My Highland Love: Highland Lords Series (43 page)

“Halt,” Iain command.

Victoria jerked from her thoughts. He
dismounted and strode toward her. She didn’t resist when he lifted
her from the saddle. She scanned the tiny clearing for the rushing
water that echoed in faint murmurs.

“I hear water.”

He motioned westward. “Inlets from Loch
Ericht run throughout the land.”

“I need to bathe.”

“As you wish,” he said. “But do not dally.
It will be dark soon.”

Victoria turned. Another night and day
farther from Montrose Abbey.

Chapter Three

Victoria slipped out of her shoes, then
tugged off her dress and laid it out a few feet from the wide
stream. Moist air prickled in cool waves along her exposed arms and
legs, penetrating the thin fabric of her chemise. The water would
be even colder, but two days on a horse had left a thin layer of
dust and grime that she could smell.

She picked her way across the rocky ground
to the water’s edge and paused. The piercing cry of a Red Kite
overhead broke into the quiet of the waning day. The bird
disappeared around a bend and Victoria slid her gaze upward to the
stars emerging through the sun’s final rays. By the map forming in
the sky, Montrose Abbey was two days journey southwest. Walking
back should be as simple as the bird’s escape had been. But Iain
MacPherson was no fool. The unassuming slope of forest surrounding
the stream’s shore led straight up the foothills of the Grampians.
The only way out of the meadow was the way they had entered. A neat
trap, indeed.

With a disgusted shake of her head, she
lifted her chemise above her knees and stepped into the water. A
shock of cold dug deep into her bones even as smooth pebbles
soothed beneath her feet. An arm suddenly snaked around her waist.
She gasped. A large hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her
against a heavy body. Iain MacPherson?

Nay.

Victoria screamed through the calloused hand
covering her mouth and clawed at the fingers. He yanked her off the
ground. She thrashed. The slosh of footsteps through the quiet of
the shallow water jerked her attention to the right. A stranger
stepped into view. Canny brown eyes met her gaze, then dropped to
the low, stitched bodice of her chemise. His expression darkened
with lewd, male appreciation. He reached toward her and Victoria
knocked his hand aside. He growled and backhanded her. Stinging
pain lanced out in tiny tendrils through her cheek, and she slammed
harder into the man holding her.

He thrust his arousal against her. Her
stomach churned. She twisted, but he shoved her to the ground. A
rock jammed into the vertebrae between her shoulder blades. She
wheezed. Her attacker fell on her. She shoved at him, still gasping
for air.

He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Do not be
afraid. ’Tis just a bit of sport we want.”

His mouth came down on the sensitive flesh
of her neck. The feel of coarse hair against her cheek startled
her, but his hot breath, so intimately brushing her skin as he
continued downward, triggered something primal. Victoria bit down
on his hand with such force it took him two hard yanks to free
himself.

“
Bitch
.” He sucked on the spot where
she had drawn blood.

Victoria drew breath for a bloodcurdling
scream, but the second man dropped to his knees and stuffed a cloth
into her mouth, cutting off the sound. She sputtered at the foul
taste as she was yanked to her feet. He bound the gag with a long
strip of cloth. She slashed at his face with her nails. He jerked
back. The man behind her pinned her arms beneath the steel of his
arm.

“She is a bloody wild cat,” the one in front
muttered.

“Aye.” Her captor smiled against her hair.
“I saw it in her eyes yesterday.”

Comprehension dulled as the warrior before
her reached out. Her stomach lurched and the darkening sky spun. He
massaged her breast, and his focus sharpened in unison with a
malicious smile. A low, guttural sound emanated from the man
holding her. The man kneading the tender flesh of her breast ceased
and jerked his head toward the forest.

They started forward and Victoria stumbled,
causing the arm around her to tighten painfully against her ribs.
She gasped for air, barely aware her feet had left solid ground.
The stream vanished from view as they entered the trees. The men
made surprising progress, and she realized the safety of the camp
would be a distant memory in minutes.

Tears welled in her eyes. She strained in an
effort to wrench a hand free, but the man holding her only
snickered. She kicked and her heel made solid contact with his
knee. Harsh Gaelic words ground out against her ear. The hand
clamping her mouth yanked her head back, twisting it against his
shoulder.

“You will not enjoy the payment due for
that,” he rasped. “Or mayhap you will. If you want it that way,
just keep fighting, and obliging will be a pleasure.”

He released her mouth and slid his hand down
the smooth linen of her chemise until his fingers grasped a nipple.
His pace slowed as he rolled it between his fingers. He pinched the
nipple. Victoria drew back in shock, but this time not in reaction
to his touch. Instead, recollection of another cruel hand rushed
forward. Her mind staggered and her resolve fragmented with the
unexpected memory.

Rationale fought against the ghost, but it
wasn’t a face she saw. Instead, like the man who held her now, it
was the feel of his hot breath in her ear. Her husband’s whispered
words on their wedding night had been as foreign as her captor’s
Gaelic words. The same panic she experienced when Richard
instructed her in his sexual preferences roared to life, and the
inclination to comply as she had then, warred with the primal fight
for survival.

Her attacker’s hand fell from her breast,
breaking the morbid trance. A cool wind whistled through the trees
as if to say all would be well. Yet, as relief filtered through
her, his arm slid around her hips, grinding her against his
erection. His hand dropped lower, and Victoria screamed through the
gag, bucking wildly when he cupped the area between her legs. He
groaned, sending the sound reverberating past her screams and deep
into the part of her that pleaded with him to stop.

She kicked and thrashed, but her struggles
didn’t halt the rise of her chemise as the fingers bunched the
fabric into his fist, inching it ever higher. Tears stung when the
heat of his hand on her thigh slid upward.

Another hard kick hit him below the knee,
but instead of stopping his efforts, it only hastened his hand’s
contact with the curls that hid the most private part of her. A
deep sob escaped her and her strength ebbed. Still, she crossed her
legs and stiffened.

With a low growl, the Fraser warrior came to
a halt. Victoria forced back bile. He had finally chosen a place to
finish the deed. A sword seemed to magically appear before them.
She blinked as another, then another appeared.
MacPhersons
.
Tears filled her eyes.

Her assailant reached across her. She tensed
upon realizing he was drawing his sword. The sight of his weapon
gleaming against remaining shafts of sunlight that pierced the
canopy was followed by the spectacle of his companion flying
through the air in front of them, landing close to where the
MacPherson swords stood in readiness. Her captor whirled.

Strong hands wrenched Victoria free and
pushed her to the ground. Dull pain radiated through her shoulder.
She winced and blinked in the direction of the Fraser clansman as
he lunged recklessly with his claymore, only to have it deflected
with the steel of another, more skilled, sword. The Fraser warrior
stepped back, but Iain MacPheson advanced on him.

“Is that the hand you touched her with?”

The man’s gaze flicked to his free hand.

Fool
. Even past the haze, Victoria
could see the word written on the MacPherson lord’s face. His sword
shot out. The man shouted in pain as blood spurted and his hand
dropped away from his wrist. In a blinding fury, he raised his
weapon, but not quickly enough to avoid the claymore that impaled
him in one swift movement. Her eyes refused to move from where Iain
MacPherson stared at his opponent for a long moment.

“You will never touch another woman.” The
soft words belied the hard twist Iain gave as he wrenched his sword
deeper into the belly of his victim before yanking it from his
body.

The man’s eyes bulged and a loud gurgling
noise filled the silence, but Victoria kept her gaze fixed on him
even after he crumbled to the ground.

Firm, but gentle hands clasped her
shoulders, pulling her into reassuring warmth. The gag was loosened
from her mouth, and she coughed as much out of reflex as the need
to spew the rank memory from existence. She jumped when Iain
shouted something to one of his men. A moment later, a MacPherson
appeared, tartan in hand, and Iain surrounded her with the soft
wool. His attempts to coax her back to where her dress lay were met
with staunch refusal on the part of her legs to move.

“Come, love,” he said, his voice low and
gentle. “You will feel better after you dress.”

The tenderness in his voice sparked
something undefinable and the dam broke, bringing with it
trembling, followed by quiet weeping. Clutching his shirt, Victoria
leaned into him. She shook her head over and over. Iain hugged her
close, making soft, indistinguishable noises until she shifted to
peer through her tears at the body of her attacker. Iain’s fingers
caressed her cheek as he forced her face back to his chest. She
convulsed and again sobbed against him. The cleansing tears finally
slowed and shock gave way to anger.

“This is your fault,” she railed between
hoarse hiccups.

“Aye,” he agreed all too quickly.

Victoria looked up at him. Fear shown on his
face. She pounded a fist against his chest.

“You think your penitence absolves you?” Her
voice rose and cracked. She leaned away from him and pounded him
harder. “
Damn you, you bastard!

Let—me—go.” She repeated the words over and
over, until at last they drifted into nothing more than a whisper.
Her knees gave way and Iain caught her to himself.

Strength surged through her and she pushed
at him. “I would rather you left me than touch me.” But he held her
close until her tears again subsided, though her whispered pleas to
return home did not.

When she finally quieted, he placed shaking
fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face upward. As though
searching for some answer, he held her there for what seemed an
eternity before lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to
where her dress lay. He set her feet on the ground, his arm around
her, and again lifted her tear-stained face up to his.

“Did they hurt you?”

She bowed her head. Iain hesitated as if he
might press her, then picked up her dress. He loosened the tartan
from her fingers. His jaw clenched and he reached in the direction
of her bodice. Victoria flinched.

Iain halted. “What is this?”

Victoria looked down at a dark red mark that
marred the swell of her breast. She yanked the dress from his grasp
and held it to her. “You need ask?” His gaze dropped to where the
garment now covered the bruise, then returned to the unsteady lift
of her chin. His eyes hardened, but he turned away, allowing her to
dress.

Iain escorted her back to the camp and left
her with two of his men, then disappeared into the forest again.
When he returned, she was sitting on a pallet. “You are sure he is
dead?” Victoria cursed the tremble in her voice. “Aye,” Iain
answered.

“What of the other one?” “I tied him to a
tree.”

“What if I steal away and kill him?”

Iain shrugged. “It would be no more than he
deserves.”

“I have the right. Men do not understand
that women also need justice.”

All amusement died from his face. “I do
know, lass, and you shall have it.”

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About the Author

Award-winning, published author Tarah Scott
cut her teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and
Amanda Quick. Her favorite book is A Tale of Two Cities, with Gone
With the Wind as a close second. She writes classical romance,
suspense, horror and mainstream.

Born in New Mexico, Tarah grew up in the
Southwest. Fifteen years ago, she relocated to Westchester County,
New York, where she and her daughter reside in a lakeside
community. Don't be fooled by what sounds like a quiet life. The
city that never sleeps is only an hour away, and this Texas girl
and her New York bred daughter wouldn't have it any other way.

Website:

http://www.tarahscott.com

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/TarahScottsRomanceNovels

Twitter:

@TarahScott

Blog:

http://tarahscott.tarahscott.com/

Email:

[email protected]

Also by Tarah Scott:

Lord Keeper

A Knight of Passion

The Pendulum: Legacy of the Celtic
Brooch

Labyrinth

An Improper Wife

Double Bang!

Born Into Fire

When a Rose Blooms

COMING SOON

My Highland Lord

Highland Lords series

To Tame a Highland Earl

As T.C. Archer

Chain Reaction

Full Throttle

Sasha's Calling

Trouble at the Hotel Baba Ghanoush

For His Eyes Only

Winter in Paradise

Award Winning Titles:

Lord Keeper

Golden Rose Best Historical of 2011

First place in the 2004 RWA CoLoNY Happy
Endings contest

Third place in the Greater Seattle Chapter
RWA's 2003 Emerald City