Highland Captive

by Mary McCall

  "She belongs where I want her. After I tire of her, I do not give a damn what she does.” Duncan turned and headed for the rear entrance, calling over his shoulder, “I hope the English do retaliate. My blade will surely dispatch a few of them to their sire in Hell."

  Duncan slammed the door behind him and strode toward the stream. Why had he not told them the truth? The lass would probably be here until the day he died, because he didn't think he would ever tire of her.

  When he had gone only a few yards, the door banged behind him, followed by running footsteps. A moment later, Father Cunningham's short, wiry frame trotted alongside, trying to keep up with Duncan's angry strides. He increased his pace. The priest lifted his frock hem and ran to keep up.

  "You'll not ignore me, Laird Ranald,” Father shouted, indignation in his tone.

  A muscle flexed in Duncan's jaw. “You'll not preach to me, Father Cunningham."

  "Wait a moment, lad.” Father stopped and placed a hand over his panting chest. “Let me have my say now. I promise I'll not pester you over the matter again."

  Duncan faced the priest and crossed his arms over his chest. “Speak."

  Father Cunningham pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiped the top of his shiny bald head, then squinted up at Duncan. “I've known you since you were a wee bairn. You were one of the first I ever baptized. Over the years, I watched you grow into a fine laird, loved and respected by your people. But since your father's death, I've watched hatred eat away at your soul like a demon at a sin festival. This woman you've taken, does she agree to your intentions?"

  "The decision is mine,” Duncan said in an unyielding manner. “I have not discussed it with her."

  "Have you considered marrying the lass if you're wanting her so?"

  Duncan grunted. “I'll not marry another English woman."

  "I'll not berate you, laird, though Almighty God knows ‘tis my duty.” Father sighed and looked Duncan in the eye. “You know ‘tis a sin you're planning. This vengeance against an innocent will bring you naught but grief. Stealing an unwilling lass to wed is common enough in these parts. But stealing a lass and making her your leman...” He shook his head and sighed. “Just consider ‘tis a sin you're forcing on someone who may want no part of it. ‘Tis a greater sin to take a soul to hell by force than anything the English ever did to you and this clan.

  "Now I've had my say. You know right from wrong. If you go through with this and decide you wish to wed later, just say the word.” Without waiting for a reply, Father Cunningham headed back to the keep.

  Duncan wiped a hand over his face in frustration. Damn it all, Alera would be his leman and like it. Besides, she was English and the enemy. He just had to remember that fact.

  Still, Father had planted his seed of conscience, and a small vine of guilt began choking the seedling of Duncan's revenge.

  Her nightmare couldn't have been any worse.

  Mid-morning sunbeams glided through the window and danced across the bed. Alera blinked open heavy lids. A massive stretch moved through her body. She grimaced as sudden jabs of pain from sore stiff muscles dashed away the sense of unreality hovering about her. Why did she ache so?

  She raised her arms and frowned at the bruises and scrapes marring her flesh. What had happened that she should be so marked? Why had Twyla not awakened her? And why was her chamber so cold?

  A shiver passed through her and she reached for the covers. Seeing the blue-and-green-checkered blanket, she gasped. “Henry, help me, my nightmare was real!"

  She recalled Uncle Mortimer attacking her, escaping to her sea cove, being abducted by giant Vikings, escaping into the stormy sea, and being caught by the biggest, most barbaric, rudest, and handsomest Highlander Almighty God ever made. He had said he would take her home, then...

  "O Lord, Henry, the barbarian saw me naked.” Alera groaned and covered her burning cheeks with her hands. She could never face him. No man had ever seen her in such a state or touched her with such familiarity. The savage had actually caressed her breast.

  And what was that rush she had felt? ‘Twas like a thousand birds had flapped their wings inside her belly. No other man had ever made her feel that way. Was this what Mama meant when she spoke of lust? Saints above, was she a wanton to respond thusly?

  She wiped a hand across the side of her face and winced as her bruised cheek throbbed. What was that smell? She sniffed her arm. ‘Twas nightshade and litharge and... She took another whiff. Frankincense? Did the barbarian have a kirk nearby? Frankincense was rare and hard to come by without a connection to the Holy Land, despite its healing properties. She sniffed again. There was even a touch of lavender and rose to sweeten the scent.

  Well, here was a huge favor. Someone had rubbed her down with a soothing balm. From what she saw of her flesh, she would probably be in agony without it. At least the barbarian had servants looking after her. And he did promise to help her get home.

  Mayhap he was like Papa—mean and surly on the outside but with a giant heart he tried to hide. Papa always looked gruff and acted grouchy, but she never doubted his love for her.

  Well, that was that. She would just apply Mama's lesson. She would be nonjudgmental, listen to all he said, and search for the truth. Eventually, the real man would show through the surliness. He would take her home and maybe even help her kill Uncle Mortimer.

  She would apply Mama's other lesson, too. She would smile and act graciously toward the barbarian. Even if it killed her. Mama always said no trouble was so great that a smile couldn't make it smaller. Alera snorted. ‘Twould take a gigantic smile to make the barbarian seem less than monumental. Mayhap it would help if she started thinking of him as Duncan and not the barbarian.

  She would put her foot down, though, aye, she would. She would explain to Duncan that he wouldn't see her naked again. She was a lady, after all. He probably only acted so casually about her nudity because he went around half-naked. She would tell him she preferred several layers of gowns.

  She gasped. “Saints above, I have not a stitch of clothes!"

  Alera sat up and glanced about. Across the chamber, a tub filled with water sat beside a chair and a pile of pelts before a huge stone hearth. A few lazy embers glowed beneath the grate. An ablution table, cluttered with a basin, a flagon, a cup and a wadded cloth, stood against the wall to her left beside a tall window. On her opposite side, two screens stood against the far wall. A small table stood beside the bed, holding another basin filled with water, a cup, a few phials and jars, and several damp cloths.

  A disgusted shudder wracked through her. The bed covers seemed clean enough, but the whole place could use a thorough dusting and scrubbing. Duncan's wife certainly lacked a knack for tending the keep. She would never let a guest chamber at Arundrydge become so dirty.

  Her near to bursting bladder forced her thoughts to more immediate needs. She scooted over to the edge of the bed, and the covers fell away. Seeing her mottled flesh and wounds, she groaned. “Lord, Henry, I look a fright."

  She lowered her feet to the cold wooden floor and hissed as sharp pains jabbed up her legs. She sucked in her breath at the sight of her swollen, cut-up feet. People died from such wounds. ‘Twas unwise to walk upon them.

  A shiver of urgency tingled through her, and she gritted her teeth. “Henry, help me, I have no choice. Just get me to a privy fast."

  She grabbed a pelt from the bed and wrapped the soft fur around her. Leaning against the wall for support, she limped to the screen on the right far wall. She sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving upon finding a modern garderobe and made quick use of the facility.

  Fatigue crashed upon her as she exited the screen. She leaned her forehead against the wall for a moment as shivers rippled through her and her teeth chattered. “I need fire."

  Taking a deep breath, she painstakingly hobbled as far as the bed then threw herself face down upon the mattress. Tears poured from her eyes. All her body would freeze to death except her feet. They were going to burn
up while shooting darts up her legs with each slamming beat of her heart.

  An agonized moment passed before Alera rolled over and drew one foot upon the opposite knee. Her poor sole bled from cracks and scabs and desperately needed soaking. Mayhap she could at least ease the blaze back to a low flame.

  She moved to the head of the bed, grabbed a cloth from the side table, and dipped it into the water basin. Wrapping the cool damp linen around her foot soothed some of the fire, and she released a long sigh. She tied the cloth in place and repeated the procedure with the other foot.

  After scooting to the foot of the bed, she carefully lowered her wrapped feet. A groan escaped her as they touched the floor. She limped to the pile of pelts, spread one on the ground in front of the hearth, and fell to her knees upon the soft fur. After adding three logs to the grate, she tossed on a handful of peat and blew upon the embers until they sparked.

  With the fire started, she sat back. Her stomach griped as if she had been on a Lenten fast. What was she supposed to do about food? She couldn't walk any farther. Her only option was to await a servant. And saints above, she was exhausted.

  She grabbed another pelt from the pile and pulled the warm fur over her body. Stretching out on her side, she stared into the growing flames. She felt so wretched and alone. “Henry, where are you? I am in desperate need of a miracle now."

  Slumber taunted her with a promise of escape. Her eyes drifted shut. A fat tear rolled from her cheek and fell to the soft fur below.

  Duncan entered his chamber, carrying a tray in one hand, and saw the empty bed. Where in perdition was the wee fool? She should have known to await him and not be gadding about.

  An ember popped, drawing his gaze to the built-up fire. Chestnut curls flowed from under a pelt in front of the hearth. He smugly raised one corner of his mouth. So, the lass missed him after losing his body heat, did she?

  He nudged the door closed, placed the tray on the foot of the bed, and crossed over to her. One wrapped foot peeked from beneath the fur. He frowned at the fresh blood on the linen. She never should have risked walking on those feet, damn it all.

  Pulling back the fur revealed her tear-streaked face. Poor lass. She probably felt vulnerable—a lassie alone in a strange land, separated from all she knew.

  Hell.

  He wouldn't allow his mind to go there. He didn't want to care for Alera. He just wanted to bed her.

  He shook her shoulder. “Alera, wake up."

  A shriek escaped as her eyes flew wide. Her body snapped into a ridged roll away from his touch. He grabbed her and pulled her back before she landed in the fire. “I said wake up, lass, not burn up."

  Alera looked up. Duncan stared down at her through burning green eyes. Averting her gaze, she pushed a fallen curl from her cheek with a shaky hand and took deep breaths to relax her panicked heart. The barbarian had said he would help her get home. She was not some flighty coward. She must focus on smiling and being gracious.

  She cleared her throat. “You startled me."

  "Obviously."

  She tried to smile. “I am not used to having a man wake me, but I am glad you are here. Are we at Laidir—?"

  "Aye. We are at Laidirkin.” His gaze dipped to her cleavage.

  Alera's face burned as though he had caressed her. She gulped and pulled the pelt up to her neck. He was a barbarian. A ruggedly handsome barbarian. Of course, Mama always said she had to act like a lady, no matter the company she was in. “I am not going to let your manners bother me, Duncan, Laird of Clan Ranald. I am going to follow Mama's lesson if it kills me."

  "Pelts belong on beds."

  "They belong on people if they have nothing else to wear. You surely know I do not, because you ripped off the only garment I had."

  "Never presume to instruct me, Alera."

  "Why not?” she asked, unable to conceal her irritation at the order. No one spoke to her this way, and she wasn't about to tolerate it from this barbarian.

  Duncan took hold of her jaw, his emerald gaze boring into hers. “Never question my orders."

  His grip wasn't tight, but his fingers branded her flesh like a red-hot iron. And his eyes. Why, they were so intense he could probably will a stallion away from a mare in heat. And why did she suddenly find it so hard

  to breathe?

  She knocked his hand away and favored him with a disgruntled frown. “Do not be so surly. I am trying to understand why I should not instruct you. ‘Tis a rather ridiculous order. How are you going to take me home unless I instruct you about how to get me there?"

  Long thin braids drew back his hair at his temples, and a twig dangled from the strands. Wasn't that just like Papa? Duncan probably didn't even realize it was there. She reached up, removed the twig then smoothed his hair back in place and smiled. “There now."

  Duncan clenched his jaw and peered at her through hooded eyes. Was the wench planning to seduce him in repayment for taking her home? Mayhap her mama's lessons were naught but using feminine wiles to get whatever she wanted.

  "I look a fright. ‘Tis why you stare so hard, is it not?” Her lower lip trembled, and she looked away. “I do not usually bruise so easily, but Uncle Mortimer got in a few har—” she hiccupped, “hard hits when he tried to...to rape...and Askel—” She grabbed a strand of hair and self-consciously coiled the curl around her finger. “Well, he...rough...tossing me...banged boat."

  She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with her hair. “I do not usually cry. I get...angry.” She sniffed and shook her head slightly. “Smile and be a gracious serene lady. That is what Mam...I am so afraid. That is not like me, either. You do not like me, and I...I need...need to beg a favor..."

  She dashed the back of her hand over her face. “Please forgive me. I cannot help rambling, and there is no one else to help."

  Damn it all! How was he supposed to remain aloof when she was so afraid? She sounded like she had been through hell, too. The lass had grit, but she had obviously reached her wits end. All creation knew he couldn't stand to see a woman abused or in distress. She not only looked vulnerable, but now she appeared younger than he originally thought. English or not, even if he wasn't keeping her, he'd never allow her near her despicable uncle again. He was going to have to prove himself better than the English. She needed protection, and truthfully, he wanted her more for lust than revenge, anyway. Aye, he would still be bedding the lass, but he would marry her, too.

  Duncan sighed. “My wife's clothes chest is behind the left screen. You're more endowed than she was, but there should be something that fits you well enough."

  She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers, still not looking at him. “Will your wife not mind?"

  "My wife is dead.” His answer was more clipped than he intended, but damn it all, her voice held a deep throaty quality that flowed over him like a lover's caress. Was she some kind of enchantress that she could bewitch him so?

  She turned her sadness toward him and placed a delicately boned hand upon his forearm. “I am sorry."

  A tingle rushed from her fingertips to sizzle around his heart. The muscles in Duncan's abdomen flexed and he hooded his eyes. He didn't understand the power the lass had over him, but he wouldn't allow her to see it. “I'm not."

  Her brows drew together in puzzlement. “Pardon me?"

  "She was English."

  Alera glanced away and snatched her hand from his arm. She coiled another strand around her finger. “I need another favor, Duncan. I hate to ask, but I need you to let me stay for a few days before you take me to Arundrydge. When I got out of the sea, my feet were numb. I injured them so badly that I cannot walk."

  A slow smile crossed Duncan's face. “No need to worry. They will be well healed before you leave here. Would you care for something to eat?"

  "Please. I am famished. Why did you not wake me when we arrived?"

  Duncan set the tray on the floor beside her. “I did."

  "I do not remember.” Alera popped a bite of oatcake into her mout
h. She grimaced as she chewed then swallowed and took a big gulp of milk. “Well, I appreciate the nap. I needed it."

  "Nap?” A fine white mustache coated above her upper lip. He rolled his eyes, then dipped a cloth in water, grabbed her jaw, and gently patted the film away. “Faith, lassie, this is your fifth day here."

  "Fifth day!” What was he doing to her? All those birds were flapping their wings inside her again. Her heart thumped so fast she expected a hole to burst in her chest. And he smelled fine, all musky and spicy. Why, he reminded her of a forest after a mellow summer rain. She leaned slightly toward him and looked into his eyes. She forgot to breathe. Saints above, she could get lost in his eyes.

  Duncan finished wiping her lip then cupped her jaw with a callused palm. He rubbed his thumb pad over her lower lip, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “Aye, ‘tis your fifth day."

  Alera jerked backward, frowning over her response to him. Her mouth still tingled from his touch. She placed a hand over her slamming heart. He had sent vibrations into her flesh to caress her all over. He even looked as if he knew how she felt.

  "If this is...” She cleared her throat and looked away from his mesmerizing gaze toward his chest. That didn't help much. The man had a massive chest. “If this is my fifth day here, then Daryl must be frantic. Can we get word to him?"

  Duncan snapped his brows together. “Who in perdition is Daryl?"

  Alera winced from the menace in his tone. She didn't feel like herself today. “My cousin, though he seems more a brother. He had planned to take me to Londontown, so my godfather could protect me from my uncle. Only I was stolen away before he had a chance."

  "Your godfather is a powerful man, then?” he asked in a grating tone.

  "He thinks he is.” Alera chuckled over her private jest, feeling suddenly better because she wasn't alone. She took a bite of lumpy porridge that almost gagged her but she needed the sustenance and swallowed anyway. She looked back at Duncan and grinned. “I am sure he will reward you well for taking me home. Would you prefer coin, a title, a holding, or all three?"