Return of the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  “You’re observant,” he said.

  The silky timbre of his voice sent a small shudder across her flesh. “It was obvious to me before,” she replied, “when you told Logan to return to Kinloch. You promised to keep what happened a secret. You still want to protect him.”

  Darach glanced away. “Maybe he no longer needs my protection. He’s a man now—quick-witted, a master swordsman. I’ve no doubt he can take care of himself, but the fact remains, he’ll always be my baby brother, and he has a foolish temper sometimes. I don’t know what he thinks he can accomplish by returning to Leathan Castle now. He can never bring our father back. He can’t win back his approval, no matter what he does to yours. Our father is gone now and we left the clan a lifetime ago. If it’s vengeance he wants, it’s coming from a dark place in his soul, and I wish he could let go of it.”

  “And you feel badly because you broke his arm,” she said.

  Darach looked down at the pommel. “Even that, I did for his protection—so he wouldn’t go raging about the Highlands stirring up trouble. I want him to survive.”

  “And you believe he will die if he carries out this plan, whatever it may be.”

  “I do.” Darach clicked his tongue and urged his horse into a trot.

  Larena followed him down onto the riverbed where the horses’ hooves splashed through the shallow water. She felt slightly beguiled, riding beside Darach.

  “Thank you,” she said after a time, “for pursuing Logan and me, and for coming to my rescue. Where would I be now if you hadn’t come?”

  “Don’t thank me until we reach Leathan and deliver the King’s pardon,” he said. “Until then, nothing is certain.” He nodded his head at another bend in the river. “We’ll make camp just ahead.”

  They broke into a gallop and climbed the riverbank toward a clearing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was going to be a long night, Darach thought irritably as he lay down on the bedroll across the fire from Larena. She was a bonnie lass to be sure and he couldn’t believe he’d just told her everything about his past when he had never confessed his true identity to anyone. Not once, in fifteen years.

  He was taken with her, plain and simple, enough to cause physical harm to the brother he’d always sought to protect. But when Darach found Logan on top of Larena in the moonlit glade, a violent madness had flooded his brain. It was so intense, his hand had trembled as he’d aimed the pistol. It was a miracle he hadn’t accidentally pulled the trigger and blown his brother’s brains out.

  Nevertheless, Darach could not allow himself to forget that Larena was not for him. He had no claim on her and in a few days, he would escort her through the gates of the Campbell stronghold—ground he’d not set foot upon since adolescence, before his fateful disgrace. More importantly, it was his duty to hand her over to her betrothed, a half-English, half-Scottish colonel who would take his place not only as her husband, but as chief of the Campbells.

  Perhaps that’s what was keeping Darach awake. Her marriage was too much to stomach after finding her on her back in the woods, struggling against his brother’s misguided attentions. He didn’t want to think about Chatham putting his hands on her, touching her, claiming her in his bed on their wedding night.

  Larena said she barely knew Chatham but she remembered him as a kind and gentle boy.

  Regrettably, Darach remembered that, too.

  Opening his eyes, Darach peered through the flames. He was surprised to discover Larena awake also, her boundless blue eyes blinking slowly in the firelight as she stared at him.

  Darach shifted on the bedroll and felt terribly exposed, as if she’d heard every word of his blaring thoughts just now.

  She hadn’t, of course. It was pure idiocy to think so. But he was unsettled by it, nonetheless.

  Perhaps he should have said something to her, made some effort at polite conversation as Logan would have done, but Darach couldn’t seem to form coherent thoughts in his brain. All he could do was gaze at her through the dancing firelight and imagine his hands roving over her soft naked flesh, his mouth tasting the sweetness of her nipples while she sighed with pleasure and longing and begged him to make love to her.

  She, too, lay in silence, her hand tucked up under her cheek, her tongue sliding out to wet her lips in a slow, erotic gesture that left him stiff as a brick and aching with need.

  After a while, her eyes fell closed, which left Darach feeling shaken and irritated. He shouldn’t be torturing himself with such thoughts and imaginings. She was not for him and nothing good could come of them.

  * * *

  The following day, it rained again. The foul weather arrived with high winds and another unseasonable chill from the north.

  They rode as far as they could in the morning, but by noon, Larena was growing increasingly weary and began to shiver so badly that Darach insisted they stop at the nearest village to take shelter at the alehouse.

  “You’re not worried Logan will look for us here?” Larena asked as they walked into the crowded pub.

  Darach escorted her to a small table for two near the giant hearth at the back. “I’ve been keeping an eye out,” he replied, “but there’s scarce chance he’s even fit to travel.”

  “Was it that bad of a break?” she asked as she sat down, feeling more than ready to bathe herself in the warmth of the fire.

  Darach nodded. “He should have let me set the bone in place before he rode off. I told you, he’s stubborn and full of foolish pride.”

  The tavern maid approached and offered them a choice of either beef stew or roast lamb with fresh field greens. They selected the lamb and ordered two tankards of ale.

  Outside, the rain battered the small leaded windows and ran down the glass in fast, undulating rivulets, while inside, the tavern hummed with the noisy conversation and laughter of men.

  “Your teeth are chattering,” Darach said with a frown. “We’ll stay here until you’re dried out.”

  “That may take a while,” she replied, holding her hands out to warm them at the fire. “I’m drenched to the bone.”

  He watched her for a moment or two. “You’ve been on the road for many days, lass. You’ve been shot and you tumbled into a ravine. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, though she couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

  Darach reached across the table and touched her forehead. “Holy crow, lass. You’re burning up. And you look like death warmed over.” He glanced around the tavern, pushed his chair back and stood. “Stay here.”

  Larena remained at the table while he went to speak to the ruddy-faced, red-bearded Scot behind the bar. Darach turned and pointed a finger at her. The barman studied her carefully for a moment, then nodded and disappeared into a back room.

  A moment later he returned and handed Darach a key. Darach dug into his sporran and paid him a few coins.

  “What’s going on?” Larena asked when he returned and sat down.

  “I got us a room upstairs so you can rest and dry out.”

  “I don’t need to rest,” she replied. “I need to get home. We’ve lost enough time already.”

  “You won’t be going anywhere, lass. If you don’t rest and recover, you’ll end up as a corpse.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly. All her muscles ached and she was sweating profusely. “I admit, I’m not at my best, but I want to continue. I just need a hot meal, then I’ll be fine. Just get me back in the saddle.”

  “No, lass. You’ll pass out and land on your head.”

  Larena leaned forward to rest her cheek on the table, suddenly too tired to even argue about it. All she wanted to do was lie down and curl up under a thick, heavy blanket.

  “Maybe just for a few hours,” she said wearily, “until my clothes dry out.”

  “Now you’re making some sense.” He stood and offered his hand. “Come. Jean will bring our supper upstairs.”

  She took his hand
and went with him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Though Larena made no complaint and did not admit to any discomfort, Darach knew she was in far worse condition than she let on. Her complexion was pasty gray and when they were halfway up the creaky stairs, she had to pause, take a few breaths, and summon enough strength to continue the rest of the way.

  Darach found the room at the end of the hall and inserted the key into the lock. “This is it.” He pushed the door open. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “I just need to lie down for a while.”

  “Then come inside.” He led her into the small, tidy room which contained a brass bed big enough for two beneath a steep, slanted roof, and a small round table with two wooden chairs tucked snugly into the corner. A bucket of kindling had been provided for them, set out next to the stone hearth.

  Darach set the saddle packs on the floor. “I’ll light a fire, but first you must get out of those wet clothes.”

  Larena sank onto the mattress and looked up at him suspiciously. “You are constantly telling me not to trust you, and now you’re suggesting I take off my dress. Was I imprudent to follow you up here?”

  “You’re not well, lass. Admit it and tell me what I can do for you. I can leave you alone if you like.”

  She considered that for a moment and glanced longingly at the unlit fire. “Could you light that first, then leave me until the food arrives?”

  A knock sounded at the door just then. It was Jean, the tavern keeper’s wife, carrying a large supper tray. Darach invited her in.

  She set the tray on the table and glanced around the room. “Look at you both—like a couple of drowned rats. You need to get that fire going, sir. May I light it for you?”

  “Thank you, Jean.” Darach stepped out of her way as she moved to the hearth.

  A few minutes later, after the fire was lit and she was gone from the room, he turned back around to find Larena sound asleep on the bed.

  Not wanting to wake her, Darach devoured his own supper, then leaned back in his chair and rested his eyes for a moment. He must have dozed off for a short while, for when he woke, the fire had nearly gone out. Rising from the chair, he added a log to the grate, pushed it around with the poker until it accepted the flame, then he turned to check on Larena.

  Laying his hand on her forehead, he discovered she was hot as a firebrand and perspiring heavily.

  He pulled the blanket off her. “Wake up, Larena,” he said. “You’re feverish and you’re still soaking wet.”

  She offered no response, so he began to unlace her bodice with a goal of drying her out and cooling her off. He stripped her down to her shift and draped the wet garments in front of the fire to dry, then sat on the edge of the bed and took hold of her hand. He patted it a few times and lightly tapped her cheek.

  At last her eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at him with a glassy, vacant expression.

  “Are we home?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “You’re sick, darling. We need to rest awhile.”

  “I’m not sick. I’m just tired. We’ll go soon.”

  He touched the back of his hand to her forehead and frowned. “How about some supper?” he asked. “Can you eat something? You need to keep your strength up.” He reached for the fork to offer her some meat.

  She shook her head and turned her face away. “Later.”

  As Darach set the fork down, she rolled onto her side to face the wall.

  She must be sick indeed, Darach thought, if she’d failed to notice that he’d undressed her.

  * * *

  By nightfall, Larena’s symptoms had worsened and Darach was pacing the room, praying for the doctor to arrive. Jean had sent for the man hours earlier, but they were told he’d traveled to the next village for some potions and medicines. On account of the weather, he was not expected to return until the following day.

  As a result, Darach was powerless to help Larena. All he knew how to do was press a cool, damp cloth to her forehead when she moaned in her sleep, or encourage her to sip some warm broth when she was lucid enough to understand what he was saying.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and rinsed the cloth in the water basin, dabbed at her forehead, her cheeks, and down the slender length of her neck to the delicate ridge of her collarbone where her skin glistened with moisture.

  She did not wake, as he was gentle in the way he touched her, his movements quiet in the flickering candlelight.

  Larena stirred in that moment, inhaled deeply, then rolled to her side again. She curled her body up in a ball and laid her cheek on Darach’s thigh, as if his leg were a pillow.

  At first, Darach made no move to wake her. He simply stroked her damp hair away from her forehead until she reached a hand up and squeezed at the fabric of his kilt, tugging it upward slightly and nuzzling her lips and nose into the firm bands of muscle above his knee. Very briefly, he allowed himself to enjoy the sensations, but then he took a few shaky breaths, waited for her to drift off again, and carefully slid out from under her.

  His pulse beating rapidly, his body on fire with desire, he rose to his feet and stood for a moment, wanting nothing more than to lie with her on the bed and hold her against him. He began to imagine all the ways he would touch her if she were his for the taking, but he’d been through this the night before. It had been a cruel and pointless punishment, so he forced himself to back away and sit down in the chair on the opposite side of the room and think of all the reasons why he needed to deliver her home, bid her farewell, and return to his chief as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  All night long, the fever held Larena tightly in its grip and caused her to speak nonsense in her sleep. Sporadically, Darach rose to check her temperature and wipe the perspiration from her body, but she remained in a disturbing state of oblivion, unaware of his presence in the room or the importance of their journey to Leathan.

  He glanced at the saddlebags on the floor and wondered if he should depart on his own at sunrise and ride to Leathan to deliver the pardon. Was it not his mission to save Fitzroy Campbell from the gallows? There had already been far too many delays and time was getting short. If they did not leave in the morning, there was little chance they would make it in time.

  But as he sat in the dim candlelight, watching over Larena with an escalating desire that worried him—and a fear that her condition might worsen—he knew that duty or no duty, he could not leave her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Larena wasn’t sure if it was the sound of the birds chirping outside the window or the soothing sensation of a hand brushing lightly across her cheek that raised her out of the darkness.

  Before she was able to open her eyes or make sense of where she was, a voice beckoned. It was husky and low…intimately familiar and both calming and exhilarating to her senses. She wanted nothing more than to see the face of the man who spoke to her, but then she wondered if this was not life but death, and his was a voice from heaven.

  As memories and consciousness took form, she slowly began to realize that she was still among the living and the voice was no spirit. It belonged to the Highland scout who had found her in the woods.

  Darach…

  “That’s it, lass,” he whispered. “Wake up now. The fever’s broken.”

  Her heavy eyelids fluttered open to the sight of his face—that beautiful face that pained her, for he was an outcast…an imposter, and she was pledged to another.

  Oh, God, her father…

  Larena’s heart raced suddenly with fear that it was too late, that she had missed the deadline to save him.

  A hot rush of panic invaded her belly as she recalled the past week’s ordeals: the invasion at Leathan…her father beaten and dragged away in front of her clan, sentenced to death. Then the ambush on the forest road and the deaths of her British escorts, and that excruciating moment when her horse galloped off with the King’s pardon.

  “What day is it?” she asked, straining to sit up
. “Where is Rupert?”

  “Do not worry, lass,” Darach said. “Your saddle bags are here, safe and tucked away beside me. There is still time to reach Leathan, but you’re weak and you’ve been ill. You cannot travel yet.”

  She glanced around the room. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since yesterday afternoon,” he told her. “It’s just as well. We couldn’t have gotten far in that storm.”

  She squinted toward a chair in front of the hearth where her skirt and bodice and stockings were hung up to dry. Then she peered down at herself under the covers. She wore only her loose white shift.

  “Did you undress me?” she asked.

  “Aye, lass. You were burning up and I had to do something to cool you down.”

  She couldn’t help but wonder how that had played out while she was unconscious—had she been aware of his hands on her body?—but under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to concern herself with unimportant rules of propriety. She had to get home. That was all that mattered.

  It took significant effort, but she managed to rise up on her elbows. “Thank you for bringing me here and caring for me.”

  “It was no trouble.”

  Something unexpected possessed her in that moment and she reached for his hand. “You look tired, Darach. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Not much,” he replied, keeping his gaze lowered.

  She stared at him for a few seconds, then let go of his hand and sat up straighter on the bed. “We need to go.”

  “Aye.”

  Darach stood and she tossed the covers aside, swung her legs to the floor… But a wave of nausea slowed her progress. The room began to spin.

  “You all right, lass?” Darach asked.

  “I sat up too fast,” she replied, lying back down again. “I feel a bit woozy.”

  Darach covered her with the blanket and moved to the door. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’ll fetch you some bread and tea.”

  “But we need to go,” she insisted as he opened the door.

  “Not until you’re able.”