“Let me go!” she cried, kicking with her legs and fighting to free herself.
“I’ll do no such thing, lassie. Not until you apologize.”
“For what!” Her cat-like green eyes flashed with fire.
“For thumping me on the head just now. I suspect that’ll leave a mark.”
She grunted with frustration and continued to struggle, pumping her hips like a bucking filly while Darach straddled her firmly.
Logan descended the slope and moved to stand over them. Seeming unconcerned by their tussle, he withdrew an apple from his sporran and crunched into it while he watched the woman wiggle and squirm.
“Who is she?” he casually asked while chewing.
“None of your damn business!” she yelled, but her accent revealed that she was Scottish.
Logan bent forward over her face. “You’re on MacDonald lands now, lassie, so that makes it very much our business.” He took another bite of the apple.
“Get off me!” she ground out, then she let out a frustrated huff and finally relaxed.
For a few critical seconds, Darach’s brain seemed to stop functioning at the sensation of their joined hips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman, and this one was as comely as any he’d ever met.
“That’s better, lass,” he said, mentally shaking himself out of any lusty thoughts about the woman who had just tried to bash his head in. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.”
Chest heaving, she shut her eyes and took a moment to catch her breath, which allowed Darach time to examine her features more closely.
She was young and small—rather waiflike, in fact, except for a lush bosom that caused his blood to course a little faster through his veins. She wore a blue bodice over a simple white linen chemise and dark skirt. There was no sign of any tartan, which was why, at first glance, he’d thought she was English.
The lass took a deep steadying breath which drew Darach’s attention again to her bosom, where he lingered a moment. Then his eyes returned to her flushed cheeks, soft open mouth and disheveled, blood-stained hair. Tangled and messy, it reached nearly to her waist, splayed out on the forest floor beneath her.
“Tell us where you come from lass,” he said, “and why you got into a scuffle with the Redcoats.”
She frowned up at him, as if she were bewildered by the question, then she blinked a few times. “I don’t feel very well.”
He stared down at her with some concern as her eyes grew empty and unseeing. Then she bucked again for a few alarming seconds, as if possessed by some sort of demon, and passed out.
Darach released his hold on her wrists, leaned forward, and tapped her on the cheek. “Lassie, are you all right? Wake up. Wake up!”
“Is she alive?” Logan asked, kneeling down beside him and tossing the apple core away.
Darach found the pulse at her neck. “Aye, but she’s in a sorry state. We need to get her back to the castle. Angus will have questions about what happened here, and she’s the only one who can answer.”
Logan’s eyes lifted and grew dark with unease. “There may be others.”
“Aye.” Darach considered that. Then he stood up and looked around. All was quiet.
He surveyed the grade of the slope. “She can’t weigh much. I’ll carry her up over my shoulder. You go ahead and gather as many weapons as you can from the dead. Check the saddle bags and pockets of every horse and soldier. We need information.”
Logan nodded and climbed back up to the road while Darach gazed down at the unconscious beauty at his feet.
She had spirit, to be sure, but who was she? And what part had she played in the ambush?
Wasting no more time thinking about the hows and whys, he squatted down, slipped his hands beneath her small, fragile frame, and hoisted her up over his shoulder like a loose sack of grain.
A short while later he was grunting and sweating, nearly to the top of the woody slope, when Logan appeared above him. “Maybe I ought to wait for you to reach the top before I tell you this,” he said.
Darach wrapped a hand around the trunk of a small tree and paused a moment to catch his breath. He hugged the lassie’s lush little bottom against his cheek. “Spit it out, Logan.”
His brother hesitated. “The woman you’re hauling up the hill is a Campbell.”
A Campbell?
Darach froze, then shifted her awkwardly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell me she’s from Leathan Castle.”
Logan made a face. “Sorry brother. Looks like that’s where they were headed. But it gets worse.”
“How?” Darach asked, still pausing at the crest of the rise.
“She’s the chief’s daughter.”
Every muscle in Darach’s body strained hotly under the added weight of the woman draped over his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but wonder about the dream he’d had that morning. Maybe it had been a premonition after all…
But Lord in heaven, he didn’t want anything to do with what that implied.
“She’s the daughter of Fitzroy Campbell?”
Darach felt a stab of disillusionment as he recalled how he’d been struck dumb by her beauty moments ago and aroused by her fighting spirit when she rose up to brain him with the stone. Then she’d fought valiantly against his hold, bucking and wiggling beneath him. He was twice her size and possessed at least three times her strength, yet she had been fearless and undaunted.
A small shudder traveled down his spine, for she was a Campbell.
Worse…she was Fitzroy’s daughter.
Young and tantalizingly pleasing to the eye.
Ach…Bloody hell.
Glancing over his shoulder at the creek bottom below, Darach wondered if he and Logan would be better off if he simply dropped her and never mentioned a thing about this to anyone.
Chapter Five
Many hours later, Larena woke from a murky pool of darkness to the sensation of a cool cloth dabbing at her forehead. Her head pounded mercilessly, ringing like a heavy mallet on an iron anvil. Confusion flooded her mind, and she had no notion of where she was or even what day it might be.
She fought to lift her heavy eyelids. It took immense effort for them to respond. At last they fluttered open, and she found herself gazing up at a man.
He was a Scot, dressed in tartan, with compassionate green eyes and long, golden hair tied back with a leather cord.
Larena tried to speak, to ask where she was, but she couldn’t seem to form words. Everything seemed hazy in her mind, as if her brain were full of cotton.
“There, now.” The Scot spoke softly in the flickering glow of the candlelight. “You’ll be all right now, lass.”
But where am I?
The Highlander dipped the cloth into a porcelain basin by the bed and squeezed it out. She listened feebly to the sound of water dripping out of it. Then he gently stroked her cheek and dabbed at her parched, cracked lips. Larena continued to blink up at him, helpless and perplexed.
A loud clang of metal jolted her into a sharper state of awareness, and the sound of a bar lifting on a door helped her to realize that she had been imprisoned somewhere.
With growing panic, she lay very still, glancing around the room. It was small, sparsely furnished and without windows. There were half a dozen candles burning on a candelabra next to the bed. The walls were constructed of stone.
The door swung open and another Scotsman entered, his strides heavy and purposeful across the stone floor. He had thick, dark, wavy hair and eyes black as night. He stood over the bed and glared down at her with menace.
The door slammed shut behind him with a terrifying echo of finality. The dark Scotsman hooked a thumb into the leather sword belt that lay across his broad chest. “What’s yer name, lass?” he asked.
Still not sure if she could form words, Larena blinked up at him and beheld muscle-bound arms and massive, dangerous hands. She could only imagine the rippled brawn of his hips and abdomen beneath the loose white shirt
and heavy tartan.
This one was a warrior, no doubt about it, built like an iron-tipped battering ram. Her gaze rose to his face—a shockingly beautiful display of masculine features, sculpted with clean lines and compelling angles. Yet there was softness in those full, moist lips…lips strangely familiar to her, as if she’d encountered them in a dream.
“I asked you a question.” One dark eyebrow lifted. “Do you remember striking me in the head, lass?”
Suddenly it all came rushing back to her…the ambush on the road, the violent deaths of her British escorts, and Rupert galloping off with the King’s pardon that was meant to save her father’s life.
Dear Lord. Her father…
Heart suddenly pounding with apprehension, she attempted to rise up on an elbow, but a wave of dizziness swirled through her head.
The golden-haired Highlander urged her back down on the pillow. “Not yet, lass. You’re not strong enough.”
“Where am I?” she asked.
Her first words, spoken at last.
“Kinloch Castle,” the darker one replied.
Frustration sparked in her veins. “Kinloch…” Please, no. “Am I being held prisoner here? You have no right.”
“Aye, we have every right,” he replied, his voice husky and low. “You’re a Campbell, are you not?”
“Aye, but—”
“No buts, lass. The MacDonalds of Kinloch have long standing issues with the Campbells of Leathan. You know it as well as I do, so I’m not sure what you were thinking, crossing onto our lands in the company of British soldiers.”
She struggled to think clearly but her brain was still a fuzzy, tangled up mess. She covered her eyes with a hand. “I didn’t realize we’d entered MacDonald territory.” Heaven help her, it had been too hot and humid. She hadn’t slept in days. “Please accept my apologies for that, but I really need to go. I must return home.”
“What’s your hurry?” the dark one asked. The antagonism in his eyes and the threatening note of suspicion in his deep, smoky voice was enough to send a bolt of alarm straight into her heart.
She tried to sit up again. This time the golden-haired one made no move to stop her. He rose from his sitting position on the edge of the cot to stand beside the taller one.
Side by side—one dark, one light—they were an alarming sight to behold.
Larena touched her bare feet to the floor. “I must leave. I’ve lost too much time already. Oh, God, what day is it?”
Nausea poured into her stomach. She had no choice but to pause and grip the edge of the hay-filled mattress and wait for the wooziness to pass, for she wasn’t certain she could rise without falling over.
“You won’t be going anywhere, lass,” the dark one said. “Not until you tell us what you were doing with the Redcoats and why they’re all lying dead on our laird’s road.”
She scoffed. “You’re asking me? Aren’t you the ones who ambushed us?”
Her two captors exchanged a curious look.
“Nay, lass,” the golden one said. “We had nothing to do with that, and you’re lucky we came upon you when we did, or you’d still be out there on your own. Dead most likely.”
Larena studied their expressions. “It wasn’t you who attacked us?”
“Nay.”
Still not sure if she believed them, she exhaled heavily and strove to remain calm. If she had any hope of leaving here peacefully, she had to keep things affable.
“Well, then, I apologize for the misunderstanding and I thank you for your assistance. But I must leave now, and I need my horse.” Then she recalled that Rupert had spooked during the conflict and run off into the forest.
Feeling defeated, she cupped her forehead in a hand. “Please tell me you have him?”
“Why does it matter, lass?” the dark Highlander asked with narrowed eyes.
She raised her chin. “Because he’s carrying an important document. If you didn’t find him, I must go and search for him.” Neither of the men responded to that, so she elaborated. “He was spooked during the conflict and galloped off. I tried to stop him and that’s when I fell into the ravine. Please. It’s a matter of life and death. If I don’t find him and return home straightaway—”
The dark-haired one reached into the folds of his tartan and withdrew a rolled letter. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
Larena stared at him with wide eyes, leaped to her feet, and tried to snatch the document from his hand.
He shoved it behind his back. “Easy, now,” he said, giving her a fierce look of warning. “First you’re going to tell us what this is all about and who you are. And we’ll need your full name, lass—especially the part that ends in Campbell. Then we’ll see about letting you go.”
Without hesitation, she said, “I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Truly, I’ll do anything you want—anything—if you promise you’ll return that document to me.”
Something darkly sensual danced across his face, and he took a step closer, crowding her up against the bed. “That’s a very tempting offer, lass. I can think of all sorts of interesting ways you could deliver on that promise, but I’ll have to respectfully decline, because you’ll be coming with me now.”
For a few heart-stopping seconds, Larena’s muddled brain couldn’t process the meaning behind his suggestive reply. She was too overcome by his physical nearness, the impossible bulk of his sheer brute size, and the sultry, outdoorsy scent of his body.
He wrapped his big hand around her elbow, which effectively yanked her out of her confounding stupor.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he led her to the door.
He banged on it three times with the edge of his big fist. The bar lifted and the heavy oaken door swung open.
“You’re about to be presented to the Laird of Kinloch,” he replied.
Good God.
“You plan to hand me over to Angus the Lion?”
She’d heard the stories. Angus was the most fearsome, ruthless laird in the Highlands. Some even speculated he might secretly be the infamous Butcher.
“I don’t intend to simply hand you over, lass,” her captor replied. “I plan to be right there at your side, listening to every word that comes out of your comely little Campbell mouth.”
With that, he thrust her forward into the torch-lit corridor, while the golden one remained behind.
Chapter Six
Larena had heard many frightening and gruesome tales about Angus the Lion and how he had taken Kinloch Castle by force a decade earlier, reclaiming it for the MacDonald clan. He had seized it from his enemies, the MacEwens, who had been awarded the ancient MacDonald stronghold through Letters of Fire and Sword from the King, in return for their service to the crown.
When Angus broke through the gates and staked his claim, not even the English army wished to retaliate and wage war upon the great Scottish Lion. The MacEwens, as a result, had been forced to take oaths of allegiance to their conqueror, who had claimed the fallen chief’s daughter as his wife.
And so it remained today—MacEwens and MacDonalds, united by warfare and marriage.
In recent years, it was said that the Great Lion of Kinloch desired peace for his clan. At least Larena hoped that was the case. Her father rarely spoke of the MacDonalds, for there was bad blood between them, ever since the massacre at Glencoe many years back.
“Don’t be shy, lass,” her captor said as he walked behind her up the circular stairs of the North Tower to the solar, where the Lion awaited her arrival. “He just wants to know what’s been going on at Leathan Castle, and why your father’s head is destined for a spike.”
The cruel words spoken about her beloved father sent an icy chill down her spine. “You are horrid to say such a thing to me.”
“I’ll say whatever I please, lass,” he replied as they reached the top, “for he’s a Campbell and so are you.”
Together, they strode through an arched entry into a brightly lit hall with a wide bank of lea
ded windows. Larena was forced to shade her eyes from the blinding light of the setting sun. An enormous tapestry covered one curved tower wall, but otherwise the space was sparsely furnished.
She sucked in a breath just then at the sight of a large warrior to her left. He stood with his back to her at a sideboard, pouring whisky into three glasses. His silvery-blond hair hung loose down his back, almost to his waist, and he carried a massive broadsword in his belt.
A scalding rush of anxiety coursed through her blood at the mere notion that she was about to meet Angus MacDonald—a man her father had warned her about as a girl.
He is ruthless, without a heart. He despises the Campbell clan and would see us all dead if he could. Stay away from Kinloch, Larena. Never set foot there…
According to the gossip she’d heard at Leathan Castle, the Lion was monstrous and frightening, horribly disfigured with battle scars, and he bore the look of the devil in his eyes.
But then he turned and regarded her with a pair of ice-blue eyes that made her breath catch in her throat—partly because she was on edge, but mostly because he was not ugly or disfigured at all. In truth, he was astonishingly handsome.
He sauntered leisurely toward her with a glass of whisky in each hand, held one out to her, and spoke in a polite tone. “Welcome, Larena Campbell.”
At the sound of her name on his lips, her ragged nerves snapped and she backed into what appeared to be a brick wall behind her. It turned out not to be a brick wall, however, but the dark Highlander who had escorted her to the tower.
Feeling her cheeks flush with heat, she cleared her throat and glanced back at him over her shoulder.
“Take the whisky, lass,” the dark one suggested in that quiet, smoky voice that rode over her like velvet. “You look like you could use a drink.”
Wetting her lips, she searched for some composure and stepped forward to accept the glass from her host. “Thank you.”
The Lion handed the other glass to her captor, then studied her with steely, narrowed eyes as she raised the whisky to her lips and sipped, hoping that it wasn’t poisoned.
Return of the Highlander Page 2
