by Mary McCall
Long sleek legs captured his attention, and the nature of his urge changed. Feeling his loins pulse, Duncan dropped his gaze. He sucked in a breath at the sight of her bloody feet. If the lass didn't die from exposure to the cold, those splinters and cuts could fester and kill her. He frowned and raised his gaze to her face.
By Saint Andrew, her eyes weren't clouded with fear anymore. They blazed the most glorious blue his Maker ever thought to create.
She tilted up her chin a fraction and subjected him to a thorough and haughty inspection.
Duncan's lips quirked at her bold perusal. Damn if the lassie hadn't sent more lust flowing to his groin. Her proud expression and poise proclaimed high birth. But what could have landed such a bonnie lass here in such a bedraggled state?
No matter. Women were scarce and he liked what he saw. He would keep her. Though he hadn't thought about wedding again, this lucky lass would be his wife.
When her eyes returned to his, he favored her with a slow, easy smile. She continued staring, obviously still afraid of him but trying to hide her fear. The lass needed warmth as soon as possible if she was going to survive. And he damn well meant to make sure she did. He would have to force some sense into her lovely head. Duncan took a step toward her.
The lass grabbed the sword with both hands and pointed the blade toward him. “Stay away!"
At the English order, Duncan scowled. Anger and disappointment crashed upon him.
"Damn it all, you're English,” he accused, speaking her wretched language.
He wiped a hand over his face. How in perdition could his body betray him by lusting for an English woman? And damn if he wasn't still aroused. He glowered and placed his fists on his hips. “Why are you afeared of me after I just saved you from the beastie?"
She cringed from his angry tone but lifted her chin a notch, gulping hard. “I am not afraid. I...I am cautious, be...because you...you are a man and you are Scot."
"I am a Highlander, and you are a woman. Now that we have established our respective genders and homelands, tell me your name."
Her arms trembled. Tension strained her face. “I am Lady Alera...of Arundrydge."
He snorted and raked her body with a quick insulting gaze. “Tell me, Lady Alera of Arundrydge, what are you doing on my land?"
"I am going home...and I...I am truly a lady.” She blinked rapidly and dropped the sword. Her arms fell to her lap, and she leaned her head back against the tree, peering at him through long dark eyelashes. “I am too tired and weak to fight you right now."
"Somehow I doubt you would win even at full strength."
"Mayhap not, but I would try."
Cocking her head, she peered at him. “Something about you seems familiar. Could we have met at King Henry's court?"
"Never would I go to that Godforsaken place,” he gritted out. “And let me assure you, had we met, I wouldn't have forgotten."
She shrugged then brushed a hand over her cheek, pushing back her hair. A grimace crossed her features as her knuckles grazed a raw spot. “Though we are strangers, I will allow you to help me. Have you a name?"
"I am Duncan, Laird of Clan Ranald, and you do not allow me anything on my own land. I do as I please.” He looked away from her face and rubbed a hand over the tense muscles at his nape. His gaze landed on her legs. Long sleek legs attached to voluptuous hips. Legs that could wrap around a man in a sensual embrace and take him on a rapturous ride. Damn it all! He still wanted her. “How did you end up here half-naked?"
"I was stolen by Viking slavers,” she replied, refusing to meet his gaze.
"And obviously escaped them.” She glanced about nervously, as if seeking divine intervention. An idea born of hatred seeded in his mind. A way to satisfy his lust and have a bit of revenge against the English. He would keep her, but not as his wife. Aye, she would be his leman. How much trouble could he expect from her people? “I suppose your husband will be fretting?"
"I have no husband."
"Your father, then?"
"My father is...believed dead.” A shiver of cold passed through Alera, the first one she had felt. She would surely die if she didn't get warm soon. She was too tired to summon her demon. Oh Lord, no wonder he didn't think her a lady. He had seen her rage. She had no choice but to beseech this barbarian for help. At least he understood English. She didn't know if she could carry on a decent Gaelic conversation in her current state. She hadn't spoken the language since Mama died.
She lifted an apprehensive gaze then quickly looked away. She wasn't about to look into his eyes. They were the most beautiful green she had ever seen—like a flawless summer meadow. But she would likely burst into flames from scorn if she held his gaze. “Will you help me please, Duncan? Will you take me home?"
A satisfied grin crossed his lips. “Aye, Alera. I'll be taking you home."
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Two
The man was definitely a barbarian. He stood back and released a roar that reminded Alera of her papa's battle cry. A chill of fear trickled down her spine, and she shuddered.
Then he let out an ear-piercing whistle. A roan stallion quickly answered the call. Duncan took a plaid roll from his horse's cinch and tossed the bundle to her. “Cover yourself and be quick, else you'll be freezing to death."
"Thank you,” Alera whispered. Her vulnerability shamed her. She tried untying the bundle, but her fingers shook and she couldn't grip the twine. She muttered an unladylike curse, then beseeched forgiveness from Almighty God for her swearing. She would not cry! Saints above, please help her unravel this twine!
Duncan watched the lass fumble with the string, grunted, and sat on his haunches beside her. His nostrils flared, picking up her scent. A sweet divinely feminine fragrance, rather as he imagined an angel's breath would smell. Damn it all, where had that come from? He was no poet. He snatched the plaid from her lap and felt the dampness of her tattered shift.
"Take off that rag,” he ordered in a gruff voice.
"Nay. You may not see me naked even if you are helping me.” She clutched at the rent in the fabric, scooted away by pushing on her tender feet, and flinched.
Duncan grabbed her arms and jerked her back over beside him. “You had best learn now that I'll not tolerate disobedience, and I'll not follow your orders. I can already see your body quite well through that scant rag. Now, get the damn thing off, so we can get you dry and warm."
The lass glared at him before bowing her head. She reached for her girdle and fumbled with the knot. Duncan impatiently moved her hands aside, untied the knot, and freed the cinch. He tore the material the rest of the way down the front and pushed the garment from her shoulders.
She slapped at his hands and tried shielding her breasts and womanhood from his view. “I would cover myself, first."
"You're provoking, lass. The rag is soaked and will wet the blanket."
She continued to struggle. Grabbing her wrists, he pinned her arms to her sides and took a long hard look at her quivering breasts and the triangle of brown curls dipping between her legs. Momentary uncertainty plagued him at the sight of so many injuries. He clenched his jaw and hardened his resolve. She was English, damn it all. And his for the taking. “I have seen all of you now. You have no further cause for modesty."
She narrowed her eyes and pushed at him. “My father would never allow me to be treated like this."
"Then you had best remember I am not your father and he is not here."
Resolving to seek help elsewhere, Alera tried to summon her rage, but the emotion eluded her. Could her fatigue be the reason her demon lay dormant? Who was she fooling? There was no one else to appeal to. And she was powerless against anything this barbarian might do to her in her weakened state.
She sat as rigid as the tree at her back while he removed her shift and spread the plaid over her shoulders. His warm callused hand stroked over the abrasion on her left breast. A wispy sting turned into a tingle that rushed to the pit of her stomach.
Alera gasped and raised startled eyes to his. She couldn't break away from his gaze. He had little flecks of darker green glittering in his eyes that made them look like emerald fires. A mocking grin crossed his lips as if he knew her reaction confused her.
He overlapped the blanket in front of her, lifted her into the cradle of his arms, and turned toward his mount. “The plaid should not feel too rough against your flesh. I have some balm at Laidirkin that will soothe the sting."
He did not seem intent upon ravishing her. She tried to relax, but how could she? Resting so close to Duncan stirred fluttery feelings inside her belly that her fatigued and frenzied mind couldn't quite comprehend. Mama told her how a woman could respond to a man whom she loved. How heady and erratic the sensations. But she didn't love this Duncan, and Mama surely hadn't been talking about savages. Mama meant civilized warriors from King Henry's court, hadn't she?
The Highlands were too cold. Alera wiggled, trying to press closer to Duncan's hot chest. She was too tired to think on Mama's lessons right now. She needed something else to occupy her mind.
"What is Laidir...?” she asked as he mounted his giant stallion.
He settled her on his lap, tucking the plaid so it covered her entire body. “Laidirkin is home."
Alera didn't process his answer. She couldn't. For such a big man, he was gentle with her, and his every touch vibrated through her flesh. His spicy male scent somehow comforted her weary mind as his heat beckoned her. Why did he make her feel so oddly secure? She should be terrified of the power he had over her, shouldn't she?
Her senses were overwhelmed. She would have to think on this later. All she wanted now was warmth and sleep. And he did promise to help her, after all.
She pressed her cheek against his hairy chest and closed her eyes. “I am so cold and tired."
Duncan sighed and pulled her more snugly against him. Her skin burned like ice against his flesh. Damn it all, the lass would probably take a fever and die before he could enjoy her.
"Thank you for saving me, Duncan,” she mumbled. “I have no choice but to trust you even if you are surly. That boar would have killed me if you had not come along."
"Aye, he would have,” he chided. Why in perdition did the thought of her death leave him feeling bereft? She was just a woman and an English one at that. “How long have you been pulling such daft feats?"
She sniffed and rubbed her forehead against his chest. Her hands slipped out from under the plaid and she placed icy palms flat against his flesh. Every muscle in his abdomen flexed with a primordial thrill.
"What feats?” she asked.
"What feats! By Saint Andrew, lassie! How can you ask after baiting that beast?” She turned up her face. He gazed down into flawless sapphire eyes shining with wonder.
"I did, did I not?” Her lips curved into a smug smile. “I always wanted to bait one, but Papa never would let me play.” She yawned then snuggled her cheek against him and patted his chest. “You smell good."
Duncan snorted. The lassie was daft. “Go to sleep. ‘Twill be awhile before we get home."
She surprised him by closing her eyes and following his order. The lass would be quite a prize if she lived and cleaned up as well as he expected. He pulled the plaid over her head and let a slight smile curve his lips. So he smelled good, did he? “Ah, lassie, sure as faith, you're speaking about the first sign of desire."
A rustle in the forest alerted him to the approach of two clansmen. He turned his mount and awaited their arrival.
Kevin, a carrot-headed warrior of an age with Duncan, emerged from the forest on his chestnut mare. “Good heavens, laird! You felled two!"
Duncan chuckled at his first commander's reaction.
Logan, a younger version of Duncan by a year, followed Kevin on a bay mare. Logan raised a brow at the wet curls spilling from the bundle in his brother's arms. “Looks like he caught up with more than the beasts. Who is she?"
"Her name is Alera, and she is my new leman,” Duncan replied in a decisive voice.
"What!” both men cried simultaneously.
Duncan wanted to laugh. He had shocked them good with that one. “No questions now. The lassie is near frozen, and I need to get her warmed. See to the beasties. I will meet you at Laidirkin later.” Duncan broadened his grin. “Oh, and Kevin, I only felled the boar. Alera baited his mate."
Chuckling at their astounded expressions, Duncan reined his roan stallion around and set off for home.
The lass would cause trouble. No doubt about it. She was English, after all. His clan hated the English almost as much as they hated the MacTavishes and the Gilmores. But he was laird and he wanted her. He would have his way.
Duncan's heart swelled at the sight of Laidirkin proudly rising midway up the mountain. His father had built the wooden keep in the last century, and Duncan continually enhanced the fortifications. Gray stone walls now enclosed the original structure. A wooden tower, erected at the southwest corner, provided lookout.
All trees below the keep were cleared, so no enemy could approach unseen. Duncan had directed the clan to build their cottages behind the keep in the dense forest covering the hill. A craggy cliff at the back of the mountain ensured no enemy could approach from that direction, making the keep the clan's primary defense.
A stream along the western aspect of the mountain provided fresh water to all, while the addition of garderobes inside the keep increased his own convenience. A kirk at the eastern wall earned Clan Ranald an added boon—the presence of a resident priest responsible for their spiritual welfare.
He halted his roan before the main entrance and readjusted Alera in his arms. Peeking under the plaid, he frowned. The lass hadn't uttered so much as a moan nor moved in the slightest tremor since closing her eyes. Her stillness was a worry. He would be more optimistic about her chances if she at least shivered.
"Where is Papa?” a young lad with curly brown hair called, racing toward them.
Duncan grinned at his seven-year-old nephew and tossed his reins to the lad. “Hello to you too, Craig. Your papa will be along soon enough. He is hauling back a couple of swine. Would you do me the favor of taking Rufus to the stables?"
"Goshens!” Pleasure flickered in Craig's hazel eyes as he delighted over having such an important duty.
Duncan tossed his right leg over Rufus’ neck and slid to the ground with Alera in his arms. “Be sure you walk him well and tell Auggie to give him an extra handful of oats."
"I will.” Craig reached out and petted Rufus's nose while raising a solemn gaze to Duncan. “I tried to see Megan, but she still will not play."
Duncan clenched his jaw as a pang lanced his heart at the mention of his six-year-old daughter. Megan had lost all vitality with her mother's death. He appreciated Craig's continued concern for her. Many in the clan thought her beyond help. “Then, we will just have to keep trying, will we not?"
"Aye, we will,” Craig replied with a determined nod. “I'll be trying again on the morrow. Who is that?” he asked, gazing toward the bundled plaid where chestnut curls spilled out.
Damn it all, the first questions asked would have to come from a wee lad. He wasn't about to tell Logan's son about lemans. “Her name is Alera, and she is a fierce huntress."
"As fierce as Aife?” Craig referred to the legendary female warrior.
"Mayhap, fiercer. I saw this brave lassie bait a wild sow and then whack the pig's head open with a sword."
"Goshens!” Craig's pixie face glowed with excitement. “She sounds like my grandma. Think she will take me boar baiting later?"
"Nay, I am forbidding the game.” Duncan frowned so Craig would know he meant his words. “Now, go see to Rufus. Alera has taken a chill, so you'll have to meet her after she gets well."
The lad led the horse around the building. Duncan turned and ascended the twenty-five steps up to the landing.
Geddes, a burly blond warrior who served as Duncan's second commander, strode out to greet him. “How was the—
?"
Geddes’ pale-blue eyes widened and his jaw dropped at the sight of Alera's hair spilling out of the plaid. Duncan grinned. “Hello, Geddes. Close your mouth before you catch a fly and do me the favor of sending someone for Marcail. I went hunting and want her to tend my catch. Then see about getting some men to bring the long tub up to my chamber and fill it."
Duncan winked at Geddes and brushed past the stunned warrior into the keep's hall. He headed for the stairs set against the left wall in the large chamber
A young, grimy girl played with a dirty rag doll on the bottom step. She glanced up, and her emerald eyes clouded with fear. Releasing a short, high-pitched squeal, she skittered away and dashed out the rear door of the hall.
Duncan wistful gaze followed his witless daughter. Damn it all, what miracle would it take to transform Megan back into the charming faerie sprite who loved him before her mother's death? What penance must he serve?
He released a weary sigh and climbed the stairs. His mother-in-law sauntered toward him, wearing her usual sneer and rich English apparel.
"Well, well, well, and what has the mighty Laird Ranald brought home from his hunt—a she-dog, perhaps?"
Duncan glowered at the mockery in her dark-brown eyes and proceeded past her. “You know the rules, Isobel. Unless you have a problem with Megan, get out of my sight."
"Megan has done well all day, laird,” she jeered at his back. “Of course that may change. You are home now."
He responded to Isobel's taunt by pushing open his chamber door with his shoulder and kicking it shut behind him. If the bitch weren't the only person Megan allowed near her without a fuss, he would gladly kick the shrew's haughty arse across the Lowlands into England where she belonged.
He crossed the room and placed Alera on the bed. She didn't rouse. He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers then settled his palm against her neck. Her icy flesh sent chills up his arm. Hell, considering her shallow breathing, ashen complexion, and those blue lips, she probably wouldn't survive. But damn it all, he would try.
