by Tarah Scott
She kicked and thrashed, but her struggles didn’t halt the rise of her chemise as the fingers bunched the fabric into his fist, inching it ever higher. Tears stung when the heat of his hand on her thigh slid upward. Another hard kick hit him below the knee, but instead of stopping his efforts, it only hastened his hand’s contact with the curls that hid the most private part of her. A deep sob escaped her and her strength ebbed. Still, she crossed her legs and stiffened.
With a low growl, the Fraser warrior came to a halt. Victoria forced back bile. He had finally chosen a place to finish the deed. A sword seemed to magically appear before them. She blinked as another, then another appeared. MacPhersons. Tears filled her eyes.
Her assailant reached across her. She tensed upon realizing he was drawing his sword. The sight of his weapon gleaming against remaining shafts of sunlight that pierced the canopy was followed by the spectacle of his companion flying through the air in front of them, landing close to where the MacPherson swords stood in readiness. Her captor whirled.
Strong hands wrenched Victoria free and pushed her to the ground. Dull pain radiated through her shoulder. She winced and blinked in the direction of the Fraser clansman as he lunged recklessly with his claymore, only to have it deflected with the steel of another, more skilled, sword. The Fraser warrior stepped back, but Iain MacPheson advanced on him.
“Is that the hand you touched her with?”
The man’s gaze flicked to his free hand.
Fool. Even past the haze, Victoria could see the word written on the MacPherson lord’s face. His sword shot out. The man shouted in pain as blood spurted and his hand dropped away from his wrist. In a blinding fury, he raised his weapon, but not quickly enough to avoid the claymore that impaled him in one swift movement. Her eyes refused to move from where Iain MacPherson stared at his opponent for a long moment.
“You will never touch another woman.” The soft words belied the hard twist Iain gave as he wrenched his sword deeper into the belly of his victim before yanking it from his body.
The man’s eyes bulged and a loud gurgling noise filled the silence, but Victoria kept her gaze fixed on him even after he crumbled to the ground.
Firm, but gentle hands clasped her shoulders, pulling her into reassuring warmth. The gag was loosened from her mouth, and she coughed as much out of reflex as the need to spew the rank memory from existence. She jumped when Iain shouted something to one of his men. A moment later, a MacPherson appeared, tartan in hand, and Iain surrounded her with the soft wool. His attempts to coax her back to where her dress lay were met with staunch refusal on the part of her legs to move.
“Come, love,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “You will feel better after you dress.”
The tenderness in his voice sparked something undefinable and the dam broke, bringing with it trembling, followed by quiet weeping. Clutching his shirt, Victoria leaned into him. She shook her head over and over. Iain hugged her close, making soft, indistinguishable noises until she shifted to peer through her tears at the body of her attacker. Iain’s fingers caressed her cheek as he forced her face back to his chest. She convulsed and again sobbed against him. The cleansing tears finally slowed and shock gave way to anger.
“This is your fault,” she railed between hoarse hiccups.
“Aye,” he agreed all too quickly.
Victoria looked up at him. Fear shown on his face. She pounded a fist against his chest.
“You think your penitence absolves you?” Her voice rose and cracked. She leaned away from him and pounded him harder. “Damn you, you bastard! Let—me—go.” She repeated the words over and over, until at last they drifted into nothing more than a whisper. Her knees gave way and Iain caught her to himself.
Strength surged through her and she pushed at him. “I would rather you left me than touch me.” But he held her close until her tears again subsided, though her whispered pleas to return home did not.
When she finally quieted, he placed shaking fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face upward. As though searching for some answer, he held her there for what seemed an eternity before lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to where her dress lay. He set her feet on the ground, his arm around her, and again lifted her tear-stained face up to his.
“Did they hurt you?”
She bowed her head. Iain hesitated as if he might press her, then picked up her dress. He loosened the tartan from her fingers. His jaw clenched and he reached in the direction of her bodice. Victoria flinched.
Iain halted. “What is this?”
Victoria looked down at a dark red mark that marred the swell of her breast. She yanked the dress from his grasp and held it to her. “You need ask?”
His gaze dropped to where the garment now covered the bruise, then returned to the unsteady lift of her chin. His eyes hardened, but he turned away, allowing her to dress.
Iain escorted her back to the camp and left her with two of his men, then disappeared into the forest again. When he returned, she was sitting on a pallet.
“You are sure he is dead?” Victoria cursed the tremble in her voice.
“Aye,” Iain answered.
“What of the other one?”
“I tied him to a tree.”
“What if I steal away and kill him?”
Iain shrugged. “It would be no more than he deserves.”
“I have the right. Men do not understand that women also need justice.”
All amusement died from his face. “I do know, lass, and you shall have it.”
Chapter Four
Victoria woke, having found no comfort in sleep. Despite the men sleeping nearby and the guards who stood watch on opposite sides of the camp, the weight of her attacker seemed to press just as heavily against her now as it had hours earlier. She closed her eyes and gripped her shoulders in an effort to halt the trembling that shook her. At last, her breathing slowed, and the world faded into the peaceful darkness preceding slumber. A warm body coming down beside her intruded on the relaxed state, wrenching a small cry from her.
“Shh, lass,” Iain soothed. “It is me.”
Bittersweet relief flooded Victoria as he turned her toward him and she wept against his chest. When she finally looked up, she found his intense gaze on her. Panic shot through her and she struck out at his face. His hold slackened and Victoria scrambled as far away as the tartan allowed.
Several moments passed before her heart slowed and she felt her voice strong enough to speak. “Where were you?”
“I had business to attend to. Go to sleep.”
“Are you in the habit of ordering people about?”
“Aye.”
“I am not one of your men to be treated thusly.” Something rustled behind her. She twisted her head to discern the noise only to turn back and find Iain closing in on her. “Nay,” she cried when he hugged her close.
“Love, you are safe.” He stroked her hair. “I will not leave your side until we reach home. I give you my oath.”
“Your oath?” She uttered a humorless laugh, but cut it short, startled by the hysterical note in her voice. Tears once again threatened. “I will not let you forget that this is your doing,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he agreed.
Victoria stiffened. “What makes you any different from them?”
“This.” Iain wrapped his plaide around her. Pulling her close, he made no other move to touch her.
* * *
Another morning dawned, colder than the last, though it wasn’t the mist that chilled Victoria, but the numbness in her heart. She pulled the tartan tighter around her shoulders. Angry words from the Fraser prisoner broke the grim solitude. Her horse nickered when her grip on the reins tightened, and she jerked her head in the direction of the man tethered behind the pack horse. His malice filled gaze met hers and he snapped out a Gaelic word.
Iain snarled something back, and Nathan gave a hard yank on the rope that secured the man. He stumbled, fell to his knees,
and was dragged several yards before managing to scramble back to his feet. Iain wheeled his horse around, and the odd desire to cry surfaced when he came up alongside her.
“He cannot get near you,” Iain said.
“A comfort, indeed.” Victoria turned her attention ahead. “How much farther have we to go?”
“Several hours.”
“We will not arrive today?”
“We will forge on tonight.”
Victoria nodded. Despite her trepidation, she would be glad to be among civilized folk again.
It seemed a lifetime before the sun began its descent. Victoria had begun to relax when one of the scouts was spotted riding back toward them. Iain halted as the warrior reined in alongside him. The man jerked his head in the direction he had come and Victoria straightened in the saddle, heart pounding as she scanned the hilly terrain. An ornately painted covered wagon rolled into view from the thinning forest. A second followed, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. The band, escorted by a dozen riders seemed suddenly aware of the MacPherson presence and men looked in their direction.
Iain signaled to one of his men to follow and spurred his horse toward the strangers, who had halted. A wagon door opened and a woman stepped out. She strode to the men gathered in anticipation of Iain’s arrival. He halted in their midst and spoke with the men for several minutes before wheeling his horse around and heading back toward them.
The woman looked in Victoria’s direction as if meeting her eye. An odd sense of familiarity rippled through Victoria and gooseflesh rose on her arms. Excitement caused her heart to beat faster. Might she find aid with these strangers? She cast a furtive glance at the men guarding her, then raised her hand with the intention of signaling the woman, but she had disappeared. Victoria’s heart fell even as she realized any chance for help had been slim. What strangers would be willing to aid her against the MacPherson chief?
Iain arrived and motioned them forward as he brought his horse up alongside hers again.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Gypsies.”
She cast another glance in the direction of the wagons. “Egyptians.” Suddenly aware the single word revealed her regret, she added as if in casual conversation, “I have heard of them. It is said they possess powers.”
“The very myths that probably got them banished by King James three years ago.”
Victoria frowned. “Banished? By what right?”
“Banishment is the least of their troubles,” Iain replied. “Many simply put them to death.”
“Sweet Jesu, why?”
“For being, as you say, Egyptians.”
She flushed at having used the slur. “They are just a people without a home.”
“By choice.”
“You condone the killing of them?”
Iain reached for the water bottle strapped to the side of his horse. “Nay.” He took a long swig, then offered her the bottle. She took it, swallowed a few drops, and passed it back. “I harbor no ill will toward them,” he said. “So long as they abide by the law while on MacPherson land.”
“You mean MacPherson law.”
Iain met her gaze. “Aye, MacPherson law. Though you may think otherwise, MacPhersons are not a lawless clan.”
Victoria pursed her lips. “Still, the Gypsies are allowed no defense, no hope of reprieve—no choice?”
“Make no mistake,” Iain’s voice forced her gaze to him. “They have many choices. They know what to expect, yet choose to traverse this land.”
Victoria opened her mouth to rebut, but realized she had no answer.
* * *
Victoria awoke to the sound of voices. Dazed by a strange darkness, a moment passed before she realized she no longer rode her horse, but was bundled in a blanket and sitting across familiar hard thighs. She tugged the tartan from her head. Cold air rushed across her cheeks and she instinctively leaned back into the solid warmth.
She blinked at sconces blazing from high stone walls and dropped her gaze to find a sizable crowd staring at her. She straightened and scanned her surroundings. A small well sat in the middle of the compound. Dim lights flickered past a grove of trees, indicating a number of small cottages.
Behind the cottages, a black mass jutted high into the darkened sky. She shifted her gaze left, and the sudden protrusion of the large stone castle confirmed they had reached their destination. A ripple of laughter drew her attention downward once more to find the crowd regarding her with curiosity. She stiffened. Iain looked down at her. He glanced at the group pressing closer, then back to her, understanding registering in his eyes. His focus shifted from her face and she followed his gaze to a man pushing his way forward.
The man stopped beside their horse and regarded her. “What have we here?”
“Take her,” Iain said, and Victoria found herself being handed down to the stranger.
He grasped her waist and lowered her to the ground. Iain tossed his reins and saddlebag to a nearby man and dismounted. The stranger released Victoria and she stepped back. He clasped Iain’s arm just above his wristband, and the two men embraced then separated.
“Cousin.” Iain smiled. “All has been well at Fauldun Castle?”
“Aye,” he answered, a frown creasing his handsome face. “Better than they have with you, perhaps?” He motioned toward the Fraser warrior.
Victoria shivered at the sight of the man being herded toward the castle at the point of Nathan’s sword.
“We had a bit of trouble,” Iain replied.
“Trouble or pleasure, mon ami?”
Victoria blinked at hearing French come from the Highlander’s mouth. His attention swung onto her, and she recognized a twinkle of mischief in his green eyes. He’d read her surprise and clearly found it amusing. Who was this man?
“Mostly trouble, I think.” Iain’s voice drew her attention back to him. “I would introduce you, but she will not tell me her name.”
His cousin looked nonplused. “What?”
“Laird.” A man gave Iain a hearty slap on the shoulder.
Iain nodded at the man who moved back into the milling crowd, then looked back at his cousin. “I believe it is because I stole her when she had the good sense to step off the abbey grounds.”
His cousin choked. “You what—stole her?” At Iain’s nod, his eyes widened. “I never dreamed—” His attention flicked to her, a corner of his mouth twitching. “I did not think you cared for holy ground.”
“I do not.” The bemused look on Iain’s face faded. “But your religious sensibilities need not be ruffled. I did not desecrate the abbey. I waited until she stepped off the grounds.” He glanced at her, adding. “Patiently.”
“What do you plan to do with her?”
“Marry her.”
Astonishment displaced his cousin’s amusement. “You are not serious?”
“I am.”
Both men looked at her, and the cousin said, “She does not look overwhelmed with the offer.”
“She is warming to it.”
“How do you plan on marrying someone who will not reveal her name?”
“It will not matter,” Iain said. “I will call her wife, at least in public.”
Her cheeks heated.
“I would proceed with caution, mon ami,” Iain’s cousin replied. “I do not think you can take the vows without calling one another by name. How will the priest know what to put on the marriage certificate?”
“Father Brennan will tell me her name.”
“Not if I instruct him not to,” Victoria countered. Something warm pressed against her back, and she jumped before realizing it was only a woman brushing past.
“She has a point,” the cousin said.
Iain’s head snapped in his direction. “He will tell me.”
“I do not know.” The cousin shook his head, and Victoria found the dark effect the comment had on her captor interesting. “I have never heard of a man marrying a woman whose name he did not know.”
&n
bsp; “I will know her name,” Iain growled.
Victoria started when the green-eyed devil snapped his fingers. “I have it. Whoever guesses her name wins her hand in marriage.”
“No one will be marrying her, save me,” Iain said.
For the first time in four days, Victoria felt like laughing when the cousin’s expression turned to one of comical gravity.
“We could have a contest,” he said.
Iain’s attention focused on her, and she caught the covert wink his cousin gave her.
Her pulse accelerated, but she gave a nonchalant shrug. “I believe it is as good a reason to wed as being stolen from a monastery. Still, I have an unusual name. If no one guesses it, I shall return home.” She pinned Iain with a stare. “Are you a gambling man, my lord?”
“I am sure I could guess it,” the cousin said.
Iain shot him a warning look, then said to her, “You are home, love.”
She gave him a thin-lipped look. “Where am I to sleep?”
He motioned toward the castle. “My chambers are there.”
She gaped. “You cannot mean—that would be unseemly.”
“Unseemly? We are not strangers. We have spent the last four nights together.”
Victoria gasped. “It is not the same—Sweet Jesu. How can you shame me?”
“What is the shame? You will be my wife. Now, go along to the castle. Maude will show you to my—”
“I have not consented,” she snapped.
He stepped close, towering over her, but she gave a determined shake of her head. His mouth thinned, but he looked up, his gaze rippling across the throng. Victoria took a wary step back as his attention fixed on someone. He grasped her hand and tugged her along, elbowing his way through the crowd until he halted in front of a young woman.
“Nellie, have Maude find suitable quarters for the lass.” He released her and turned away.
The girl gave Victoria an assessing look, then shrugged and turned toward the castle. Victoria started after her, but found herself gripped from behind and swung into Iain’s arms. He planted a hard kiss on her mouth, then released her. She raised a hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist. He stared down at her for a long moment, a possessive fire burning in his eyes before he released her.
