Her Enemy Highlander

by Nicole Locke

  He hadn’t turned around like she’d asked; neither did he lower his eyes.

  She tried to calm her tangled emotions, but the gown, too tight by far, constricted her breathing. And he dared to be angry with her?

  ‘Doona watch next time,’ she scorned.

  She picked up and threw his tunic as hard as she could at him. It billowed to the floor slowly, which didn’t help her mood.

  He snatched up the fabric at his feet, removing his gaze and releasing its hold on her. ‘Doona want to ever look at a Buchanan.’ Without turning around, he unwrapped his belt. ‘Tell the truth and you can leave my sight.’

  His animosity seared her, but she wouldn’t cower before him. No, she would turn the tables. Since he hadn’t turned his eyes whilst she dressed, she wasn’t turning hers.

  But she wished she had. Oh, she truly wished she had because the moment Caird reached for his tunic and began to put it on, her stomach changed places with her knees and she felt the need to sit.

  As she watched, shock and something she didn’t want to guess at flushed her skin.

  She knew he roughly pulled on the tunic. However, to her, it seemed agonisingly slow as he raised the soft fabric above his head, and his arms, lithe and corded, flexed as he bent each one into the sleeves. But worse, and an instant hindrance to her ability to breathe, was when he stretched those muscled arms, and the chiseled planes of his stomach rippled and contracted.

  It wasn’t fair such simple movements bared more flesh, more alluring strength, than one woman should be witness to.

  His chest couldn’t have been bared for more than a few breaths, yet the sight was almost as stunning as his kiss.

  Her stomach didn’t settle back in place until he lowered his head to wrap his belt around his tunic. Even when that was done she still felt unsteady.

  And ashamed.

  And angry, frustrated and incredulous. Had she hated him just moments before? Now, she hated herself.

  She desired a no-good arrogant red-headed Colquhoun!

  He lifted his head too soon for her to avert her eyes, so she narrowed them to hide her reaction.

  He reached behind him to open the door, but his eyes didn’t leave hers.

  She felt like running out of the room, retreating and hiding, anything to avoid his all-too-knowing gaze. Instead, she pulled up whatever was left of her pride to confront him.

  ‘You expect me to follow you out of that door,’ she said.

  He stared, but there was nothing of his thoughts in his gaze now.

  ‘Is your silence supposed to be aye? Well, I won’t be going with you.’

  Caird’s frown deepened.

  She gestured with her arms in frustration. ‘Silence again. Silence still. Barely a word out of you this morning when last night...’ She didn’t want to think about last night, nor his words and the way they made her feel. ‘I can’t care. Whatever you’re thinking it isn’t true; the dagger is mine and I want it back. You can keep the gem. Just give me the dagger and you won’t see me again.’

  He tilted his head until his eyes met hers. ‘Nae.’

  Her fingers curled. ‘Because you Colquhouns believe we are without honour?’

  He sneered. ‘It doesn’t matter. The result will be the same.’

  ‘What result?’

  ‘You’ll be going where I go until this is over.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You doona need me. Why are you even involving yourself?’

  ‘You came to my room.’

  ‘It was a mistake. As if I’d want a Colquhoun involved.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘And that’s that?’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Conceited. Arrogant. What evil fairy had her walking into a Colquhoun’s room? ‘What of these wedding games you’re to attend?’

  ‘You will be going.’

  ‘You said this was for your sister’s wedding. You’re taking me to her celebration games?’

  He merely blinked.

  Forget the fairy. It was the devil himself that had her entering his room. ‘Just where are these wedding games? The games begin tomorrow and Camron said you’re late. How is that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter where. I need answers.’

  The devil have him. ‘You have all the answers you need! Cannot you get it through that thick head of yours? I’m not going anywhere with you!’

  He smiled and stepped aside so she could pass through the door. ‘Without your precious dagger?’

  Chapter Seven

  She couldn’t do this. She had to do this. What other choice did she have? It had been a fortnight since Ailbert had confessed he’d gambled again. In a fortnight, the debt became due. Neither her family nor her clan had the money he’d promised. The dagger was the only means to pay the debt. Her brother had died because of that dagger. Her family had earned the right to keep it.

  Instead, she was trapped and travelling north with a Colquhoun and his cousins. None of them would believe the dagger was hers. So she had to steal it, while there was still time to return home. Still time to avoid the humiliation her brother had brought to their family.

  A fissure of pain burned her heart. She couldn’t think of home. She had only to think of the Colquhoun and keep her anger.

  Which was easy because since they’d left the inn, the big oaf wouldn’t stop touching her.

  Not that he could help it, but she wasn’t about to forgive him his size. Or his breadth. Or his muscles and sun-warmed skin. Not when she rode on the same horse in front of him, with his arms brushing against her sides and his legs pressing hers against the horse.

  She’d already elbowed him several times, but he didn’t miss a breath when she did.

  Her elbows were her second-best weapon next to lying. When Ailbert teased too much, and words weren’t enough, she’d hit him. If he tackled her, she could dig her elbows in until he agreed to whatever she wanted, or pretend to give her what she wanted.

  He was a good brother. Ailbert.

  She squeezed her eyes together, but tears sprang forth. It was too much. She was even remembering him in the past now. It was all past.

  She wouldn’t cry. Not here, not in daylight, not while in the arms of the man taking her further away from her brother, from his burial, from her family.

  Keep her anger; get the dagger. She had no other choice. Pretending to sweep her hair to one side, she brushed her sleeved arms against her cheeks and wiped away any evidence of sorrow.

  There wasn’t time to grieve for Ailbert.

  If only this arrogant Colquhoun would give her the dagger. She adjusted in the seat, pulled her elbow forward. If only he’d Let. Her. Go.

  ‘Your elbows in my ribs will not change your circumstances.’

  ‘You’re kidnapping me.’

  ‘Not kidnapping.’

  ‘Malcolm said the games are on Graham land. ’Tis days away! How can there be celebrations there after Dunbar? Didn’t they have a loss?’

  ‘Doesn’t concern you.’

  Trying in vain to distance herself, she leaned forward. Even then he was everywhere. His feel, his heat, his smell. She was all too aware of him.

  Even when her mind tried to comprehend what had happened to her, her body constantly remembered last night. His presence kept her in a constant battle between her want of the dagger and...want. For a Colquhoun, who was kidnapping her, no less!

  ‘It is too far!’ She didn’t want, couldn’t want, to stay. ‘I’m too far from home.’

  Her mother and sisters might even be looking for her. Everything had happened so quickly when Ailbert was stabbed. Rage, fear and desperation had driven her to follow the thief. She hadn’t rushed to Ailbert as her
mother and sisters had; she hadn’t told them that she was leaving. Shock had drowned out the marketplace, her mother’s cries and Ailbert collapsing on the ground. Her only thought was to chase after the dagger.

  Now she was further away from the dagger than she had ever been and she had been gone too long.

  Her mother would be overwrought. Her family didn’t deserve any more fear and worry.

  ‘Your own actions brought you here,’ he answered.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she whispered. ‘Why are you even taking me?’

  ‘A Buchanan has nae right to speak of fairness.’ He leaned closer to her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. ‘Your leaning away from me defeats our ruse. Thanks to your act on the stairs, my cousins believe you’re wanting to be with me.’

  ‘As what? What am I to be to you?’ She might have pretended on the stairs, but she had no experience in these matters.

  She felt the satisfaction rolling off him as he answered, ‘As my whore.’

  She tried to turn around. ‘You...’

  ‘What else did you think? My intended? My dear?’ He lowered his voice, contempt thickening his words. ‘My betrothed?’

  What had she thought? She had spent the night in his room and his cousins knew it; there was no other explanation. Yet it was unjust he expected her to play such a role. Regardless of her starting the ruse, this was going too far.

  ‘I won’t do it. We doona need to continue the farce.’

  ‘You are a farce, Buchanan. Do you not like the bed you made? Do you think I like it? I can barely touch you without feeling the need to clean. But there is nae other explanation for your travelling. ’Tis safer.’

  Despite her anger, his words stung. ‘Since when does your clan care for the safety of mine?’

  ‘Never,’ he said. ‘I’m not talking about your safety.’

  Of course he wasn’t. Why would he? A Colquhoun would never tolerate a Buchanan. Just as every right-minded Buchanan would never tolerate a restrictive and oppressive Colquhoun. Their families had always fought. She’d been raised with this knowledge, but Caird’s hatred towards her seemed...excessive. His reaction, after their kiss, hurt.

  Was he embarrassed about their kissing now he knew she was a Buchanan? Or was it only the dagger and the gem making him angry? Pulling the reins to the left, his arm brushed her chest and instantly heat coiled inside her. Her breath changed. His stopped.

  He said he couldn’t stand touching her, yet he left her body wanting his touch. She didn’t understand her reactions since he hated her.

  She didn’t deserve his hatred and she couldn’t be expected to endure his company for days. She refused to continue this farce for that long. She wasn’t that accomplished a liar. Despite her freedom, she’d never been with a man; she didn’t know how to act as a whore. Surely his cousins would realise she lied. Then what would happen?

  More questions in need of answers, and she’d be even further away from returning home.

  She couldn’t have that. This had to be finished and soon. At least there was still a chance to escape. It wasn’t nighttime. They could yet spy the thief, or at least find his trail. If so, they’d get the answers they sought and end this charade.

  Then she wouldn’t have to think of Ailbert or her grieving mother and sisters. She wouldn’t have to think about the gambling debt still owed and the catastrophe that would occur if she couldn’t obtain the money to pay it.

  They’d find the thief, and this would end. Then she could do her own grieving, in her own time and away from hate-filled Colquhouns.

  In the meantime, all she had to do was not think of Ailbert’s death. His blood spreading across his stomach.

  How it was all her fault...

  To contain her helpless guilt and to still her thoughts, she smiled at Hamilton. He’d been friendly to her since they’d left the inn and she welcomed the distraction. When Hamilton slowed his horse, her smile became genuine.

  * * *

  Caird needed quiet. Fortunately, Hamilton kept Mairead entertained with conversation and Malcolm, used to his silences, left him alone.

  It allowed him to think and to plan.

  The dagger and jewel buried in a pouch around his waist burned into his side. It was like holding a flame that could instantly torch a village, destroy lives and entire clans.

  But just like that flame, as with any fire, it could do miraculous things as well. The Jewel of Kings.

  He held the Jewel of Kings. He was certain of it.

  Shock and doubt had washed over him when he first held it at the inn.

  Recognition dawned on him at the same time as he tried to rationalise that it couldn’t possibly be true. It was a legend and not supposed to be real.

  But it was too exact. There could be no other jewel shaped like it, no other jewel coloured like it and it had been purposely hidden inside a dagger’s hilt.

  A Buchanan said it was her brother’s? Impossible. He would rather believe he held the legend long before he’d ever believe that clan owned it.

  But what was he to do with it? It belonged to Scotland, but Scotland barely existed now. In April, King John Balliol was defeated. Now he was held prisoner at the Tower of London. The English King continued to set up English sheriffs and English governors.

  The jewel belonged to the Scotland of old, a united Scotland under one ruler. That Scotland had been lost with a child at sea...and at Dunbar.

  So what to do with the jewel?

  There were few choices. He had to solve the mystery of why it surfaced now and why it was wanted by a Buchanan and a thief.

  Caird had no doubt the thief knew the jewel was inside the dagger, which meant he would be desperate to reclaim it. It also meant he could be nearby and danger—

  Mairead laughing again.

  He tensed his muscles, refusing to be as affected by the sound as he had been before.

  A mistake.

  It tightened her against him and the sound reverberated through him.

  Was that how Mairead truly laughed or was she torturing him?

  He rode closer to Hamilton to keep Mairead occupied, but now Caird wondered at his choice.

  At first, he’d tried to listen to their conversation, which provided Mairead opportunity for treachery.

  All he needed was for her to lie and cause the Graham clan to rise up against him, but they had only talked of trivialities, the games and village stories. Still, he had to be ready for anything. He’d never met a more impulsive female.

  That first time when she laughed, he hadn’t been prepared, and her laugh had struck him—like lightning.

  It wasn’t like him to be fanciful. But it was Mairead and her laugh. It was making him mad with need.

  He held her and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t see all of her. The smell of heather in her hair, the angle of her shoulders and the touch of her hands on the reins teased him. The softness of her breasts and narrowness of her waist brushing his arms taunted him. Far worse, the lushness of her hips and bottom pressed against him and the horse’s rolling gait was a pale mimic of what he craved from her.

  Lust. Unchecked. He felt thwarted by how he held her. It was enough for him to catch glimpses of her, but not enough to ease his desire. Holding her like this only tantalised and teased his hunger for her. He wondered if she did it on purpose. Even her gown spilling over his legs mocked his need to see more of her.

  So when she laughed? Lightning.

  Best to think of her deceit and not his cousin keeping her company. Best to think of her lies, as he watched Hamilton enjoy their conversation. Enjoy? Hamilton was practically falling off his horse to get closer to Mairead. Caird barely stopped himself from reaching out to unseat his cousin. For what?

  Laughter.

  Su
ch emotions were foolish in a time like this. He held the jewel and he should be thinking of only one thing: the person who held the jewel held the power of Scotland. After Dunbar, and after all he and his family almost lost, he needed to seize on that thought alone.

  But all he wanted was to hear Mairead’s laughter again.

  When Camron slowed his horse to join the conversation, Caird loosened the reins. He didn’t want to just hear her laughter; he wanted her to share it with him.

  Eyebrows drawn, Mairead turned around. ‘Why are you slowing?’

  He glanced at her and that was all it took. His horse stopped. He couldn’t even muster the effort to will it forward.

  Mairead’s hair was a wild beacon in the sunlight. Every untamed flying strand beckoned him to wrap his hands around it. It was as if she wiggled her fingers at him to come closer.

  It wouldn’t take much. Her lips were a mere breath away. He had stopped, but his cousins hadn’t. In a few moments, he’d have the privacy needed to kiss her. To ease just a fraction of his want, to demand she give him just an ounce of the attention she gave his cousins. To take his revenge in the only way left. Pain and want spiked. Adjusting himself in the seat, he sped his horse on.

  He didn’t glance at Hamilton or at Camron, although he could feel his cousins’ questioning gaze. He could also feel Mairead’s hesitant shrug as she again engaged in conversation.

  He didn’t get his kiss, but he did get the satisfaction of her gaze. Her annoyance turning to understanding, turning to awareness. He had made his point. She knew why he’d slowed.

  His lips curled. If he burned for a Buchanan, he wouldn’t be alone in the fire.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘She sleeps?’

  Caird moved his horse to allow Malcolm to ride beside him on the narrow trail.

  ‘Aye, for some time.’ Caird adjusted Mairead in his arms. ‘But she is too restless. She talks...angrily.’

  ‘I am not getting the impression she goes willingly and our cousins are too observant.’