Meg kissed him back, her hands reaching around to touch along his jaw, down along his bare chest. The kiss ended as they both sought breath against each other’s lips.
“Your heart is wild,” she murmured.
“Strong enough to withstand hours of battle or one of your kisses.” He feathered another one across her lips before lowering her. Caden still hugged her into his chest, not yet ready to release her. Hell, he’d never be ready to release her. Damn, what was he doing? She was a captive, a pawn to force peace. He was using her to save his people.
He relinquished his hold and pulled back. “Like I said, lass. ’Tis dangerous to walk the halls at night.”
The sight of her hitched his breath. She was rumpled and flushed, her robe falling open to reveal sheer white fabric barely concealing the rosy tips of her nipples. Her hair had been ravished by his fingers, her lips swollen by his kisses. She stood solitary, open and vulnerable, even bewildered.
“Was this…just to prove your point?” she asked, still breathless.
He heard the hurt in her voice even though the words sounded angry. He should say yes, hurt her now, so the pain later wouldn’t be so much worse. His gut twisted into a knot like the one on a deadly swinging noose.
Caden rubbed his hand across his jaw. “Did it?”
Fury blended with hurt in her face. Tears and outrage warred in her eyes. She pivoted and started for the dark steps.
Bloody hell! Caden grabbed her candle and charged after her. “Meg, stop.”
She halted but didn’t turn around. He spoke to the back of her head. “Perhaps I told myself it was to warn ye, perhaps it was just because I wanted to taste ye again.” He moved close enough to inhale the clean scent of her hair as he breathed. “My control dissolved at yer first touch. Yer senses revealed my response.”
Meg’s stance relaxed, but she didn’t turn around. He placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her slightly so that she could meet his gaze. “It was wrong, though. Ye are a…guest here, lass, and I took liberties.”
“Perhaps I should leave here soon, then,” she said.
The thought of her absence was like a little gnawing hole in Caden. He ignored it. “I’ll send word to the Munros.”
She took the candle from his hand. “Thank you,” she said and walked up the turning steps. He watched the lovely sway until she disappeared around a curve.
Now to figure exactly what his “word” to the Munros would be.
…
How dare she kiss him! Firelight danced along the wall, but the spying woman stood back in the black maw of an archway. Shadows hid the hot tears pooling in her narrowed eyes.
“Little English whore,” the dark figure hissed, just a scant sound above a breath. Caden Macbain’s kiss had grabbed the woman’s heart and twisted the bruised organ until even the simple act of inhaling hurt. Meg Boswell was a witch! She’d admitted it!
She was supposed to be a captive, prisoner of the dungeons beneath Druim, friend of rats and fever down in the depths of the castle. Not a guest, and definitely not a woman deserving of Caden Macbain’s kisses. What was he thinking? He must be spelled. That’s it. She spelled him with witchcraft!
The woman slid further into shadow as Caden walked past, back to the fire. She inhaled silently and imagined the warm masculine smell of the chief of Druim, laird of the Macbains, and possibly her future husband. Ha! Not now! Fury poured out with the soundless tears, coating her with armor, shielding her heart. Not now! If Gilbert Davidson wanted information, information that would punish Caden for his treachery, then he would have it. And if Meg happened to have an unfortunate accident while at Druim, then Caden couldn’t use her for his beloved peace and he certainly couldn’t kiss her again.
The woman’s face contorted into a mischievous grin under the mask of shadow as she watched Caden grab his sword and shirt and step out into the night. The angry tears cooled on her cheeks, drying away as a plan took root, a plan shaped by vengeance, a plan to keep the anguish away. Aye, the Highlands were dangerous. Accidents and risk abounded, especially for a weak English witch.
…
Caden and Ewan stepped out into the courtyard that sparkled with early morning frost. Warriors sparred in the field just outside the wall. Young lads with wooden swords mimicked their movements, even down to the wipe of a brow, a spit, and a curse.
“Ho!” A man on horseback rounded the corner of one cottage and slowed from a fast trot to a walk. Two of Caden’s perimeter guards flanked him. “I seek the chief, Caden Macbain.”
“I am he. Who are you?” Caden called and slid his sword free.
The man dismounted, a folded missive in his callused hand. “William Fraser, passing along a message from the court at Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh?”
“Aye.”
“We seldom hear news from so far east.”
Caden sheathed his sword, though tension remained in his shoulders. He took the parchment. “Come inside and refresh yourself.” He signaled for the man’s horse to be taken to pasture and water. “Frasers from the south, then?”
“Aye,” the man answered on his heel.
Caden signaled his guards, who left the messenger to return to their post. Ewan followed.
“I would have you wait for a missive to your chief,” Caden said. Asking for food caught at his pride. One last glance at the lads sparring and laughing in the field pushed the words from his mouth. “We are in need of oats here and any other surplus your clan might be able to spare.”
The man’s face pinched in confusion. “I will let my chief know of your need.”
Caden unrolled the parchment and scanned down the formal, flowing script. He signaled Jonet, who was cleaning up from the morning meal, to take the messenger to the kitchens for some food.
When the man left the hall, Caden tossed the parchment to Ewan. The three council members walked over.
“Bloody hell!” Caden cursed. “Lies.”
Ewan read the missive that still held the broken wax seal of James V of Scotland on one edge. His brow furrowed. “Since when are you helping King Henry spread his Protestant reformation up here in the Highlands?”
“Lies,” Caden repeated, his mind searching. Had someone reported that he’d recently visited England? Did they say he was helping Protestants? There was no mention of kidnapping. He thought of Meg and their kiss the night before. He shouldn’t have lost control. Bloody hell!
“Munro?” Ewan asked. “The missive doesn’t say who’s accused you.”
“Bloody bastard,” Angus cursed.
Kenneth leaned into Ewan’s shoulder and read out loud for the other two elders. “Caden Macbain is to cease his heretical and traitorous views and actions immediately or the full weight of the Scottish crown will fall upon him and his clan.”
“Cac,” Bruce swore and stifled a burp. “I say we raid Munro tonight. Storm the castle, too!”
Caden sat, his mind folding around this new information. Did it make sense for Munro to involve the crown to save his niece? There hadn’t been time for the old man to send a complaint to King James since Meg’s arrival. Could this have been a plan of his from before? Perhaps that was why he delayed in sending a reply concerning Meg. Or was there someone else plotting against the Macbains, as Rachel Munro had suggested?
He turned to Ewan. “Compose a response that refutes the charges and asks who is spreading such damning lies.”
Caden slammed his fist into his other hand. If the world demanded war, then so be it. “No word from Munro by the festival and we ride the following night,” he said striding toward the door. “Prepare a plan of attack.”
…
“I’m desperately in need of some herbs,” Meg said to Donald, and shook a little vial that only contained the dust of comfrey. “I need to find some before the winter covers us over.” This was true, but she also just wanted to get away for a while. She needed to sort out what had happened last night, how she could have lost control with Ca
den.
“I don’t think Caden would like ye to venture out of the village,” Donald warned, his eyes uneasy.
“You’ll be with me and we will stay at the edge of the forest on Macbain land. Fiona said the forest grows an abundance of garlic bulbs, feverfew, and Devil’s bit. Although it’s late in the season, I’d like to see if I can find any. And mushrooms for the festival. I know which ones are safe.”
“Ye are safer here.” He crossed arms, his gaze roaming the bailey.
Hmmm, creativity was needed to sway the man. Just an exaggeration, not a full-out lie. She sighed. “Gellis has that ear ache.” She shook her head and ignored her guilty flush. “And Ann, well…”
His gaze came around. “Something ails Ann?”
She scuffed the heel of her boot in the pebbly dirt. Ann had an irregular menstrual cycle, and Meg could tell from a touch that she was fine, but the feverfew could help bring on Ann’s flux when it was late. She hated to worry Donald, but she was so cooped up in the castle and did need the herbs. A ride out was worth the price of a little exaggeration. “I shouldn’t really say.” She worked concern into her eyes. “’Tis a womanly issue.”
“A womanly issue,” Donald repeated and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat.
“Aye, and Fiona and I are completely out of feverfew.”
He huffed long and ushered Meg toward the stables. “I suppose we can just ride to the edge and peek into the forest to see if ye see this plant.”
Pippen stretched his legs as they flew across the moor toward the soaring trees. The cold sting of winter air melted under the strength of the sunrays shining down on Meg’s face. The leaves had changed color and most had dropped to the ground.
“Slow down,” Donald called from behind as they neared the forest edge.
Meg circled Pippen in a wide ring. She ran her gloved hand down his neck and leaned in. “I know.” She hugged the horse and scratched him between the ears. She stopped Pippen just inside the tree line and dismounted. “Free to run a bit. This time without wolves biting at your hooves.”
Donald followed suit.
She unfolded a clean cloth and gathered small chanterelle mushrooms hidden amongst the moss. A little further in, she spotted the creamy white cap of the hedgehog mushroom. She ran ahead to dig it up and heard Donald mumbling behind her.
“These will add wonderful flavor to a goose dish for the festival,” Meg called. Her eye caught a patch of withered feverfew at the base of a tall pine tree. She sunk to her knees. “Just what I need.”
Crack!
Meg jumped at the sudden explosive noise. She stood and whirled around at the sound of Donald’s deep groan. He slumped to his knees and fell over into the leaf litter.
“Donald!” Meg ran to the fallen man. A large dead tree limb lay next to him. She glanced around but saw no one. A broken stump stood out from the tree trunk several feet above. How often did large tree limbs just let go and fall when someone stood beneath? Her eyes narrowed and she once more scrutinized the surrounding forest, but couldn’t see anyone.
She probed the back of Donald’s head. Her sensitive touch told her that he had some bruising around his brain where the heavy limb had struck, along with some minor bleeding on his scalp.
Aunt Rachel’s words swam through the worry in Meg’s mind. Envision the body being normal.
She placed her hands on Donald’s chest and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and summoned the blue light, imagining it pushing into the man. Meg followed the path of muscles and bone through Donald’s body until she reached his injured head, imagining the brain healthy and clean, no blood.
“What’s going on here?” A man’s voice shot through her so hard that she gasped and fell backward. Her eyes snapped open, her gaze shooting around the trees.
“I…I…” Panic at being caught using her light choked her words. “He’s been hurt. I was but trying to help.”
A strong hand clasped her upper arm and pulled her to standing. Good Lord, what had he seen?
“Are ye hurt, lass?” He set her away from him and knelt to inspect her fallen friend. The man’s voice was friendly and he had a mouth full of white teeth. He was tall and broad with a handsome face. His dark hair was clipped along with a short beard. He dressed and spoke like a Highlander. The man stood, his head tipped back to study the tree stump. “He’s got a nasty bump on the head. Rotten piece of luck, that.”
Meg breathed in relief that the accent wasn’t English.
He glanced around before gazing back at her. “May I be of assistance?”
“Yes, I need to get Donald back to Druim. Just there, through the woods. I am Meg…a guest at Druim.” Best not to give the stranger her full name. Although her accent told him she was English.
He led her toward Pippen, who stood just inside the tree line. “And I am Gilbert. Gilbert Davidson, a neighbor and friend to the Macbains.”
“The one providing the grain for our harvest festival?”
“I wish I could do more,” he said with a bob of his head.
“Thank you very much for what you can give.” Meg took hold of her saddle. She yanked down on it, her foot in the rung of the stirrup, when the leather snapped. She fell back into Gilbert Davidson’s arms.
“Good God ye’ve had a run of bad luck today,” he said with a chuckle, and turned her toward him.
The hairs on the back of Meg’s neck prickled as she realized that she was pressed between Pippen and this large man’s chest. The man gave off an overbearing vibe. Perhaps it was because he stood so close. When she’d met the Macbains, all of the men stayed well away from her.
Not Gilbert Davidson. They were also very much alone, out in the woods with no witnesses and no one knowing that she was gone from Druim. She was trapped.
“Ye are a bonny lass.” He spoke much too close.
She turned and he frowned, changing his handsome features into something far darker. “The leather seems like it’s been sliced through. Thank the Lord ye didn’t plunge off yer horse.”
Meg swallowed hard. How could it have been cut? The sharp edge of the leather showed that it hadn’t just torn.
“I can’t allow ye to ride all the way back to Druim bareback, milady.”
“I can take Donald’s horse,” Meg countered, her gaze flicking about. The horse was missing.
“Never fear,” he said with a gallant bow, “I still have my steed. I will take ye.”
He grabbed her elbow and propelled her over to his horse.
“Really,” Meg said, “I can ride Pippen back without a saddle.”
“Too dangerous.” He lifted her up onto his horse. His hands lingered around her waist and her stomach fluttered up into her throat. He jumped up behind her, settling his thighs intimately around her hips. She grabbed a tuft of mane as the horse jumped forward into a canter.
Gilbert leaned close to her ear. “Ye have such a lovely accent. Is home England?”
“Druim is the other way,” Meg said, trying to keep her tone casual, but her heartbeat thumped wildly.
“I know a short cut,” he said as he dodged between the trees.
“There is no shorter route than straight across the moor,” she said. Her eyes shifted amongst the trees. Where was he taking her? Anywhere besides the safe haven of Druim would be disastrous, even deadly. Foolish! Feebleminded! What was she thinking?
He laughed. “What does an English lass know of the Highlands?”
Meg clung to the horse with her thighs and fingers as Gilbert veered around trees. “You’re going too fast.”
He snaked one solid arm around her middle, pulling her back against him. “There now, I will not let ye fall.”
Movement ahead through the woods hitched Meg’s shallow breath. She gasped as Gilbert’s horse pawed its front hooves in the air and dropped back to earth with a high whinny, jarring her teeth.
“Cac!” Gilbert swore.
Caden sat on his warhorse just two trees away. The cl
amping panic in Meg’s chest unfurled into hope and complete trust that her hero would rescue her.
“Caden!” Meg would have jumped off Gilbert’s horse if the oaf wasn’t clasping her to him like a shield.
Caden raised one hand and six Macbain warriors surrounding them unsheathed their swords in unison. He brought up the dirk from his boot and pointed it at Gilbert. “One twitch from me, Davidson, and Ewan will skewer you through your back.”
Meg remained still, her eyes trained on Caden’s strong jaw. Everyone seemed to hold their breaths.
“God’s teeth, Macbain!” The man’s blood rushed fast, his heart pounding with alarm. “I was but rescuing the lass. Her saddle’s girth strap was cut.”
“Rescuing?” Caden didn’t even blink. “Taking her back to your holding, you mean. You’re headed south.”
“I got turned around,” he said, and slowly raised his hands out to the side. “Could you fault me? She’s lovely. I but lost my train of thought.”
Before Meg could even consider arguing that point, Caden’s charger lunged toward her, missing her legs by a brush of horsehair. In one swoop of his iron-like arm, he lifted her from Gilbert’s seat and spun his horse in a tight loop. She leaned into his warm chest. Pine and leather scent completely enveloped her, soothing and thrilling at the same time. Meg’s senses picked up Caden’s tight muscles throughout his body, poised to attack. His heart beat a strong rhythm, pumping blood to his extremities, and his pupils dilated.
Every part of his body was prepared to rip Gilbert Davidson in two.
Gilbert had reared back in his saddle when Caden had advanced. He now leaned forward without seeming to care that six swords still pointed toward him. “Ye grab the lass like she was a possession, Macbain,” Gilbert said in English, and shrugged. “Like a lover.”
He winked at Meg, who just stared in shock at the man’s audacity. “Or…a captive.”
Meg’s sensitive gift told her that Caden’s muscles tensed to flick the dirk he still held. Didn’t the idiot know that his taunts would snap Caden’s control? Could killing the chief of another clan cause a feud between them? She couldn’t be the start of something so dreadful. She needed a distraction.
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