The Highlander's Bride (2 page)

Her tousled appearance and torn clothing faded for a moment, and he could only see her eyes. They were the color of the North Sea after a storm—a dark blue-gray with flecks of green. They stared at each other for several moments before he regained his wits.

“Who are you?” he demanded without inflection, somehow giving the question even more power.

She was tall for a woman, but held herself regally despite the grip Loman continued to exert. Her dress was torn at the shoulder so part of her sleeve hung down to her elbow. Her eyes sparkled intensely and she protruded her chin confidently. Still she couldn’t hide a faint tremor as Conor moved closer. He doubted most men would have seen or recognized her small shudder for what it was. He was surprised by and wary of the immediate pull he had towards her.

Laurel was desperate. She realized that the advancing man was her captor, but she instinctively knew this huge Scotsman would somehow also be her savior.

She rose her chin even higher. “My name is Laurel. Laurel Rose Cordell.”

Conor nodded at Loman to release the proud mystery. Loman immediately let Laurel go and stepped back. Conor watched her absentmindedly massage the spot where his guardsman had seized her. Dirt and twigs from bushes were ensnarled in the long golden waves of her hair. She had high cheekbones and ideal full lips that were meant for kissing. Suddenly, he realized that he was drawn to her in a very physical way despite her chaotic appearance. It had been a long time since he had a woman. Trying to regain control of his unexpected sexual need, Conor concentrated on her qualities that would calm his desire.

She was English. She was filthy and a complete mess. But somehow, she smelled of flowers, lilacs to be precise. His mother had loved the blossom and kept them throughout the keep when they were in bloom.

He was drowning in her scent and the color of her eyes, which had never budged from his, when he noticed the small pearl-handled dirk in her hand. She didn’t even seem to realize that she was holding it. This was obviously a very confused woman if she thought she could harm any one of them with her toy dagger. He reached out to take it away before she got herself hurt.

Laurel instinctively flinched as he moved forward. She wanted to run but had already experienced the foolishness of that idea. Then the giant leader reached out and with a gentle force took the dirk from her hand.

Laurel had not intended to recoil in such a cowardly manner, but she felt overawed by one so big. The man was enormous, and she knew herself to be tall for a female. All of his features were strong. And while his large muscles made him appear to be menacing, Laurel felt somewhat comforted by them. He looked like he could fight a whole army by himself if he was so inclined.

He was now so close to her Laurel could see a small scar running along the ridge of his right eyebrow, severing it in half. But other than that single small flaw, his face was masculine perfection, unlike his arms, which were riddled with scars. It was clear this man had seen and knew how to survive battles.

The warrior had thick, dark-brown hair and mesmerizing silver eyes, unlike any shade Laurel had ever seen. They reminded her of crystal glass reflecting firelight, warm yet also cold, studying each of her movements, even the most minuscule.

Despite his enormous size and the coolness in his eyes, Laurel knew she was safe with him. He would help and protect her. He had to.

In the faint moonlight, Conor watched the Englishwoman stare at him as she calculated her next move. Her dress had been torn in more than one place, revealing a white, lacy, very feminine chemise. She was definitely a high-bred lady. No one he knew wore undergarments like those. Her hair looked to be a pale gold color, but it was difficult to tell with all the grime matted within it. Even her face was covered with smudges of what could have been dirt or blood.

As Hamish approached her with a wet rag so she could wipe off her face, Laurel instinctively shrank away.

“My men did not do this.” Conor made the statement as a fact, not liking the idea that she was fearful of them.

She confirmed his statement with a simple “No.” He nodded and turned to retrieve the wet cloth from Hamish. This time when he reached out to give it to her, she did not recoil.

As Laurel began wiping her face free of the dirt and grime, she revealed a portion of her beauty. Her features were that of Scottish nobility—soft, feminine, but full of strength. Her nose lifted slightly, and her fair skin was very pale. Her lips were full and round, made for a man to leisurely explore. Conor again felt the urge to kiss her hard and deliberately, deeply and passionately, and every other way a man can drink from a woman’s lips.

As Laurel finished cleaning her face and hands, she heard a rustle in the woods and complete terror consumed her until she saw Seamus appear at the wooded edge. Instantly, she remembered that she was charged with wrongly attacking the emerging giant.

Laurel looked up defiantly at Conor. “I did not commit a crime.” She didn’t expound on her defense. Instead, she glared at Conor as if defying him to reject the truth.

Conor had seen the quick changes from panic to relief as she had seen Seamus emerge. The lass was definitely running away from something, someone.

“You are safe. No one will harm you here,” Conor clarified, trying to ease her fear. “Are you running from your husband?” He dreaded asking the question, but he had to know the answer.

Laurel remembered how close she had been to being just that—married. She shook her head vehemently. “I am not married,” she practically shouted. For a moment, the attractive giant seemed relieved by her answer, but that didn’t make any sense at all.

Suddenly, it was becoming too much. Laurel just wanted to sit down and think about what to do. Too much evil had been witnessed and endured the past two days. She was so very tired, and it hurt just to breathe.

Think, Laurel, think,
she thought to herself. She still wasn’t safe regardless of what the large highlander said. She needed to find some quick means to get as far away from here as possible. She looked up and saw a quiet strength in his silver eyes. Here was someone who would honor his word—if Laurel could only get him to promise to bring her with him, wherever he was going.

“Please take me with you,” she softly pleaded. “Please help me—just for a little while. Once I am far enough away…” and just then, her strength gave out. She reached out and grabbed Conor’s arm just as she crumpled to the ground.

Conor and his guard were momentarily stunned. She had given no indication that she was on the verge of collapse. Finn reached down to pick her up. But Conor abruptly stopped him, reaching down himself to take her into his arms. A fierce desire to protect her came over him as he lifted the frail, limp form. He whispered into her ear as he walked toward the campsite, “No harm will come to you, lass. I give you my word of honor.” Then he put her down on his plaid and covered her to protect her from the night’s chill, smiling as he laid the small dirk next to her hand.

Just before dawn, Laurel stirred from her sleep and sat up, once again feeling pain course through her body. Last night’s recollection was distant, half dream, half nightmare. Looking around, she was momentarily alarmed waking up in the middle of a camp full of Scottish, bare-legged giants. Then she remembered. Her side was aching, and it still hurt to breathe, but her head was not pounding as it had been.

Laurel stood up, closed her eyes, and recalled the rugged man with lustrous gray eyes that seemed to peer into her soul. She carefully reached down and picked up the dark woolen blanket of greens and blues she had slept on. She lightly fingered the soft, well-used cloth accented with bright colors of gold, red, and burgundy and wrapped herself in its warmth. It smelled of horse flesh and of the man who had promised to keep her safe from harm. It was odd, but the blanket and its smell comforted her as she walked into the woods for some privacy.

Conor saw her rise. He had been watching her sleep for most of the night. She had moved very little while she slept, as if any change in position caused pain. It was hard to see what she looked like in her current condition, but he could not deny that something about her captivated him.

He watched her grab his plaid, drape it around her, and go into the woods barely lit by the sun’s dawning rays. She walked gracefully, with dignity and full of calm. Not at all as if she had narrowly escaped some harrowing experience.

Conor shook his head for the hundredth time, trying to get control of his wayward thoughts. He had never seen a woman in such a state of physical chaos. But even so, he wanted her on levels he couldn’t explain to anyone—especially himself.

Conor stood up abruptly. He needed to concentrate on the day’s ride and returning home. Once there, he would find a safe place for her, and then resume his daily routine. He went to gather his guards so they could break camp.

By the time Laurel returned, the rest of the group was up and preparing to leave. The youngest of the enormous Scots was the first to see her standing on the edge of the clearing watching them. The others, seeing Clyde’s unexpected halt in activity, looked to see what had affected their younger brother so.

It was a tall, slender female with long gold hair and incredible blue-green eyes. Her arm was badly bruised, her dress was torn, and she was wrapped in a McTiernay plaid.

Laurel was also transfixed by the sight of the five Scots. They were all highlanders. Their strong rugged features, dress, and weaponry were unmistakable. Some of them were still quite young, but in a few years they would grow to be giants as well. Each had coppery-brown hair ranging from a light auburn to a rich dark shade of brown like their leader’s. All of them had bright blue eyes that sparkled, with the exception of the youngest, whose unusual liquid gray eyes reminded her of the giant who had promised his protection.

Laurel looked around for their leader or any of the other men she had encountered last night, but none were in sight. A moment of panic invaded her. She needed to leave immediately. Surely, by now someone had seen what she had done and was looking for her.

One of the men approached. “Lass? Are you all right, lass? You look a mess, begging your pardon.” As he spoke, the others began to surround her, each compelled to help.

Laurel quickly realized they meant no harm and were only curious. “Umm, you are right. I am a mess. I believe it was a brother of yours who helped me last night.” She paused as she saw the four younger men grin. The oldest of the five, on the other hand, was scowling. She decided to ignore him and directed her attention to those more agreeable. “Do any of you gentlemen know where I could wash my face?”

All of them started shaking their heads. The youngest one with the gray eyes clarified, “There is only one place near here, miss, but it is a very small creek, and it is back towards Douglass land.” He pointed down to the area she escaped from last night.

Laurel blanched noticeably.

“But there is one up north a ways, miss. We’re going there today,” mentioned one of the twins.

“You could come with us,” offered another.

Laurel beamed at their youthful enthusiasm. Her smile caused an instant positive reaction in the group. Even Cole—who hated everything English—suddenly wanted to help this maiden who had been attacked so viciously.

Conor returned to see his brothers ogling Laurel as if she were an angel just arrived from the heavens. It was evident that her bewitching effect was not only limited to him. His guards, Loman and Hamish, had been discussing her when he arrived that morning, and now his brothers were practically gaping at her. Even he had been staring at her all night.

In the dim firelight, her hair had appeared a burnished yellow, but now, in the morning sunlight, the pale, golden halo could render a man senseless. Her face was heart shaped, with large eyes, high cheekbones, a pert little nose and full, rose-colored lips. It mattered not that her hair was matted and unclean. Men forgot who they were, their skills, and their duty when they saw visions such as this one.

He scowled at his brothers, narrowing his gaze. Laurel turned to see what had caused the men to jump in response. Then she saw him. Last night, he had given his word that no harm would come to her. Or was his pledge of protection just a dream?

“Did you mean it?” she whispered as he came near.

Damn, she had the most hypnotic eyes. Now that she wasn’t angry, they were a much lighter color of blue mixed with an unusual shade of green. Framed by long dark eyelashes and a perfectly shaped eyebrow a few shades darker than her pale hair, they were a little large for her face. Her right cheek was slightly swollen and the bruise on her arm was deepening in color and size. Seeing the evidence of her injuries in daylight, Conor quelled the anger stirring in him and reached out to take the plaid she was handing him.

The gasp from his brothers was audible. Whoever had beaten her had done so mercilessly. The reason behind her restless sleep was abundantly clear. They all began asking questions at once.

“What happened to you, lass?”

“Who did this to you?”

“Here, lass, sit down.”

“What’s your name, lass?”

“Aye, where is your home, pretty lady?”

“Tell me who did this, and I will seek your revenge,” one of the twins vowed.

“My brother will save you. He’s a laird,” she heard the youngest one promise.

Conor motioned for silence with a flicker of his eyes.

“Who did this?” Conor’s tone was laden with controlled fury. The four guards had returned from their night’s post and joined the group, wondering what had caught their laird’s anger. Then they saw Laurel.

“Who hurt me does not matter. What’s important is that I don’t give them another opportunity. Please, can I come with you?” she asked anxiously.

The question made no sense. He had promised her protection, and that made the answer obvious. “You will come with us,” Conor clarified, his voice conveying no emotion. On the other hand, his gaze held hers, and she saw a dangerous storm brewing within the liquid gray pools.

His answer was comforting, but only if they left in time. She would see no more good men go to their deaths because of her. “Soon? Can we leave right away?”

It was obvious she thought that whoever did this was looking for her. His eyes slightly narrowed at her request. “Aye lass, we’ll be leaving. But before we reach the end of our travels, I will be knowing who did this,” he stated, pointing to her face and arms. He motioned for the group to decamp. “We leave immediately.”

Everyone began to mount. As Laurel wondered who she would ride with, Hamish approached. “My lady.” The guard gestured toward his horse. Laurel began walking to his tan-colored horse, wondering why she was disappointed that the dark leader had not offered.

The highland chief was much more fierce-looking in the morning light. His body was taught and rigid, and the complete control he had over his every move was frighteningly powerful. His dark wavy hair whipped about his face and his ice-gray eyes no longer bore any of the warmth and concern that flickered there in last night’s moonlight. Yet, he was the one to whom she was drawn. With him, she felt safe and protected. Him, she trusted.

Conor had already mounted his stallion and had intended to put some distance between him and the bewitching maiden by having her ride with one of his men. But when he saw Hamish approach her and her simple acceptance, something inside him went cold. Without conscious thought, he nudged his horse into movement and, with one quick sweep of his arms, settled her across his lap. Hamish looked questioningly at his laird, and then turned to mount his horse. He was not pleased with his laird’s decision, but his loyalty to the McTiernay chieftain would never waver.

“May I ask your name?” Laurel inquired over her shoulder as she twisted to ride astride.

He leaned down so that his lips only just caressed her ear. “Conor. You will call me Conor.” He spoke so softly that it sent shivers throughout her body.

They rode hard that morning, stopping briefly only once to eat some food and rest their horses. Laurel ate very little and said less as they rode. Conor knew she was in great pain, as she tried not to wince each time his horse took unexpected turns through the rocky passes. But she never complained.

At first, Laurel had been reassured when Conor picked her up to ride with him. But her physical reaction to him was so intense, so unexpected, that when he whispered his name in her ear, she wanted to retreat into the unappealing arms of another.

Throughout the morning, she tried to ride with her back rigid, so as to not make familiar contact with the highlander. But by the afternoon, she had no more strength and began to relax against his chest. He was so strong and smelled so good. His scent reminded Laurel of her grandfather—earthy, warm and comforting.

Conor was relieved when she finally gave in to her fatigue. It had pained him to see her discomfort compounded by her refusal to lean on him for support. But once she did, the torture he had been experiencing was even worse.

All morning he had been dealing with the scent of lilacs, trying to ignore her soft skin when it came into contact with his. Now, with her leaning against him, he was living in agony that only would have been surpassed by seeing her in some other man’s arms.

About an hour before sunset, Conor motioned to Finn to make camp up ahead. He veered to his left, leaving the others, and rode towards a thicket shielding a small rocky river. He dismounted and lowered her slowly to the ground, handing her a small pouch.

He knew it was folly to continue holding her, but he seemed to have no power over his actions. She looked up at him expectantly but did not attempt to escape his embrace.

“There is a stream just ahead for you to bathe in. It should not be too cold this far south,” he nodded towards a path through the bushes. “I must see to my men and will return shortly.” He let her go and turned towards his horse. Just before he left, he added, “You are safe here,” and rode out of sight, leaving Laurel to her privacy.

Conor returned to the unmade campsite and found his brothers gathered, speaking animatedly about something, or someone. He handed his mount to Cole and went to establish a perimeter watch with Hamish.

“What do you intend, laird?” Hamish ventured, wondering what his laird’s plan was with the English lady named Laurel. Hamish was a stout man, muscular with shoulder-length auburn hair. His dark green eyes flashed with whatever strong emotion he was feeling. Currently, it was a mixture of protection and possession.

Conor saw the fierce need in his guard. “My word.”

Only slightly appeased, Hamish needed to know the extent of his laird’s promise. “Your word? Did you promise her safety? Or to return her home?” When Conor did not respond, Hamish uncharacteristically pressed, “Surely, you did not promise to return her to England, laird.”

This line of questioning was unusual for his normally quiet, reserved guard. The fact that it was centered on Laurel made Conor uneasy. “Enough, Hamish. We are returning to McTiernay land. I will take care of the Englishwoman.”

Hamish did not care for his laird’s tone. It felt harsh and without warmth. But then, what did he expect? Conor had made it long known how he felt about the fairer sex. Hamish decided then that if she could not return to her people, he would ask for her hand.

Conor’s brief discussion with Hamish left him irritated and cross. He knew Hamish was attracted to Laurel as were most of his brothers and his guard, maybe more so. Damn, he wished he knew what it was about her that made men desire her so quickly, so definitively.

Conor told Hamish to finish checking the perimeter. He would meet up with him and Seamus near the rocky pass once he finished one more task. He told himself that he was just going to make sure that the Englishwoman was safe.

As Conor approached the clearing, he could see Laurel sitting serenely in the river, facing away from him with her shoulders just cresting the water. She had washed her hair and it now glistened in the sun’s setting light. It was the color of spun gold with pale highlights that seemed to shimmer with its own light.

He was about to reveal himself when she stood up. Upon her back were several ghastly welts where she had been kicked repeatedly. As she turned towards shore, Conor could see bruises on her arms in the shape of large hands that had once gripped her tightly. He still could not see the front of her body, but he was sure the same brutal markings would be there as well. She had never said a word. He could not help but respect the English maiden’s strength. She was beautiful and courageous and, as he watched the water drip off her naked form, she was more desirable than any woman he had ever seen.

Not today—but soon—he would kill the Douglass beast for laying a hand on her. He would have his answers about what happened before they arrived home. Whoever he was, he had touched Laird McTiernay’s woman. And for that, he must die.

Conor paused at that thought. Laird McTiernay’s woman. Was that who she was to him? Or was she a temporary fascination that would soon fade?