Lost in Your Arms

by Christina Dodd

  He had become someone she didn’t recognize—a warrior determined to protect her and defend them. She didn’t know how to convince him of the truth.

  She didn’t want to convince him.

  She would convince him later. Surely in these circumstances cowardice was understandable. “They’re . . . fine.”

  “No blisters on your heels? The boots don’t leak?”

  “They’re comfortable. MacLean—”

  “Good, then. We’ll go on until midday, or until we find a likely shelter. We’ll travel morning and evening at first, then when I’m sure we’ve lost them, we’ll travel all day.” Taking her hands, he stared earnestly into her eyes. “Trust me, Enid. Together, we’ll find our way home.”

  Chapter 18

  “Down you go, lass.” MacLean grasped Enid about the waist, lifted her off the cart, and noted that her ribs were sticking out. In the twelve days they’d been on the road, Enid had lost too much weight, although she was still a fine-looking woman. So fine-looking, with her admirable bosom and her delicate features, that he had found it difficult to behave with any kind of discipline.

  He shouldered one supply sack, handed Enid hers, and saw the farmer off with a wave of the hand and his thanks.

  MacLean wanted to hold Enid in his arms and hear her moan as she had in the cottage in Suffolk. He wanted to teach her new pleasures and kiss her until they were both breathless and straining for fulfillment. He wanted all those things, and he had to content himself with holding her in his arms as they slept.

  As soon as they got to his home, matters were going to change. Sooner, if he could manage it.

  Taking her arm, he asked, “Shall we travel on?”

  Enid looked around at this uninhabited corner of the Highlands: bleak escarpments, hills covered with gorse and heather, stands of pine forest and two narrow ruts for a road. “It’s only noon,” she said. “After such a comfortable jaunt”—she gazed pointedly after the rough-riding cart—“we should be able to go until midnight.”

  “Good idea. I’m glad you thought of it.” But for all her sarcasm, he worried about her. Her complaints didn’t have the edge he’d grown used to; she was flagging. That explained why, four days ago, he’d gone out of the wilderness and to the road.

  Of course, most of what Highlanders called civilization probably looked almighty raw to a woman raised in England. A few huts huddled together on the shore of a loch constituted a town, and farms were few and far between. The first day they’d paid a young buck to ride on the footman’s perch of his used English-style carriage, and gone many a mile before nightfall. The next day they’d crawled in a wagon of hay and slept most of the day. Last night they’d stumbled on a croft, a farm with a tiny garden, poor fields and a miserable hut. MacLean had bartered with the crofter to stay in their barn, and with the crofter’s wife for two plates of thick shepherd’s pie and two tankards of ale. Enid had eaten as if she’d never had such fine fare, and she had slept the sleep of the dead with a roof over her head. And today they had caught a ride with the crofter as he drove to market.

  But they were nearing the west coast and the sea; MacLean caught the scent in the air and the change in the wind. More than that, he had spotted a likely track, far off the road and to the left. A sheep path, like most of the paths they’d traveled, but unlike other paths they’d traveled he vaguely recognized it. It, and the hill it ascended. And he thought . . . he suspected it would take them where he wanted to go.

  Would he recognize what was on the other side?

  He stepped off the road and into a grove of trees.

  Enid didn’t step with him.

  Looking back at her, he said, “So let’s go, then.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a hound!”

  He caught his breath. She was about to throw a feminine tizzy.

  In a desperate tone, she asked, “Let’s stay somewhere with a fire and a bath. You haven’t seen anybody suspicious for days now.”

  Coming back to her, he took her hand and looked into her large blue eyes with their fringe of sooty lashes. “No, I haven’t seen anyone suspicious. I’m convinced we’ve lost whoever was following us. But I don’t trust anyone from Suffolk, and I don’t trust anyone I don’t know, because mayhap they know me and are out for my blood. One night at an inn might kill us, for sure.”

  She was not in the mood to be reasonable. Her bottom lip stuck out, and it trembled.

  Leading her into the trees, he asked reasonably, “How would we pay for it?”

  “With the funds you brought.”

  Distracted by the growing sense of familiarity, he told her, “The funds are growing low, and they’re for an emergency.”

  “I stink. How’s that for an emergency?”

  “I can’t smell you,” he assured her as they cleared the trees. With one glance around to see that they were unobserved, he hurried her across the fields.

  “That’s because you stink, too.” She sounded stiff and surly.

  He examined her with the care of a lady’s maid. Mud stiffened the hem of her cape up past her knees. Her sojourn under an overturned wagon had permanently warped her bonnet. She washed her face every morning, but invariably when they stopped she would collapse right where they stood, so dirt perpetually streaked her complexion. Her blue eyes were bright, her color good, she’d grown strong and even more beautiful with the exercise, but she’d come to think the trip would never end.

  Such an attitude could lead to a careless disregard for her own safety. He couldn’t have that.

  As they struck the trail, she sighed dramatically and pointed behind her. “The inns are back that way.”

  He glanced around. He did know this place. He didn’t know why, but he recognized the rocky outcrops, the steep incline at the top, the way the wind slapped their faces when they came over the top, the slow drop on the other side . . . and the way the path twisted and turned as it ascended yet another hill.

  If he was right . . . if he remembered correctly . . . he could find her a bath. A bath and a soft bed and a willing husband, although she didn’t wish for the last item. “I’ll take you somewhere better than an inn,” he said.

  Although she trusted him to guide her, she didn’t trust him with her love. She hadn’t said so, but he couldn’t forget that madness she had spouted the first day on the road—I’m not your wife. She could wish all she wanted, but saying the words would not make it so, and he intended to illustrate to her exactly how married they were. At first opportunity, he would turn his whole attention to Enid. He would make an opportunity, and he would by God discover why she pulled back from him when he asked about their past, why she had the look of a trapped rabbit when he discussed their future.

  He moved swiftly along, on the watch as always, but also playing games with himself as he walked. Just over this ridge, he would see a waterfall off to his left. A weathered stone fence ran along the path up to the tree line. The green leafy branches of an orchard swayed in the glen below.

  He was correct every time. They were getting close. He knew it in his bones. Soon he would be among his own family, and when that happened . . . oh, when that happened, he would be a whole man again, with memories and a mother and a sister . . . he would know his enemies, and he would exorcise them.

  “There.” Standing below the ridgeline, he pointed. “Can you see that?”

  She shoved the brim of her bonnet away from her face. “There’s a hollow.”

  “It’s better than it looks.”

  She was so weary she didn’t ask him how he knew.

  A good thing, for he didn’t know how he knew. He slid down the path just ahead of her, helping her with his hand beneath her elbow.

  They swerved onto another, smaller track, nothing more than a rapidly descending impression in the grass. They threaded their way through a stack of boulders higher than his head, and abruptly they were there, in a little sun-warmed hollow surrounded by mountains.

  He could almost remember ru
nning down here as a boy and visiting . . . someone. Someone old.

  But he couldn’t see her face . . .

  Her face. It was a woman. She lived here alone in her little hut with a cow and a few chickens. She had a small orchard, protected from the worst of winter’s blasts by towering granite boulders, where she grew plums and apples, and a garden where she grew vegetables. Ah, the most delectable spinach he’d ever eaten.

  She was gone, whoever she was, and the animals had gone with her. All was neglected now. The stone house looked bereft, its shutters closed tight, the door latched from the outside, and no smoke coming from the chimney. Yet he experienced a sense that here he was safe.

  He was remembering.

  He almost dreaded to hear what Enid would say about the place; after all, she had lived with a lady in London, and with him at Blythe Hall, and the cottage at Blythe Hall was ten times the size of this shack.

  But Enid gave a sigh of pleasure. “It’s exquisite.”

  “Your standards have slipped.”

  “No, it really is a little piece of perfection. It’s just . . . it’s nice.” She lifted her face to the sun. “It smells like apples, and it’s warm here. I can hear the wind blowing over the top, but here we’re protected.”

  As he gazed at her, he realized how very much their circumstances had changed. Enid was delicate and unused to physical challenges, yet she displayed as much pluck as any Scotswoman. She climbed hills and complained, slid down muddy paths and complained, hid in a hollow for two hours and uttered not a single word.

  He could depend on her. More than that, he adored her.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” She dabbed at her face in obscure feminine alarm. “I’ve tanned, haven’t I?”

  He chuckled. “A few freckles, and charming they are. Come and look at the best.”

  Leading Enid along a short path that wove between slabs of stone, he followed the sound of trickling water and found a man-made basin, just big enough to wash dishes in. A bit of a stream dribbled off a rock into the clear, shallow, sandy pool, and another dribbled out and down to be lost around the bend. A sense of pride swelled in him as if this place was his, and a secret not to be shared with any but his heart of hearts.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful! It’s clean! I could take a—”

  “—Bath.” He untied her bonnet, loosened her cloak.

  She hugged her collar close as if she feared his intentions.

  As she should. He’d said it before; women were much more impressed with cleanliness than men. He wouldn’t have cared if they waited until they got to Mull to bathe, but she did. “It’s warm now, but the mountains will obscure the light long before sunset in the rest of the land, so I had better dust out the cottage and start a fire. If you want a bath, you’d best move swiftly.”

  Still she stared at him.

  “If you don’t care, you can help me clean the hut.”

  She tossed the cloak aside, sat down on a rock and pulled off her mud-caked boots. She might be modest, but above all she was practical.

  Whistling, he went to the hut and opened the door to the dark little hovel. He heard the skittering of mice, smelled the mustiness of long disuse, and the faint, lingering scent of a cow once in residence. Going to the windows, he opened the shutters and let the light and air in.

  Wood was stacked by the fireplace. A shiny bucket rested beside the door. The bed was strung with ropes and covered in canvas, and at the foot blankets were wrapped in a linen envelope to keep off the dust.

  He glanced about. The hut must be on some great man’s land for it to be so well maintained.

  Was this MacLean land? Did the laird of the MacLeans demand this place be maintained for the lonely wayfarer who wandered the hills? Justice, then, that he should find shelter here on his trek to the familial home.

  MacLean took off his greatcoat and his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. Taking the broom, he brushed the cobwebs out of the corners, then carefully swept the dirt floor. With a dry rag, he wiped off the table and the bench. He made up the fire, ready to be lit. Taking the blankets outside, he shook them hard, then carried them back and placed them on the bed. He picked up the bucket, but paused to look back at the place.

  Everything was just as he remembered it. Clean. Dry. Cozy.

  His.

  He closed his eyes, and he saw her. The old woman with the dried apple face and the dark brown mole on her chin. “Coom anytime, lad. Th’ place is yers.”

  Memories were claiming him.

  He walked back to the stream without stealth, giving Enid a chance to scramble behind a boulder if she wished to—and, more’s the shame, he supposed she would wish to.

  But when he came around the corner, he stopped short. There she sat, cross-legged in the pool, eyes closed, wearing an expression of bliss—and absolutely nothing else. Her arms were graceful, her nipples softly blooming. She looked as fresh as a blushing rosebud. The clear water came to her waist, and between her strong, muscled legs, she was pink and glorious in her openness.

  He must have made a stifled sound, for her eyes sprang open.

  She had drifted off; he could see it in the sleepy droop of her eyelids, in the way she scrambled to comprehend the circumstances.

  He didn’t care. He dropped the bucket and started toward her.

  She rose to her feet like Aphrodite rising from the waves.

  Springing at her, he caught her around the waist as she turned to run.

  “No!” she shouted. “We can’t. I’m not . . . I’m not . . .”

  “I don’t give a damn what you think. You’re mine.” Lifting her out of the water, he carried her to a low slab of sun-warmed rock. Gently he tumbled her down on her back, her hips at the edge, her feet dangling off. The perfect position.

  With one knee between her legs, he struggled with his fly.

  “You planned this!” She tried to roll away.

  “If I’d planned it, I’d already have my bloody trousers off.” He freed his cock, shoved his pants down, and pinned her onto the stone. “I could accuse you of planning this. You were naked.”

  “That’s how I take my bath!”

  He wanted to grin at her; she was so damp and indignant. But he couldn’t make his mouth move that way. All his muscle control went into not taking her now, at this moment. He needed to be inside her. His blood surged rich in his veins. He needed to know that she understood she was his.

  “I am not your wife.” She sounded as if she were pleading. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she looked him in the eye.

  Well, of course. She wouldn’t look lower.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “There was a mistake.”

  “Does this feel like a mistake?” Cupping her face, he kissed her. Desire burned in his gut. “Does this?” he asked gutturally, and slid his lips down her throat to her breast.

  She whimpered when he caught her nipple and suckled. “You shouldn’t—”

  “And this?” He tangled his fingers into the curly bush between her thighs. Swiftly he slid his thumb along the crease, opening her.

  When he touched her she brought her feet up onto the stone and lifted her hips. She said no, but she wanted him as he wanted her. And she was ready.

  He couldn’t wait. It had been too long. He stepped close and opened her with his fingers, positioned himself, and pressed into her.

  Tight. She was so damned tight. And damp, and warm, and welcoming. No other men, she’d said. No doubt about that. The way her body held him, massaged him, was a miracle of delight.

  He possessed her. He owned her. She was his. She had agreed to this that night in the cottage; he would not allow a display of nerves to ruin this union between them. In all the history of the world, there had never been such a marvelous fit between man and woman.

  As if she had only just realized what was happening, she gave a convulsive shudder and tried to fight her way back from him.

  He caught her thighs in his arms and held her, legs wide a
part, so he had control. “Mine,” he said.

  “No,” she whispered.

  How dare she disagree? “All mine.” Then he set up a rhythm guaranteed to rob her of her breath, to take her to ecstasy. He drove hard, rubbing his pelvis against her exposed femininity, pressing against her in open, basic lust.

  She responded, as he knew she would. As her body demanded. She tossed her head, tendrils of her long black hair catching on the coarse surface of the rock. She moaned. She whimpered. She reached climax at once, spasming in forceful pleas, subsided, then shuddered and cried out again.

  All the while he thrust into her. He made demands with his body and in return had his cock held and cradled in every erotic, carnal way. He couldn’t make it last, didn’t want to. Unhurried loving could wait for later; now she would recognize her master. His balls drew up tight. He plunged more feverishly.

  “MacLean, dear heavens. MacLean!” Like winter storms off the sea, orgasms swept her continuously with strength and irresistible force.

  He paused, on the verge, seeing what she looked like with her face turned to the heavens, her eyes closed, bliss written on every line of her straining body. Then he sped onward to take her, to fill her with his seed. To claim her as she deserved to be claimed—by him.

  He didn’t wait until he caught his breath, or even until the last of the spasms finished taking them. Leaning down, right in her face, he said, “Look at me.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, then in ready defiance, closed.

  “Look at me!”

  She was too weak to resist him. Those wonderful blue eyes opened and gazed on his face with much fondness. No matter how much she wished it different, she wanted him.

  Holding her tight against him, he said, “I am the blood in your veins, the marrow in your bones. You’ll never go anywhere without knowing I’m inside you, supporting you, keeping you alive. I am a part of you. You are a part of me. We are forever.”

  “Don’t. Don’t.” But Enid felt him inside her, stretching her, filling her. He surrounded her with his scent, his body. He looked into her eyes, invaded her mind, held her captive in his arms. “Don’t say things like that.”