Highland Destiny

by Hunsaker, Laura

  I don't even know who this guy is!

  "Who are you?" Mackenzie's question caused him to break stride long enough to look down at her with suspicion, but seeing only curiosity in her eyes, he answered.

  "I'd be Connor MacRae, Laird of Castle Eilean Donan, Earl of Kintail.

  Eilean Donan? The same castle she had booked a room in?

  This was definitely a dream. It was too coincidental; the same man from the painting, the same castle, she must have fallen asleep or something. But wow, what a dream!

  Connor seemed to be watching her face carefully. He must be wondering why she was smiling, little did he know...

  "Now stop trying my patience and come."

  Mackenzie didn't know what made her do it, whether it was his high-handed behavior, or the way his gaze seemed to unnerve her, but she dug in her heels and yanked her hands free. "And if I don't?"

  Connor's eyes darkened a fraction and he warned her softly, "Then I would bind your hands and throw you over my shoulder." His answer irritated Mackenzie, there was no way this was a dream, she would never dream up some guy who would treat her like she was beneath him. She looked poised to run again, and Connor saw that.

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  "I'd just drag you back," his seductive voice made her even angrier. "Besides, lass," he said gently, "Where would you run? I know these woods inside and out, do you?" And as if to prove his point, he did throw her over his shoulder and quickly crossed to his men. Connor dropped her to the ground in a heap and glanced at one of his men. The man threw him a length of rope, and when Connor advanced on Mackenzie, rope in hand, she scrambled up and pleaded,

  "No, no please, it's unnecessary. I won't try to run again.

  Please..." her voice broke. She knew now that she was definitely not dreaming. This was far too real, and far too scary.

  "I have your word on that?" Connor stared into her eyes for a second longer than was necessary.

  Mackenzie bit her lip and looked down at the ground, before she breathed out, "You're right; I have nowhere to run." As she said it, her anger fled and she realized just how true those words were. She hugged her arms around herself.

  If she was really in the 1700s, 200 years before her own time, then did it really matter who she was with? That thought made her so incredibly sad, that Connor must have seen something on her face.

  His voice gentled when he replied, "Good. Now, come along. We have a long ride ahead of us."

  Mackenzie's head whipped up at that. "A horse? I get to ride a horse?!" She'd loved riding as a kid, and she was excited to be on a horse again. It must have showed on her face because Connor was looking at her as if she were slow.

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  "Aye," he drawled out the word as if she were stupid. Of course, people here rode horses out of necessity, rather than out of sport like people of her time. But she didn't care, this was the first thing to happen today to make her happy, and she was grasping at it like a lifeline. It was something familiar and safe. Horses hadn't changed in 200 years, and she'd been good at riding. She'd even competed a bit in some barrel racing as a teenager. Mackenzie went straight to a huge black war horse, he was much bigger than her quarter horse had been, and approached him with her hands out, palms up so he could sniff her. She nuzzled his soft nose and cooed in his ears. She stopped short after agilely mounting the large black horse. All of the men had stopped to stare at her. Some of them stared aghast, others ogled, and she couldn't figure it out. Her confusion cleared as she realized that women of this time would have ridden sidesaddle, and in gowns that covered, well, everything that her outfit from the mall didn't.

  Her sheer tank top suddenly felt invisible. When Connor came up to her she bent down and asked,

  "Should I ride sidesaddle?"

  "Aye, lass you should, however, 'twill be easier if you stay astride. We have a long ride ahead of us, and we need to ride quickly. You'll also need to cover yourself." He handed her the grey cloak, and asked her if she had anything warm.

  "A gown, in the carriage, I think," she trailed off as one of Connor's men was already walking toward the carriage. They followed his commands without his even having to speak them aloud. This man was powerful. That shouldn't have 31

  surprised Mackenzie, by now nothing should surprise Mackenzie, but nonetheless, it did.

  As soon as she had fastened the cloak around her shoulders, Connor vaulted up behind her, his arm encircling her waist. Mackenzie stiffened and turned, her green eyes wide.

  "I assure you, I am quite a capable rider! There is no need to for you to ride with me." She didn't want to tell him that she hadn't ridden in years, she knew he'd use it against her.

  Her shock was amusing to Connor, though, she could tell because he looked as if he were trying not to smile.

  "You ride in carriages, I am not at all confident that your riding skills would be a match for my mount. Therefore I shall ride with you. Nor am I convinced that you would not try to run again. I doona relish the idea of chasing after you." He bent to whisper in her ear, "And I would chase you down, my Lady, doona forget that."

  Mackenzie's eyes narrowed and she ignored the shiver his breath caused. "I gave you my word that I wouldn't try to run away again. I don't appreciate being called a liar." She also didn't like how in order to talk to him, she had to turn into his body and crane her neck to meet his eyes. For her taste, it was entirely too intimate.

  Connor sighed and tried a different tactic: sarcasm. "My Lady, I am exceedingly sorry," his mock bow was not lost on Mackenzie, "but as you can plainly see, there are nay extra horses. Now, seeing that there are highwaymen about, I shall ride with you to guarantee your safe passage." The false sincerity was not lost on her either. So Mackenzie turned 32

  away and put as much distance between them as the saddle would allow. His smirk became more pronounced as she glared at him over her shoulder one last time before turning stiffly forward and straightening her spine for what was proving to be an uncomfortable ride.

  Mackenzie's bottom hurt from Connor dropping her rather unceremoniously on the ground earlier, and this hard ride didn't help either. She remembered saddles being more comfortable than this, but apparently feeling one's rear while riding was unimportant in this day and age. As she shifted in the saddle again, she brushed against Connor and felt that strange heat again. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before; like he ran a few degrees warmer than she did. She heard his swift intake of breath and assumed that he'd felt it too. Weird that she should feel such a magnetic pull towards this man who had actually just abducted her. It was too bad that she'd given up her dream theory, because this just seemed too much like a dream to pass as reality. A wry smile touched her lips as she thought that Jenna would be much more suited to this time-travel thing than she was.

  Mackenzie glanced down as his arm brushed hers and she saw blood. Actually she saw quite a lot of blood. It took her a second to realize that he was bleeding because she actually had stabbed him earlier. She hadn't just grazed him as she'd initially thought, but rather gouged him. She felt awful, she hadn't been in a fight since the fifth grade when Meredith Baker stole her My Little Ponies lunch box. She peeked up at Connor from the corner of her eyes, and noticed that his face gave nothing away; no hint of pain, not even a reaction to the 33

  fact that he was bleeding. She thought he'd make an excellent poker player.

  "I'm, uh," Mackenzie cleared her throat and tried again,

  "I'm sorry I stabbed you." Connor didn't do more than look down at her, then his eyes flicked back out toward wherever they were riding. She continued a little nervously, "I didn't mean to hurt, well, I guess I did mean to, er, well, you were attacking me after all, and I didn't know who you were, and umm..." She stopped babbling, and took a deep breath. "I am sorry," she said softly and as sincerely as she could.

  "You defended yourself." This time he didn't even glance down at her.

  Connor didn't say much, she'd decided, and when he did, it was usually sarcastic or c
ryptic. This was neither. Was there

  —-dare she think it—- a hint of admiration in his tone?

  Figures, she thought, it was just like kindergarten: you punch a boy in the face, and he likes you. Except Connor didn't like her, he just respected the fact that she hadn't been a helpless victim, she guessed.

  "Does it hurt?"

  Connor's eyes rolled up towards the dark sky, "You talk too much."

  Mackenzie narrowed her eyes. So that was how it was going to be? Fine, two could play at that game. She straightened up and faced forward, trying to ignore all the havoc his proximity was wreaking on her already overloaded system. It was harder than she'd thought it would be since every movement of the horse brought their bodies into contact. They were riding at a hard gallop, and Mackenzie was 34

  tired from holding her muscles so stiffly in a vain effort to not touch Connor. Her whole body was exhausted from the entire ordeal. She had finally given up her dream theory for good.

  This was real. There was no doubt in her mind that it was real. If it were a dream, she and Connor would be in a sunny meadow with nothing but the sun and a nice breeze for their companions, not riding through the night with a dozen men as their escort. Sooner than she would have thought possible, her body sagged against Connor, and she fell asleep; her mind needing the protection of oblivion to sort through and accept all that had happened.

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  35

  Chapter Four

  Connor MacRae exhaled roughly as the tiresome woman in his arms fell asleep. She was leaning against his chieftain pin, so he gently rolled her head to the other side. He wore his usual breacan feile over a linen shirt, with trews beneath the belted plaid. He had an iron penannular brooch, open to one side, to fasten the plaid at his shoulder. Connor knew that it was the annular brooches that were worn now, and his wasn't in fashion, but what did he care for fashion? It had been in his family for several hundred years; the clan chieftain had always worn it. His claidheamhmor was slung across his back, and he had his bow on his massive destrier, just in case.

  She shifted a little, and he could feel her rear pressing against him, her spine having relaxed from its rigid position to lean back into him. Her head fell right at his shoulder; she was not small, this one. Her head had lolled to settle against his throat. He could feel her even breathing against the skin of his neck. He'd never noticed anything as mundane as breathing about a woman before. Connor found himself noticing quite a bit about this spirited woman.

  Dougal, his captain, had ridden up beside him, and cocked an eyebrow at the sleeping woman. Connor nodded his head.

  The silent conversation was merely Dougal asking if she was going to come willingly; he clearly thought the lass was daft.

  Not that Connor could blame his first, she hadn't behaved like any woman he'd ever known. He'd never been stabbed by a 36

  lass, nor had to chase one down for that matter. Of course, he'd never abducted a woman before, either.

  When he and his men had attacked her carriage, all had gone according to plan. No one had been harmed. Well, he amended, nothing that wouldn't heal. No one had been seriously harmed. It had been easy. But Connor still felt that twinge of unease. Had it been too easy? Something didn't ring true about the simplicity of the abduction. His senses had been honed by years on the battlefield, and they had never let him down, so it was unusual for him to feel uneasy about a victory.

  His attention was brought back to the girl in his arms as she shivered. Unthinkingly, he unraveled his plaid and wrapped it around the Stewart lass, for she must be cold with naught but a cloak on. She was practically naked underneath, he recalled. American, she'd said, and while Connor knew nothing of ladies' fashions, he was fairly certain that they wore gowns in America. She must have lost her gown, though he knew not how. He preferred a woman in a simple sark to the unusual and confining undergarments this woman wore.

  The thought of her in a sark had him thinking of how her body had felt when he'd landed on top of her. She was made of lush, soft curves, but he'd seen her legs wrapped around his horse, and he knew they were solid muscle. He'd also chased her, and he knew she was fast. He'd never been so surprised in his life as when the Stewart lass had stomped down on his foot and turned with her dagger.

  And those eyes.

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  He hadn't missed the split-second hesitation that she'd had when their eyes connected. He had been able to read every emotion in her eyes as if they were spelled out on her forehead. They had been wide, frightened, and they were emerald green. He'd never seen green eyes so deep. Connor felt that he could stare for hours into her eyes and he would never understand her secrets. Oh he knew for certain she had them, for in that short moment when their eyes had met, he had seen her secrets. And he wanted to know them.

  Something else though, he had seen the flare of recognition in her eyes. Had they met?

  He looked down at her as her head lolled against his shoulder, and he studied her face. She had beautiful alabaster skin; it seemed luminescent in the moonlight, which contrasted with the dark, thick lashes that swept her cheeks.

  She had fine bone structure, with a straight nose. Her chin was pointed, and her lips were a bit too full for her heart-shaped face, but those lips were so incredibly sultry that he doubted any man would think them unattractive. She sighed and a slight smile turned her lips up. Connor's thoughts drifted down an entirely different path as he watched them.

  There was no denying she was beautiful. Her reputation had not been exaggerated.

  When her hair had come unbound while she'd been fleeing, and the moon had turned the golden locks to silver, he'd thought her a wood sprite or a faerie. The pale moonlight had her skin glowing like a luminous pearl. But she was no faerie, she was real. Her very real warm body had proved that. She was also betrothed to his enemy, the Campbell lord, and 38

  Connor would stop at nothing to ensure his demise. Even abducting the bride-to-be before she entered Campbell lands.

  She was a means to an end, nothing more. Connor would do well to remember that.

  After he had launched himself at her, Connor wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to the ground. When he stayed on top of her he wanted her to feel his weight; to understand that the best way out would be acquiescence. And when he'd flipped her over, he'd merely run his hands over her to see if she had any more weapons hidden; ravishing her was the furthest thought from his mind...until she'd renewed her struggle. He'd suddenly become acutely aware of every voluptuous curve against his body. Those expressive eyes of hers had shown him that she thought his intentions impure, and his thoughts quickly followed along those lines. Impure thoughts around her would be natural, especially when her ragged breathing drew his attention to her breasts. Thinking of her breasts had him shifting farther away from her in the saddle, but she made a little sound of protest at his movement, and Connor frowned. With a sigh, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. She fit into the curve of his body perfectly, and he rested his chin on her head.

  The Stewart lass smelled delicious, mouthwatering, actually. He'd never smelled anything like it. It was decidedly floral, and every time the wind stirred strands of her hair into his face, Connor had to fight the urge to bury his nose in it.

  He thought of the reactions his body had to just her scent alone, and wondered what it would be like if he had the time 39

  and the right to enjoy her. The weight of her breasts on the arm he had wrapped around her ribs caused his body to tighten. He passed the time trying not to think of her, and thinking instead of not running his horse too hard with the extra weight. Connor frowned as he felt her ribcage. She really wasn't that much extra weight. His thoughts turned toward the girl again, and he had to force his mind to the job at hand; to take her to his castle, and keep her as far away from the Campbell as possible. He wasn't completely sure what the Campbell had planned for Miss Stewart, but he knew it would indeed irritat
e him to have Connor steal her away.

  The thought of the Campbell's irritation with Connor had a smile playing about his lips.

  Besides, the Campbell only needed a bride at all because the brutal clan Mackenzie was pushing for a chief who was married; he would be a safer alliance for them if he had a woman and sons at home. They had been pushing for a marriage to a Mackenzie lass, so it had been quite a surprise when he'd announced his betrothal to the Stewart lass, however, since everyone knew about the curse, the Mackenzie allowed the soon-to-be alliance. There had been rumors of the Campbell playing at the dark arts, and Connor knew that the man would go to any lengths to destroy the MacRaes. A man such as that was deadly in his unpredictability. Who knew what he had planned for this unsuspecting girl? It was just sheer bad luck that she was the only direct descendant left in the Stewart line. He'd heard tales since he was a lad about how a Stewart lass would break the so-called curse. Really, it was quite ingenious of the 40

  Campbell to choose a Stewart to unify the clans; it was said if the Stewart Curse could be broken, the lands would once again be fruitful. Unfortunately for Connor, those lands had belonged to him.

  Dawn was breaking as his attention shifted to the sleeping girl in his arms once more. He had spent the majority of the ride trying to ignore the way her soft body fit against his, and deny the uncharacteristic surge of lust he'd felt at every bump and jostle. At one point, her head had turned into his neck, and her lashes had fluttered against the skin of his throat. Connor swallowed hard, trying to tamp down the unreasonable flare of heat. Similar to his hyper-awareness of her breath coming and going, he noticed everything about her.

  She stirred. He felt first her confusion, and then the dawn of understanding as she remembered where she was. It was natural that she should be afraid of him, he thought, after all, he had abducted her on the way to meet her betrothed. He almost wanted to laugh at the naked panic on her face as she glanced back at him. If she only knew that he was definitely the lesser of the two evils.