Her Enemy Highlander

by Nicole Locke

  ‘They may owe you a debt, but by killing my brother, you owed me first,’ she replied.

  She was swift. The Englishman was swifter. Caird charged.

  But not before the blade cut near her heart and the Englishman gave a harsh cry of pain. Not before she felt the strike of a fist against her temple and heard Caird’s bellow.

  Only then did darkness claim her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mairead turned her face to the breeze to cool her overheated body. Cold warred with hot. The tight stickiness across her chest made her even more uncomfortable and she cringed to escape it all.

  ‘You wake?’

  Mairead opened sore eyes to see Caird hovering above her.

  Before she could part her dry lips and mouth to speak, he lifted a cup to her lips. She drank the broth, but some liquid escaped and Caird’s thumb wiped the rest away.

  ‘Where?’ she whispered as she settled back on the bed. She breathed deeply and felt the burn as she stretched the skin on her chest.

  Caird sat on a stool next to the bed. His tangled hair partially covered one of his very grey eyes, but the reddish lock couldn’t hide the deepened grooves between his brows or the lines on the sides of his mouth.

  ‘You need rest.’ Caird touched her hand. An order, but the relief in his eyes softened it.

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispered, moving her hand away from his touch.

  Caird looked like he wanted to argue, but then told her of her collapse, her dagger wound needing stitches and of him tending her in a villager’s home.

  She didn’t want to know of Caird’s caring for her. ‘The jewel. Where is it?’

  ‘We have it,’ he answered. ‘The dagger’s safe, too.’

  After so long a struggle, she didn’t feel relief.

  ‘What happened to the Englishman?’ She’d never forget his malice or his amusement. She had raised her dagger to kill him, but he’d struck first.

  ‘Gone,’ he said.

  ‘How?’ She tried to get up. Her brother’s murderer was free. They’d never be safe.

  ‘Rest easy.’ Caird’s hand on her opposite shoulder held her gently, but firmly. ‘He is not here to threaten us.’

  Not here, but they weren’t safe. ‘He’s still a threat.’

  Caird gave a curt nod and slowly removed his hand.

  Her head and chest hurt, but mostly her body ached. ‘How long did I sleep?’

  ‘Two, maybe three...’ Caird rubbed his face, testing the beard there. ‘Three days,’ he finally answered.

  Three days. She had too many questions. ‘What happened to the villagers?’

  ‘They’re safe.’

  Too much trouble, too many mistakes. ‘What harm did I do? I shouldn’t have rushed—’

  ‘Shhh, there is much to tell you.’ Caird shook his head. ‘You saved us. If you hadn’t risked your life, they wouldn’t have helped.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The villagers, and...an archer.’

  ‘I doona ken,’ she said. ‘The villagers helped us?’

  ‘You questioned the villagers. With blade drawn you ran for the Englishman.’ Caird reached for her again, but he stopped and laid his hand on the bed. ‘You were fearless. An archer let loose an arrow. It sliced the Englishman’s arm and stopped his blade slicing deep.’

  Caird’s grey eyes locked on her wound and his left thumb flexed. ‘Angered by the arrow, he struck you in the head, and you...fell.’

  ‘If the Englishman was injured, if you were there, how could he be gone?’ she asked.

  Caird’s hands rested uneasily and he shifted on the stool. Patience. Mairead needed it. She’d lain here for days, her head wound far worse than the cut to her shoulder. But he had no patience. He still fought the rage that demanded he kill the Englishman. He tried to release the pressure by sword training, but he had no one to practise against and he felt crazed.

  Only touching her calmed him. For three days, he had touched her constantly. He’d lifted moist linens to her lips, adjusted her in the bed and cooled her when she needed it. She could have died without ever waking. Now she was awake and she deserved answers. But she was alive and he fought the need to pull her close.

  ‘We let him go.’ Those shattered seconds after she’d attacked still made little sense. The Englishman had been hurt, but it was the sight of the arrow slice on his arm that made him furious. After he struck Mairead, he’d searched the crowd, daring whoever shot it to step forward. At that point, Caird knew he could have killed the Englishman.

  But by then Mairead was hurt and his knees were in the dirt, his arms around her, his fingers trembling as he tried to stop the flowing blood. Only then did the villagers step forward.

  ‘Why?’ she whispered.

  Caird heard the incredulity in her voice. The Englishman had killed her brother. How to make her understand he had to? ‘If we’d killed him, we’d have more deaths on our hands. We doona know who he is or what power he wields.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. He didn’t know what he’d do if they spilled.

  Standing, he said, ‘You need rest.’

  ‘Nae, I have to know.’ He could hear her tears weren’t from pain, but from anger. ‘You let him go. How could you do that to me?’

  Accusation and shame. It had killed him to let the Englishman go. He had worried for days she wouldn’t forgive him for letting him live. With her question, he knew he had been right to worry.

  ‘I didn’t want to let him go. I burned to kill him. Yet think, Mairead. The Englishman wanted the jewel for power. But for his own, or for a country? And which country? Our clans would not survive if there was more than the English involved. He had to be set free, but because he had nae help, he was forced to leave the jewel behind.’

  ‘Who is he? At least tell me the name of my brother’s murderer.’

  ‘I doona know. Nae one does.’ So many failings. He shook his head. ‘A villager thought he knew.’

  ‘Thought he knew?’ she asked. ‘How could he not be sure?’

  ‘He was sure. I am not.’ Sighing, he continued, ‘The villager had interrupted a conversation between the Englishman and the thief. He’d opened a closed door just as the thief said “How”. That’s the only word he heard. From the way the thief said the word, he believes the Englishman’s name is Howe.’

  ‘“How” could be the thief asking a question.’

  ‘Aye. I talked to all the villagers. There wasn’t any more information. The man was most positive, but it’s hardly proof.’

  She bit her lip with indecision. His words had helped, but had not convinced her.

  ‘This—’ she began. ‘Everything is confusing,’ she admitted. ‘What happened to this archer or the villagers?’

  Her eyes glinting with tears scoured him. He deserved her accusations, her anger and he should remain to face them. But it was her confusion that held him still. Leaving now would only hurt her again. He couldn’t hurt her again.

  ‘The archer never stepped forward,’ he answered. That was a mystery. There was no doubt the archer had his bow drawn before Mairead had attacked. The arrow was too quick. It had already been pointing their way, but who had it been pointed towards?

  ‘Nobody knew who he was?’

  Every word cut him. He thought he’d slain all the soldiers, but one had been lying in wait. ‘Nae one ever saw him. He never disappeared, because he had never appeared to anyone. The archer was another reason I let the Englishman go. He still had someone to protect him. Someone, who could kill you.’

  The archer was a lethal killer with astounding skill. A purposeful wound, not a death shot, and so precise it stopped the Englishman from gaining full movement without truly hitting him or Mairead. Her wound was deep, but not fatal.

 
Unable to stop himself, Caird gently brushed the hair across her forehead. The bruise covered the right side of her face and went across her eyes.

  He was grateful she stayed still for his touch. But her wary eyes did not calm him.

  ‘The villagers all left.’

  She pulled her head away. ‘They lost their homes?’

  He clenched his hand. ‘They lost their homes when they allowed that man to buy them,’ he said. ‘In the end, they helped us and forced the Englishman to leave with nothing.’

  Mairead looked everywhere except the Colquhoun who continued to hover over her. Who seemed compelled to touch and care for her. She was already flooded with guilt caused by her mistake and his care made her restless.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘It isn’t safe for the villagers. Most have gone to Colquhoun land, but a few families have left for the Buchanan keep.’

  All the villagers gone, but not banned. He had offered them protection with his own clan, even after they harboured the Englishman. But why did some families go to the keep? ‘What have you done?’

  ‘The families, who have gone to the Buchanan laird, had the dagger.’

  ‘I thought we had the dagger.’

  He shook his head. ‘Only the jewel.’

  ‘You’ve fought to keep the dagger and the jewel together. Now you just willingly let it go?’

  ‘Aye, I let it go.’ His brow furrowed. ‘The dagger had protected the jewel. I had hoped to keep them together to gain answers.’

  His troubled look told more than his words. He had let it go, but reluctantly. Which still begged her question.

  ‘You have nae answers, so why did you relinquish it?’

  He opened his mouth, closed it and kept his silence.

  She’d been asleep for three days. Too much had happened.

  By letting the dagger go, Caird endangered her family and there was only one reason for that. ‘You did this for the debt. You put them in danger!’

  ‘Nae!’ he said abruptly. ‘They know nothing except to give the dagger to the laird. To say it was for Ailbert.’

  Her breath left her. With the silver and rubies, the dagger might be enough to keep her family safe. If it could be done quietly, maybe her family wouldn’t suffer humiliation. She had no doubt the laird would understand the message. Ailbert had received many warnings. ‘You trust these families?’

  He gave a curt nod. ‘They ensured the Englishman left the village and you have not been further harmed. They’ve proven themselves. They’ll be safer with the protection of our clans; it’s more than they had before.’

  She felt no relief. The villagers were gone, which meant only Caird had been tending her. Unnerved, she seized on one thought.

  Nothing had been resolved. They still had the jewel, her brother was still dead and the murderer was still free. Her mistakes would haunt her for ever. ‘I need to get up.’

  He pushed aside the stool to help her up. There was a slight sting, but it was bearable.

  ‘They left clothing for you.’ Quickly, he stepped away and she noticed the villagers had given him new clothes as well. The tunic and braies were clean, but ill-fitting for a man his size. They were, however, better than the ripped and bloodied ones he had been wearing.

  Since her clothes were just as torn, she was grateful for the new gown. Nevertheless, accepting it made her uneasy knowing Caird must have requested it for her.

  His movements unusually agitated, Caird picked up a pot. ‘This is here so you can relieve yourself. I’ll prepare food,’ he said.

  Laid about the room were linens, dried herbs and clothing. She was surrounded by the evidence of him caring for her. ‘We need to go,’ she said. She couldn’t be here any longer. Caird had cared for her and the Englishman was free. She hadn’t killed him. Another mistake, another shame.

  ‘In a day or so, we’ll go,’ he answered.

  ‘But the risk—’

  Grey eyes stormed green, his movement wild as the empty pot swung in his fist. ‘You almost died!’

  Stunned, she blinked.

  Caird brimmed with ferocity and frustration and it was all suddenly pointed at her.

  ‘Right in front of me—for me.’ He waved the pot at her as if to hurl it. ‘So you will eat and rest!’

  Caird’s breath was heavy. He had pulled himself to his full height, every bit of him intimidating and very magnificent.

  Then his eyes darted to the pot in his hand as if surprised it was still there and set it down on a table.

  ‘I’ll get food,’ he said.

  It was Caird’s sudden vulnerability that changed her emotions from accusations to something more insidious and painful. Grief, shame and guilt had been waiting for this moment. When anger wasn’t her first emotion, when there were no distractions.

  If Caird left the room, the tears would come. All her mistakes would claim her again. She could do nothing about those feelings, not alone.

  ‘Doona go,’ she said, taking the steps towards him.

  He paused.

  She held his arm and he looked at her hand. She sensed he tried not to look in her eyes. ‘You need to rest,’ he said.

  His touching, his wild confession. ‘I didn’t die,’ she said.

  A jerk of surprise under her hand, his eyes moving to hers.

  Something was held in balance and she wouldn’t look away. Grey eyes, flickering green, turning dark. A sound emitted from his chest before he took her in his arms and pressed his mouth to hers.

  This was the kiss she wanted. Caird’s lips firm, demanding, just this side of greedy. His hands, careful of her injuries, making sweeping circles along her sides to the small of her back. His kiss deepening.

  She didn’t heed her injuries, as she swept her arms up his chest, around his neck, and pulled herself closer to him.

  Caird pressed kisses along the side of her jaw, down her neck, while his hands made small circles of heat along her hips.

  ‘Aye,’ she whispered, welcoming his kisses, his touch. This was what she needed. Caird taking. Forgetting her mistakes.

  He pulled away.

  ‘What did you say?’ His eyes searched hers.

  She stayed quiet, but she didn’t close her eyes and she couldn’t hide her feelings, not when all her emotions were clamouring at once.

  ‘You’re angry still,’ he said, brows drawn.

  She couldn’t deny it.

  Releasing her, he stepped back. ‘You’re hurting. It’s too soon.’ His breath was uneven; his eyes not hiding the evidence of his desire, but also his disappointment and resolve. Turning away from her, he said, ‘You still need food.’

  Mairead released a shuddering sound as Caird walked out of the room. Holding still, she realised, too late, that the distraction she sought was far more dangerous than if she’d just let Caird go. As if, by seeking his caresses, she had run against drawn swords to forget a thorn in her finger.

  Caird’s kiss made her forget anger and grief, but desire and need brought her closer to him. Her impulse to care for him, and his gentle touches only created something more between them. Anything more would be a mistake.

  With the room empty, she stared at the pot he’d left, but had no intention of using it. It was time to feed herself and heal. It was time to leave Caird and all the madness between them.

  For now, she was tired and needed to rest. Tomorrow, she would be home and she could begin to forget.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Day came again and Caird was not comfortable. His feet hung off the edge of a too-small bed that had more gaps than rope and the mattress hadn’t been filled properly, if at all.

  But he wasn’t moving. Not when Mairead curved so contentedly against him.

  When he’d returned with food, she
had been asleep in the bed. With no other place he wanted to be, he had lain next to her. Sleep had claimed him immediately.

  It was the light in the room telling him another day had gone. Mairead’s head was tucked under his chin and her breath was warm against his chest. The softness of her breasts gave to the hardness of his body; he could feel their bounty with each gentle inhale she gave.

  Only when he held her, only in sleep, was she giving and soft. Her body was built for his fantasies but it was her bravery that left him awestruck. At some point, she had become a coveted dream.

  A very cold dream.

  Her feet were like ice and he adjusted to fit her more firmly against him. When he tucked her legs between his own, the curve of her hips matched his.

  He could no more prevent the hardening of his body than stop his heart from beating. Days and nights of wanting were built within him.

  His need for her now, like fire arcing through his chest, came not just from the wanting.

  He’d almost lost her. Injured or not, he had to touch her, had to make her real to him. It had to be now.

  Asleep, she was soft and giving. When awake, she was angry, and hurt, and denied they were different together.

  Gently, slowly, conscious of her injury, he skimmed his fingertips along her shoulders, revelling in the softness of her skin before her gown impeded his direct touch.

  Then his fingertips flattened to his palm as he caressed the curve and dip of her spine under her gown, felt the welcoming narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hip.

  When his fingers swept lower, he stopped.

  Mairead woke to warmth, to heat, to a determined caress across her covered skin. She held her breath as she waited for Caird’s hand to continue, but he held still.

  A tension thrummed through him, taut and full of need.

  ‘You wake,’ he said. Exhaling, he moved out of the bed.

  Surprised, she turned.

  The morning did not hide the tension in his shoulders as he went to the table still laden with food.

  There was more of the vegetable broth he’d given her before, but also bread and cheese that he tore into hunks for them to share.