans tonight, love.
Resist, and they would assume no one had claimed you.”

She blew out a short breath. “Claiming does
not denote ownership, Iain McPherson.”

He gave her a gentle nudge. “Aye, love, here
it does.”

“Father Brennan said I have the right to
choose.” “Not all men honor such edicts.”

She sloughed off his hand and lowered
herself onto the pallet. Iain lay down beside her, slid an arm
around her waist, and curved her body into his. She tried to scoot
away, but he held firm.

“Make the most of this while you can,” she
said. “There will be no other such opportunities.”

“Never fear, sweet,” he whispered against
her ear. “I will not need them.”

* * *

Startled, Victoria’s sleep-clouded mind
slipped into consciousness when her arm bumped something hard. She
reached out in drowsy curiosity, her hand closing over the defined
muscles of a man’s chest. Her eyes shot open and she startled at
the sight of Iain MacPherson, propped up on an elbow beside her. He
rolled onto her and his dark hair fell forward on either side of
her face.

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he
whispered.

She stared. “You are mad.”

“Do as I say.” Iain threw a leg over her
thighs and tugged the tartan over their heads.

Victoria stiffened. “What in Hades are you
doing?”

He began nuzzling her neck. “Pretending to
make love to you.”

Victoria jammed her hands between them and
shoved.

“Lay still,” he said in a strangled voice.
“I only want our guests to think it. I am not actually doing
it.”

“But you are,” she bit back.

Iain chuckled. “Nay, love. But never fear,
we shall remedy that.”

Victoria shoved harder. He groaned and she
opened her mouth to scream.

He clamped a hand over her mouth. “I did not
mean now. Christ.”

She pushed against his shoulders and his leg
clamped even tighter around her.

“Enough,” he said. “Two of them have been
watching you all night.”

“Watching—” Victoria froze at the feel of
his hard length pressing against her abdomen. She turned her head
aside.

Warm breath fanned her cheek as he pressed
his mouth to her face and whispered, “Do not fuss. Go to
sleep.”

When he planted a soft kiss on her ear, the
smile she felt against her cheek turned to a stifled oath at the
hard pinch she gave his stomach.

* * *

Victoria glanced heavenward. Hanging low in
the afternoon sky, the Highland clouds dropped a light mist. The
best part of the day had been waking to find the strangers absent.
Their presence had been unnerving, and the safety of the two men
she had slept between held more comfort than she liked to admit.
Victoria hazarded a glance at Iain MacPherson, who rode a few feet
ahead. How safe was she? A shiver ran down her spine. Dangerous.
Too much like another man she’d once known.

Iain looked over his shoulder at her, and
Victoria dropped her gaze. She pulled the tartan tighter around her
shoulders. The MacPherson lord couldn’t have read in her eyes what
even her husband Richard hadn’t guessed. There had been another
man. Had Richard discovered the truth, the fact that the man was
his brother wouldn’t have stopped him from running a sword through
Edwin’s belly. Though Edwin would have been the victor—as he would
have been in her life, had she not stopped him. Richard’s
possessions weren’t all Edwin had expected to inherit when Richard
died. She doubted Edwin had recovered from finding the one
possession he hadn’t yet fully claimed gone. She wondered which
would be worse: staying locked in a Scottish castle the rest of her
days, or the prison her brother-in-law would erect around her.