Her Enemy Highlander

by Nicole Locke

  It hadn’t made sense. Not when she thought of his words, which so clearly revealed his revulsion of her.

  And then there had been a moment, when she had stopped struggling...she could swear... She shook her head. There were too many questions already; she didn’t need to add imaginings to this forced journey, but she couldn’t still her errant thoughts. They compelled her to try to understand.

  A laugh or something closer to desperation bubbled inside her. Maybe she and Caird had more in common than she thought. Now it was she who wanted answers.

  She’d never needed answers before; when she had felt, she acted. If there were consequences, she dealt with them afterwards. She’d always just...done.

  But Caird wouldn’t let her be, wouldn’t give her freedom. He forced her to be reflective, forced her to sit here, wet, ragged, when all she wanted was to end this torment.

  Her nightmare. What would happen when she returned to her mother and sisters? Even if they were relieved to see her, it wouldn’t be for long. They’d have too many questions and she’d have to answer all of them. Truthfully. The laird would demand it when the English came for the silver. She’d have to prepare her family. Tell them about Ailbert’s debt, the dagger and how she’d begged him to sell it.

  Her nightmare, her grief and it was unavoidable. She clutched the blanket tighter and looked around, desperate for some diversion from her thoughts. If she had only listened to Ailbert’s caution, if only she had waited. He’d be alive.

  She took in a ragged breath, and another. She felt cowardly for looking for a distraction. She didn’t deserve one.

  Waiting, she remained trapped with her thoughts.

  The sun was dimming when Caird approached the hill. His movements were rhythmic, and full of a warrior’s grace.

  She blinked once, and again. He was naked from the waist up and wasn’t wearing his braies, leggings, tunic or bandages which were all wrapped loosely around one arm. He wore...breeches. Wet, sheer breeches.

  They barely covered the mass of muscle which moved fluidly as he took the slight incline towards her. The hill flexed his thigh muscles, the movement rippling up his torso. Every masculine indentation of him was outlined, and the lack of spare flesh flaunted his strength and power.

  Strength and power which he had used to hold her. Mairead released a shaky breath and pushed a lock of hair out of her face. So easily her body warmed to his. It reminded her she needed to be free, to stop questioning things she couldn’t control.

  She would be home soon. Relief tried to rest inside her, but she was in too much turmoil to let it settle. The closer she got to home, the less she could avoid her brother’s death. Her brother would never return home. Grief’s claws that had been gripping inside her began to pierce.

  Caird continued towards her.

  Her eyes absorbed the rivulets of water running down his chest and arms. The glistening of droplets which highlighted the thin trail of hair that ran straight down his stomach.

  The breeches surprised her. Even from here, she could see they were different than the braies he’d worn previously. These were held up by a cord that swung as he walked. They were made not of wool, but of the finest linen. There was no doubt they were English remnants and yet, on him, they changed. He’d distressed them. Stretched the fabric until it merely outlined his body.

  He continued up the hill and stopped. Corded muscles rippled across his torso and she noted the flexing of his arms and arcing of his back as he thrust his heavy garments above his head to hang them from a tree.

  He was a strong and lethal warrior. Scars from old wounds were healed into the landscape of his skin. But it was these dangerous patches her rebellious side wanted to touch the most.

  She yearned to touch him. A Colquhoun, who didn’t believe her.

  It bothered her that he didn’t believe her and it bothered her more because he was right. She was lying to him still. Her brother was dead. The journey they took was useless for him. It got her where she wanted to be without having to risk her ankle. After the kidnapping, she thought she deserved that much.

  She tugged the blanket’s corner that suddenly seemed constricting. She did deserve it. She repeatedly told him to leave her alone. It was his folly he took her on this pointless journey.

  She clutched at her anger, tried to wrap herself in it as Caird bent to retrieve the small blade from his boots. His still-damp hair fluttered across his naked shoulders like a caress, like her hands wanted to do. But she didn’t want to touch as gently as his fallen hair. She wanted to press her palms and sink her fingers into his skin.

  How could she feel this way? Overflowing with bewildering and conflicting emotions. Why did he make her feel this way? She welcomed the hornets awakening inside her again.

  He straightened and looked over his shoulder. She didn’t look away soon enough.

  So she watched every aching change in him. The surprise darkening his eyes, the sudden tightening of his body. The look of a great beast before a kill. Elemental.

  He uncoiled and slowly faced her. His movements were precise and predatory. His chest expanded as if he, too, held his breath.

  Blushing, she held still, her body responding to whatever question lingered in his. He released his breath, and his blade fell to his feet as he took the few steps to stand before her.

  His presence relieved and escalated the tension in her body. All at once, her nipples hardened. Between her legs she felt a liquid heaviness she’d only ever felt with him.

  Even as she fought it, her body readied for him, but he did not bend to touch her.

  He stood. Yet she felt the heat of his body, the humming vibrations of his want and need. Her lips parted, her normal breathing no longer possible and she felt her hands loosening on her covering.

  His eyes caressed her face, followed the exposed, delicate skin of her neck and shoulders. Then he paused as if bracing himself, before his eyes heatedly traced up her bare arms to the loosening blanket that revealed more to his eyes.

  ‘You sit too close to the fire, Buchanan.’

  He was warning her. He had caught her staring at him and he stood close. So close she felt the desire from him. She hadn’t been wrong. When she had hit him, when he held her, desire had been there, but also anger. Just as now. It rolled off of him. He desired her, but didn’t want to.

  Shame enveloped her. Only a fool would continue this. She was so close to home and it was almost over.

  But she didn’t care; she couldn’t take this any more. Her body craved, when she needed to be grieving. Grief’s claws no longer pierced, they slashed her from the inside. She needed to be holding her mother and sisters. Not feeling this madness.

  She was raw from holding back and she refused to cry in front of him. Grief. Lust. One of the emotions had to go. The hornets swarmed, stung, insisted.

  She stood.

  * * *

  If possible, his eyes narrowed even more and his breathing changed at his surprise. ‘You stood?’ he said, taking a step closer to her.

  ‘Aye,’ she replied, waiting for him to take another step, but he didn’t.

  So she did. The smallest step, feeling his heat, his breath, but no further.

  She had never done this before, and, as bold as she’d been with him, there was much she didn’t know. Knowledge that he might expect from her. She had kissed him like a wanton, stood before him like a wanton. But she knew nothing.

  ‘You’re angry still,’ he said, his voice rough.

  ‘Aye.’ She was angry. Angry at his arrogance, at his assumption that no matter what he wanted, she would just follow. Angry at herself because so far she had just followed. Even when she tried to defy him, he changed everything and made her powerless. She didn’t like it.

  ‘But you still stand,’ he answered.

  She s
tood because the hornets inside her demanded she have some power over him.

  His wet hair framed his jaw and curled around his shoulders. His eyes, rimmed with black, swirled grey and green. Despite the emotions he could not hide in his eyes, he held almost unnaturally still. Why didn’t he entice and kiss her like he did at the inn?

  She might have been able to forget the kiss they had shared and the urgency of his hands. But not when she rode with him. Not when he’d chased after her. Not when he was constantly touching her.

  Grief. Want. She was going to break; she didn’t want to break.

  ‘Reckless Buchanan,’ he growled. His body looked as taut as hers felt, but his hands remained at his sides.

  Was he waiting for her acceptance of him? She would never accept him. She just wanted this over with.

  ‘The arrogant Colquhoun won’t just take?’ she mocked, her voice husky and sounding strange to her.

  His body coiled, as if ready to spring. Still he did not move to touch her.

  Then his left thumb flexed. She knew that movement and she was pleased he wasn’t as in control as he appeared.

  She stepped closer, their bodies now touching with every breath, her trembling thighs flickering against his more steady ones.

  ‘Why won’t you just take!’ she said, her frustration mounting. ‘That’s all you’ve been doing! You’ve kidnapped me, kept me from my home, wouldn’t return the dagger though I begged—’

  ‘Impulsive woman!’ he interrupted. His actions were so quick that she didn’t see his hands thrust into her hair. All she felt was the sudden restrained cradling of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, his thumbs moving and making her feel fragile against his strength.

  ‘You want me to take?’ His fingers tightened, and she felt his anger and desire. In his warrior’s hands, he cradled her head. So easy to kiss, so easy to kill. And his words had a bite.

  ‘Aye,’ she answered, because there was no other answer.

  When he lowered his head, she raised hers, craving his kiss, the pressure, the heat.

  Instead, his fingers grew gentle as he tilted her head, his lips lingered at her temple and along her jaw.

  Heat from his desire and fear at his anger brushed her skin. Turmoil kept her still when his breath whispered across her waiting lips.

  But he didn’t touch them. Instead, he angled her cheek in his palm, exposing her chin, her neck, as his fingers caressed, his breath fanned, his lips hovered.

  He did not ease his touch. She felt the power there, the intent, but his hold wasn’t enough to release her anger or her grief. The hornets inside her buzzed. She wasn’t standing for gentleness. She was going to break with his soft caresses weakening her anger.

  ‘Aye,’ she repeated more firmly, sure that he hadn’t heard her, that he teased not out of cruelty, but out of misunderstanding.

  For a moment, he held his breath, and then with uncoordinated fingers he removed his hands from her hair. But he didn’t release his eyes from the dishevelled strands; it was as if he, too, was dumbfounded he relinquished them.

  By letting go, he made the longing more intense. She growled in frustration. ‘You doona want me,’ she said, her voice no longer hers.

  His eyes, grey swirling with green, locked with hers. She couldn’t read his thoughts and he did not answer.

  ‘You resent me,’ she offered him instead.

  She tried to comprehend his resentment, but couldn’t. Because what she felt was so much more. Anger at his kidnapping, at him keeping her away from her family and the only financial means they had to at least ease the humiliation they would incur.

  ‘You do not know what you ask,’ he said.

  His words were meant to rebuff her, but he stood so close the words touched her. The conflicting acts sent shivers across her skin.

  He released a breath; the swirling of his eyes stilled. His expression was resigned.

  ‘I kissed you at the inn, Mairead,’ he said. ‘Felt the softness of your lips, your response to my tongue, my intent. Your skin heated beneath my hands, your heart fluttered. You lit up against me with every caress I gave you and I burned. When you fled me, I followed.’

  His words, the remembrance of his urgent hands, flared heat inside her.

  ‘You responded,’ he said accusingly. ‘And my body will not let me forget.’ He stepped back, almost shuddering on his exhale. ‘But I will not take.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ride the next morning was quiet.

  For the first time, Caird hated the silence. It punished him, just as the woman in his arms did. Mairead kept her silence when they woke, kept it as they prepared the horse and started again on this cursed journey. But her silence wasn’t full of defiance like before. Now she sat stiffly away from him, her back straight not from ire or frustration, but out of sheer need not to touch him.

  Confusing, contrary, maddening woman.

  He’d gone to the streams to bathe in the cold water. His clothes had got wet and he’d pulled on the linen breeches to sleep because he required their restriction. Only when he had thought he could control his need for her did he return.

  Then like some dream she was there, watching him. The fire behind her highlighting and brightening her dark curling locks until they looked part of the fire.

  She had been wrapped in a blanket, but her shoulders were bared to him. Uncovered, the fire accentuated every creamy curve of her skin.

  Then despite the wait, the icy water and the breeches, he knew he hadn’t gained control. It was neither her uncovered shoulders nor the bared tops of her breasts that made him realise it. What caused his breath to catch and his blood to pool was what she revealed in her eyes: her need for him.

  Instantly, he had fought his reaction, but still he walked closer to her. Sure that at any moment she’d turn her back and avert her eyes.

  But she didn’t and he wanted more and fought more. Because what she needed could not happen.

  He couldn’t allow the distraction, he couldn’t allow the trust, couldn’t allow any weakness. Because if she was treacherous and only wanted the jewel, then he was a lustful fool and all of Scotland would weep at Clan Colquhoun.

  When she stood, she was just as glorious as all his imaginings and more. Then she demanded that he take.

  A Colquhoun from a Buchanan.

  No, it wasn’t the clans’ differences that had stopped him last night. Even he could admit to that. It was the jewel. A good reason.

  But his body gave naught for reason.

  So he resented her and wanted her and they rode in silence. He felt like a man heading to the gallows.

  The horse gave a shudder and he welcomed the interruption to his thoughts.

  ‘We have to alight,’ he said.

  She waited until he dismounted so she could, too. Then they moved quickly away from the animal.

  This wasn’t the first time they’d stopped since they had woken and he doubted it would be the last. The horse had definitely eaten something it shouldn’t.

  With another shudder, it cleared its bowels again. Given that it hadn’t eaten, Caird was surprised how much came out of it.

  ‘We can’t ride it again,’ she said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Nae,’ he answered. ‘Your ankle?’

  She flexed her foot. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’ She pointed to the horse. ‘Is there something we could give it?’

  ‘Mint.’ But Caird hadn’t seen any. ‘We’ll need to walk.’

  This journey would take days. It hadn’t rained last night, but he knew it would and soon. The clouds that had started darkening yesterday now hung heavy over them. They were wet just from the mist alone, but that wasn’t what worried him.

  There had been too much rain over the last sennight and ahead
there was a river surrounded by plains. He could only hope the river hadn’t broken its banks.

  * * *

  The plains were worse than he imagined. He’d known they were getting close to the river as dense trees turned to open meadows and rockier soil.

  He’d thought they would travel a bit more, but even from here he could see the river had broken its banks and flooded the plains. It raged with every wild emotion he wanted to express himself. Shrubs and trees were half-drowned beneath the rapidly flowing water that curved and carved its own way forwards.

  This was Scotland. And it reminded him that along with its beauty, the land demanded freedom with force and persistence.

  The horse still hadn’t eaten, but had been settling to their pace and looked no worse. He hoped it would have the strength to make it. He and Mairead would need their strength as well.

  The water was nigh impassable, but the jewel pressed heavily against him as it, too, demanded its freedom. If they travelled further east, as he and Malcolm had done to reach the inn, he knew it would be a safer crossing. However, they’d lose another day, maybe two. There was also no telling what further danger they would come across.

  No, it wasn’t an enemy making him reckless and taking away his control.

  He glanced over at Mairead, relieved she wasn’t looking at him.

  Since they started walking, she’d stolen furtive, frequent glances to assess him. He practically felt her questions and the conclusions she came to. The closer they got to her home, he could see her emotions change. Anger, resolve, her dogged persistence and determination.

  In those moments before she turned her face away, before she hid her emotions from him, he saw something wild, exposed. That same tortured look she’d given him before she’d kicked him in the stomach and taken his horse.

  He raced after her then. Now, when he saw that expression again, he could barely stop his feet from taking him closer to her. To hold her, to comfort her. But he was no fool. Even he knew it wouldn’t end there.

  He couldn’t go through another night like the last. Hard, aching, letting her sleep, while he stole away, the restriction of his breeches no deterrent to what he needed to do. But it hadn’t been enough.