Samantha James (6 page)

The top of her head brushed his chin as she raised her head.

“Oh,” she said weakly.

Still she did not move. A dark brow climbed high. He cleared his throat, shifting her against his chest.

Only then did her perch in his embrace seem to penetrate her consciousness. Her daze left her in a flash. With a gasp she pushed herself away. Horror flitted across her face. As he lowered her to the ground, he couldn’t help but be mildly offended.

She withdrew the instant she was free. He watched as she picked her way unsteadily toward the shelter of a stand of venerable oak trees, then sat beneath the outstretched branches. Cameron suspected the spot was not of any particular significance, but that her legs simply refused to carry her farther.

He was but a step behind her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you cannot swim?”

She said nothing.

“Answer me, lass.” His tone brooked no argument.

She turned her head aside. “You already think me weak.” Her voice was scarcely audible. “If I had told you, you would but think me weaker still.”

Cameron considered this. So. It was pride that dictated the absence of confession. Pride he could un
derstand. Blind foolishness he could not.

The shadow of evening had begun to wash across the land, and with it a faint breeze.

Cameron did not miss the way she shivered. They were both drenched to the skin; her hair was a sodden waterfall down her back and her gown was plastered to her skin. Such discomfort did not bother Cameron, for he’d often slept in the cold, wet rain. For a moment he weighed a silent battle back and forth in his mind, sorely tempted to strip her dripping clothes from her back—it would be warmer that way. But she was already convinced he was the blackest soul on this earth, and were he to do so, no doubt he would surely plummet ever deeper into the depths to which she’d already consigned him.

Quickly he saw to building a fire. His stomach growled noisily as he dropped another branch on the leaping flames, reminding him that they had yet to partake of any food.

“We must eat,” he said curtly. “If I leave, will you promise me you will not flee?”

Again no answer. She stared at him in that way he was beginning to dislike most heartily.

Cameron’s mouth tightened. Her rebellion rankled—would that the river had drowned it!

“To return to Connyridge you would have to cross the river,” he reminded her.

A shudder shook her slender form. “I will stay,” she said at last.

Cameron smiled thinly. His statement was perhaps a peculiar means of ensuring her compliance, but ’twould seem a convincing one—and, he hoped, effective.

The possibility of her disappearance high in his mind, he did not tarry. Berries and wild turnips would have to do for this night.

At first he didn’t see her. With a curse he quickened his pace.

It died unuttered in his throat. She had simply moved toward the warmth of the fire. Stretched out beside it, she was fast asleep, one arm extended toward the fire.

He was at her side in an instant, tucking her arm back toward her belly, lest she inadvertently thrust it in the flames.

Completely relaxed in slumber, she didn’t even stir.

She was exhausted, he thought with a faint smile. Of course, he was aware she’d probably worked many a long hour at the nunnery; still, no doubt the hours traveled—the miles she’d walked—had surely been taxing. Then there was her ordeal at the river…

He was scarcely aware of moving. Putting out a hand, he started to brush away the damp strands of hair that streamed across her cheek. An odd emotion surged in him…tenderness? What was this? he wondered, amazed and aghast and annoyed all at once.

He snatched his hand away with a scowl. Why this sudden softness toward her, this strange protectiveness that surged in him? Was it protectiveness? He scoffed. Nay, not that…never that, for she was a Munro. It was only because she was a woman, and just as she’d said…weaker than he.

She moved then, easing to her back, her face upturned to the moonlight…to him.

A dark, avid gaze roamed her features—long silky lashes that shuttered eyes as pure as a bonny blue sky, the milky white curve of her cheek, the sensuous fullness of her lower lip. It struck him then, like a clenched fist low to the belly—a blatant desire that was stark and vivid and wholly undeniable. He remembered far too well the pouting press of breasts
against his chest, the way his hand had fit the nip of her waist just so.

His staff stirred to almost painful life. Exhaling slowly, he pushed his thoughts away from the potent swelling between his thighs. A voice within reminded him of the chain in his pouch. He stared hard at the frailty of the wrist that even now lay between the tempting valley of her breasts. Yet in the end he discarded the need to see her fettered. She was already asleep, and there was no need to wake her.

His expression taut, he stretched out, near her but not touching her.

She rolled, burrowing into his side. Cameron went rigid, as if he’d been paralyzed. His lungs seemed to shut down. His body turned to stone, his insides to porridge. The entire length of her lay pliantly yielding against him. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder. He could feel the moist wisp of her breath trickling over the skin of his collarbone.

A shiver shook her anew.

His mood suddenly dark as the night, he lurched to a sitting position. In one swift move he’d dragged his plaid from his shoulders and dropped it over her form.

His mouth curled in scathing self-derision. Fiercely he berated himself, scorning both himself and this innocent temptress. Desire. Tenderness. What foolishness had seized hold of him?

This time, when he lay back down, he doubled the distance between them.

Sleep did not come easily for Cameron MacKay that night.

Meredith awoke with his plaid draped about her body.

Directly above, the sky was a perfect, brilliant blue.
Birds trilled a melodious tune, flitting through the treetops and rustling the branches. Yet the beauty of the day was lost upon her. One thought burned through her mind, as if it had been branded there.

He’d covered her with his plaid.

She lay very quiet, her fingers curling into the soft, warm wool. The scent of him still clung to the fabric—not unpleasant, just woodsy and musky and undeniably male.

Why? she wondered wildly. She didn’t understand his concern—nor had she expected it. His face had been so hard as he’d examined her feet last eve. Why, the very sight of him reaching for her had made her recoil and long to make the sign of the cross. Yet the touch of his hands had been a direct contrast. Why did he even care? He was right. She could not blame him. She’d brought such injury upon herself solely because of her own obstinacy.

And he could have let her drown. Merciful heaven, he could have let her
die
!

Yet he had not.
He had not
.

She owed him her thanks…she owed him her very life.

What was it she’d said to him?
You are a wretch. The slimiest vermin of the earth
. In her heart Meredith was appalled at her behavior. Such slander against another was hardly benevolent! Of a certainty it was not behavior indicative of a servant of the Lord! She cringed inside. To think that she had dared to speak such things to another! Oh, but she was sinful and wicked and she must seek forgiveness here and now.

Clasping her hands together, she ducked her head to pray.

Her prayers never made it to fruition…oh, yet another sin! She stared at her hands. It dawned on her
slowly…she was unfettered. There was no chain that bound them together. “She was stunned that he trusted her not to attempt escape, particularly after the way he’d queried her last evening; but then she recalled his warning and a sizzle of resentment went through her. More likely he simply believed she would not do it. Mayhap because he was convinced she was too much a coward!

She moved her head ever so slightly. He lay on his back, one lean hand resting in the middle of his chest. Swallowing, she allowed her gaze to slide upward.

Her stomach clenched oddly. He was older than she, but still young…and aye, there was no help for it, quite handsome despite the fact that he was a thieving MacKay. His face and neck were dark with several days’ growth of beard, but there was a slight cleft in his chin she’d not noticed before. Had he been clean-shaven, it might have lent him a boyish air…Faith, but there was nothing boyish about this man! Nay, he was all brazen masculinity, all steely hardness sheathed in muscle.

Oh, yes, his might was formidable, his control over her unquestionable. But now he was asleep.

And Fortune was near, just beyond the next tree.

Deceit was not in her nature, nor was it her desire, yet she prayed it would come easily. Nay, cunning was the way of men…
his
way. She told herself it was not so much deceit as desperation.

Excitement clamored within her breast. She must flee while she had the chance, for she might never have another. She must put her fear of the water aside, and simply find a different place to cross the river and return to Connyridge, one that was safe and shallow. She could do it—she could!

But she had vowed she would have her crucifix
back…and by the Rood, so she would. It was her dearest treasure—indeed, her
only
treasure—and she would not leave it in another’s possession, most particularly Cameron MacKay’s!

Nervously she wet her lips. He’d tucked the necklace inside his tunic—there must be a pocket hidden within.

They did not touch, but she lay very close to him. Pushing aside his plaid, she eased to her side, taking care not to make any noise. Her hand stole out. As stealthily as she could, she slipped her fingers within the vee of his tunic.

He was so warm! She very nearly snatched her hand back. It was only the strictest effort of will that kept her steady on her course. Her fingers crept down, skimming across the taut plane of his belly. The prickly-rough sensation of hair brushing her palm made her mouth go dry. Were all men as hairy as this one?

He moved not a muscle. His breathing continued deep and even. Had she not been afraid to make a sound, she’d have released a long-pent-up sigh of relief.

Alas, she counted her blessings too soon, for the seconds marched slowly by. She damped down a feeling of panic. Where was her crucifix? There was no sign of it. Hurry! she commanded herself. If he should wake and discover her…why, his ire would surely know no bounds.

The thought had barely caught hold than she chanced to glance back at his face, A strangled cry caught in her throat, for her worst fear was upon her.

He was awake…and it appeared she’d managed to attain his undivided regard.

Icy shock tore through her. She nearly cried out. What had she done, that her prayers remained unanswered?

“I presume ’tis not a maidenly curiosity that bids you trespass upon my person with such intimacy.”

His tone yielded a lazy indulgence. Meredith was furious that he would mock her so. Why, the arrogant lout!

Her fingertips tingled with the urge to slap the smirk from his face. Indeed, she flexed them, sorely longing to do precisely that.

But the search for her crucifix had yielded a prize she’d not anticipated.

Her fingertips rested upon smooth metal—the handle of his dagger. Freedom. The readiest way to achieve it was within her power—indeed, within her very grasp. The awareness came dimly…action did not. Her fingers skimmed the handle. With a lightning reflex she snatched it from its berth in his belt and held it poised at the center of his chest.

In her heart she was aghast at the extent of her audacity; but for once the advantage belonged to her and she would be a fool not to use it.

“Do not move, else—else I will give you a wound
to match the other!” She was all at once reminded of the puckered scar on his back.

He bestowed on her a smile like no other.

“You would turn my own weapon against me?”

“Aye!” she declared recklessly.

“You have not the courage.”

“You are wrong!” she told him stoutly.

“What, then? Will you slit my throat? I warn you, lass, ’tis rather messy. You must move quickly, lest your hands and gown be sprayed with blood.”

Meredith blanched.

“Of course, such things do not bother some, though blood can be a wet, sticky mess. Yet at least the end comes quick, or so ’tis said—”

He was doing this to try to rile her. She struggled to keep hold of her resolve. A blight on his soul! she thought furiously. This was the only way, she told herself. Somehow she had to convince him that he had to free her.

His calm was infuriating. “Be silent!” she told him.

He paid no heed. “Of course, there is always the heart. Your aim must be straight and true, though, for if you miss, there is the chance I will live. And of course you must then have a care, lest the blade encounter a bone. Aye, your grip must be firm and tight. If, however, you wish to cause me a slow and prolonged death, then mayhap you should try for a belly wound. Aye, that’s the most painful of all. And if you turn the dagger just so—but quickly, mind you—you will feel the tearing of the flesh…”

His grisly details turned her stomach. All at once she was shaking. Could she do this? she wondered frantically. Rob a man of his life? But a turn of the wrist, a downward slice, and his life would be forfeit.

She could see the pulse throbbing strongly in his throat, the beat of his lifeblood…Could she watch as it ebbed to its last?

The prospect left her sickened. She could not. She despised herself for even thinking she could. Guilt such as she had never known forged a searing hole inside her.

She made as if to rise—the next moment, the dagger was struck from her hand and she was sprawled on her back. For one paralyzing instant, she couldn’t move—could not even breathe, for the air had been driven from her lungs by the weight of the man atop her. Her panic was renewed. She sought in vain to free herself, but alas! he had only to wrap steely-hard arms about her own and trap her legs within the iron-taut vise of his.

At last she was still, exhausted by her efforts. Her breath coming in ragged spurts, she slowly raised her head.

It spun through her mind that she’d been right. She’d ignited a blaze and she was now caught fast in its fiery midst. His fury was unconcealed. It vibrated through him, so intense she could feel it in the tautness of every muscle as he lay atop her body.

“By God, I should kill you now!” His tone was scalding. He loomed above her, as hard and unyielding as the mountains.

A cry of bitter frustration broke from her lips. Blindly she confronted him. “Then do it,” she cried. “Do it and have done with it, else
you
be the coward!”

Too late she realized the brash challenge issued forth. Scorching fire leaped in his eyes. Something splintered across his features, and for one awful moment, the taste of fear was like dust in her mouth. She
was convinced he would indeed head her cry.

“Lass,” he said from between his teeth, “I marvel that I have not, so do not tempt me further! For rest assured, were I not such a benevolent soul, we would see who is the coward.”

Something inside her twisted. Her daring was but a fool’s defiance; it was just as he’d said.

She was a coward.

His expression dark as the evening shadows, he released her. “You leave me no choice. I will not soon forget how you repaid my trust. Were I you, I would bear that in mind.”

Tears scalded the back of her throat, but they were tears she vowed she would never surrender in his presence. She had thrown down the gauntlet…and lost.

Now she must pay the price.

He whistled for Fortune, who obediently trotted forward. Meredith did not move as he made quick work of saddling the stallion. When he was done, he beckoned her forward with a nod of his head.

Meredith moved forward, stopping before him. Mutely she held out her hands.

Several seconds passed before Cameron understood…She expected him to bind her wrists! He did not—ah, though he’d have liked to!—but no doubt she would brand him a coward anew! Nay, he’d not give her cause to taunt him yet again that his manhood was not sufficient to keep her in check.

He scowled. Settling his hands on the narrowness of her waist, he lifted her to Fortune’s back, then followed her upward.

He felt the way her spine went rigid, the way she strained to avoid his touch. His mouth tightened. His
arms came hard about her body; deliberately he pulled her back against him.

Even as she tried his patience and his temper as no other, he couldn’t quite banish a twinge of reluctant admiration.

Thrice now she had invited him to kill her. The night of her abduction, she had neither cried nor screamed nor wept. Nor had she begged for mercy. Instead she’d stepped forward, and silently awaited what she had believed might be her own demise.

She did not shrink from him, as she could have…as she should have! Instead, her bravery rivaled that of any man—and exceeded that of many.

What was it she’d said?
Do not move, else I will give you a wound to match the other
. Why, if the idea were not so preposterous, he’d have laughed! Had the wench only realized she’d held his dagger as long as she had because he allowed it! Only now did he find her heartfelt declaration so amusing. At the time, the bend of his mood had not been so inclined.

The hours passed. It was well into the afternoon when her spine finally slackened. Cameron knew she was unused to the hours in the saddle; he suspected she ached to the very bone. He was given to wonder: Would he have stopped if she had asked? Cameron didn’t know. He knew only that she did not ask, and after her trick of this morning, he was not disposed to offer.

The day was gloriously warm and sunny. It was then he spied a crofter and several young lads in the distance gathering stones from a field, a stocky cottage in the distance. As they neared, Cameron looked on with a faint smile as the pile at the edge of the field grew. From there the crofter and the lads carried them over to join another stone fence that climbed
high into the hills. The sight hurtled him back many a year to his boyhood, for his father had often sent him and his brothers to complete just such a task.

They continued on, but a nagging restlessness brewed within him. He was anxious to be home, and yet the thought tore at his very heart. For his father and all his brothers were no more…

And the responsibility for the safety and well-being of his clansmen now resided with him.

It was a sobering thought.

A wave of greeting roused him from his reverie. It was the crofter.

Cameron raised a hand and gave a shout in return. Meredith’s gaze had strayed as well—he felt the way her lungs filled with air, her flare of sudden awareness.

His smile withered. Briefly he entertained the thought of clamping her breast with the palm of his hand. Ah, now that would surely divert any intent she might have.

He leaned forward. His breath stirred the fine reddish blond hairs at her temple; his lips brushed skin that was incredibly soft. Even as the awareness rushed through his mind, he was furious that he should even notice.

“Do not,” was all he growled.

Her lips compressed. Again her posture grew rigidly erect. The silence that had reigned supreme throughout the day continued.

Above the deep green of the treetops, sunset flamed across the horizon, lighting the twilit sky a misty pink and gold. Ever atuned to his prisoner, he felt her body relax. Was she asleep? Even as it crossed his mind, her body began to droop, only to jerk upright.

Cameron took pity on her. When they came to the
cool rushing waters of a stream and long, fragrant grass where Fortune could graze, he called a halt.

“We will stay here for the night.”

He dismounted, then turned to offer her a hand. She had already slipped to the ground. His expression turned grim as she winced, but he said nothing. His gaze ever vigilant, he watched as she hobbled toward the shade beneath a tree. But she did not rest, as he thought she would.

She dropped to her knees on the mossy ground, clasped her hands, and bowed her head deeply.

A sigh erupted from him, of exasperation or temper, he knew not. Out of deference for a power mightier than he, Cameron forced himself to ignore her.

A quarter hour later, she had yet to rise, but her lips were still moving.

Something snapped inside him. For the second time on this journey, he pulled her roughly to her feet.

“For what do you pray so ardently?”

She focused on a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. “You are not my confessor,” she said quietly. “I cannot tell you.”

“Captor, confessor, to you they are one and the same.”

Still she would not look at him. Cameron lost patience. “Tell me! For what do you pray? Nay, let me guess,” he mocked. “You pray for my demise.”

To his shock she ducked her head. “I do not pray for your demise.”

Her denial came in a low, choked tone. He was puzzled now—but even more determined.

“For what, then?”

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “You would not understand.”

“Then tell me.”

Lean fingers beneath her chin demanded she look at him. Cameron expected the now-familiar rebellion. He expected a look that consigned him to the devil. What he encountered was something else entirely.

Never in his life had he seen such guilt—a soul in such torment. Her eyes were dark with pain, ringed with shadows.

The sight gave him a fleeting pause.

“Tell me,” he said again. This time the gritty edge had left his manner.

“I held a knife to your breast,” she confided, her voice scarcely audible. “I had within my hands the means to take your life…” She swallowed, as if unable to go on.

“And the thought was there,” he finished quietly.

Her mouth trembled. “I could never have killed you,” she whispered, and then it was a cry: “I could never have killed you, but aye, for an instant, the thought was there!”

Oddly, Cameron understood. He’d felt the same way the first time he’d killed a man. It was not he who had made the first move, but he had made the last. If he had not, he would not be alive on this day, and that was something he could never regret. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that if he were being held by another and a dagger was placed in his grasp, he’d have felt the same. Indeed, he’d have done the deed!

“You cannot know the shame I feel.” Her voice caught painfully. “I do not know that I can ever forgive myself!”

Cameron had no answer. He believed in God. He went to Mass from time to time. On occasion he had prayed…not with her devoutness, but still, he had asked for the Lord’s blessing and guidance. In truth,
he could not fully comprehend her dilemma. Mayhap ’twas because she was a woman—mayhap because she had been a novice—and he was a man. For in his mind, there was God’s law…and the law of the land.

There were times, he reflected, that instinct compelled the need to kill, the need to defend oneself and those one loved. There was killing…and then there was murder.

A bitter darkness seeped through him. Cameron could no more withhold the thought than he could stop the rising of the sun. He was reminded of his family. Of his father and his brothers, who had done naught to precipitate murder. Of young Thomas, who had raised neither sword nor hand toward the Clan Munro.

Her hands came together in the folds of her gown. “Please,” she murmured. “Do you think I might have a moment to myself?”

His jaw tensed as he stared at her. “For what purpose?”

Her face had turned the color of the sunset. “You know for what purpose.”

He did, but he was not compelled to be lenient just now. “Nay,” he said harshly. “You go nowhere without me.”

Her eyes caught his, then slid away. She plucked at her gown. “Please,” she said again. “I realize that you are wary, but I vow I will cause you no further trouble.”

Another refusal was but a heartbeat away. Yet in the instant before she glanced away, Cameron glimpsed a naked dismay. Damn, he thought viciously, feeling himself weaken. Damn her for swaying him!

“I will turn my back, but go no farther than there.” He pointed at a tall hedgerow across the clearing.

She did not argue, but fled wordlessly.

Cameron busied himself lighting a fire. Sitting back on his haunches, he waited…and waited.

With a curse, he leaped to his feet. Ah, but it was just as he’d always thought. She was no angel, she was a treacherous witch!
I vow I will cause you no further trouble
. It had been but a ploy to escape—her appearance of guilt had been but trickery! Twice now he’d been taken in by the sweetness of her soft, feminine form, her facade of innocence. He cursed both her and himself—ah, more fool was he to have trusted her! Well, he’d not be deceived so again, and she would know it. He whirled, only to be brought up short.