Conor moved away and rejoined his men by the campfire. Their laughter stopped abruptly when he approached. "Get on with your duties," he grumbled.
That night after everyone was settled, Victoria sat close to the fire Hamish built watching the men who gathered around a larger one, a short distance away.
"His name is Conor McDougall," Hamish told her looking towards where the Scot who'd accosted her earlier. "He's a good leader and a good man."
Of course the man would defend the oaf. After all, he worked for him. In her chemise with the thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Victoria shivered. Her only dress was still a soggy mess and wouldn’t be dry until the next day, if then. Mary snored inside the wagon where Hamish had made a makeshift bed for them.
The men not on watch gathered in a circle around a larger fire and spoke in low tones, the words too muffled for her to hear what was said.
Every night, some remained on watch while others slept. No doubt to ensure they were not followed.
Victoria’s gaze kept falling on Conor McDougall, who stood near the fire listening to the conversation. She hated to admit how handsome he was.
The Scot was very tall. Waves of black hair that hung to his shoulders and serious grey eyes framed with thick long lashes. He wore heavy leather breeches, animal skin boots and a fur-lined plaid weaved with his clan colors of blue and green.
Conor must have felt someone staring at him because he looked across the space toward Victoria. His flat eyes regarded her for a moment holding her captive. When one of the men spoke to him, he turned his attention away and whatever spell kept her from looking away broke.
"Mr. Hamish, how much longer before we arrive at the McDougall’s Keep?”
Hamish lay on a bedroll by the fire staring up at the sky. "We should be arriving at Somerset in another day’s ride Miss.” He answered her quietly. "I suggest you try to get some sleep."
Footsteps alerted her to Conor McDougall looming over her. How had he moved so close without her noticing?
He didn’t speak to her, instead spoke to Hamish. "We’ll leave at first light old man. Make sure everything is packed up and ready."
The deep timber of his voice made Victoria shudder almost as if it touched her. She didn’t dare look directly at him, instead concentrated on the flames doing her best to give the impression of disinterest. When she felt his warm plaid over her shoulders, her eyes flew to his face.
"Keep it, it will warm you." The heavy garment's warmth seeped into her freezing limbs and she wrapped it tightly around her almost crying in relief.
Not daring to be rude and risking him taking the warmth away. "Thank you milord," she whispered softly. He nodded and walked away.
"Well I’ll be” Hamish spoke to his leader's retreating back.
Rushing to the back of the wagon, Victoria snuggled into the warmness of the plaid attempting to push past the whirlwind of thoughts and fall asleep. The smell of McDougall hung to the fabric making it difficult not to think of him. The masculine smell reminded her of his strength and that brought the memory of when he carried her to the river's edge.
She wondered how could a man who savagely killed her husband, be thoughtful enough to loan her his plaid. Did that mean he was now chilled, having to do without it?
A killer's comfort should be the last thing on her mind. She chided herself for feeling guilty at wondering if he was cold that night.
Conor stood watch by the fire. He looked over at the wagon. Hamish threw mores logs into the flames before lying back down. It was a bitter night, the frigid wind cutting through the blanket that he'd gathered around his shoulders. He had been through worse. Besides, had to keep the lass covered.
His men were not savages like the English believed them to be, but they were not saints either and the woman's exquisiteness was enough to start a fight amongst them. By Victoria wearing his plaid, he had marked her as his and none of them would risk touching her and raising his ire.
Conor didn’t know the spitfire’s surname and he wondered absently if she was truly a maid or perhaps one of Turner’s relatives. He smiled bitterly. If she were a Turner, then it would serve her right to serve at Somerset in his brother’s keep. The McDougall’s had a large household and always had a need for more maids.
Conor pondered how Laird McDougall, his brother, would react at him returning with two women. One who he suspected was not who he'd been lead to believe. His brother was in a newly arranged marriage. He seemed to have taken the marriage in stride. Although his wife Meagan seemed distant, he figured things would improve over time.
Conor did not begrudge his brother being firstborn and taking over the McDougall clan. Personally, he planned to avoid marriage and being settled for as long as he could.
There was a complication of Calum and the McNeil Laird discussing a match between him and the McNeil's daughter. Therefore, it was imperative, he avoid lingering once back. He'd leave again not giving them time to sort any type of marriage agreement.
Once he arrived at Somerset, he would remain a couple days and leave to visit his cousins the Campbell's. They were always warring with the surrounding clans and would welcome an experienced swordsman like him. Hopefully by his return from battle, talks of any match would be over and another clansman would be chosen for the match.
Curious about whom she really was, Connor followed Victoria the next day when she wandered away from the wagon alone.
The lass took her time strolling about, seeming to take in the surroundings. Perhaps planning her escape or leaving a trail to follow by marking trees, he couldn't be sure. She meandered about, but he didn't see her do anything suspicious.
He stepped from behind a tree and blocked her way. She bent to retrieve a plant of some sort and placed in into a sack tied about her waist. Then rounded him and kept walking.
He scowled down at her. "What could you possibly know about herbs and such? You are not a maid. I overheard the woman Mary address you as a lady." Her eyes widened but she remained silent. "I suggest you don't wander off alone. It's dangerous for a lady to go about unaccompanied." He didn't move out of her path.
She looked up at him, her deep green eyes taking him in. "I am...I was a friend of the family. And I am far more afraid of what awaits me in the Highlands than anything in these woods. I'll have you know that I am quite versed in herbs and plants thanks to my mother. Please move out of my way." The beauty arched an eyebrow at him and waited.
Unable to stop, he put his hand up to her cheek. "Don't be afraid. As you already know, I cannot return you to England. I am taking you to my brother's keep. You will be safe there."
Victoria moved from his touch. "I don't want to be in Scotland. I want to go home." Her last word hitched, he couldn't tell if it was out of anger or fear. "You must send word to my brothers immediately. They will come and fetch me." She glared at him.
"I can't return you. It would be an admission of guilt." He itched to touch her again, but refrained.
"You murdered those poor people and kidnapped me. Of course you are guilty of crimes. I don't have to understand anything you say, sir!"
His eyes widened. Most men did not dare stand up to him, and this small lass not only stood up to him, but scolded him as well. "I don't have to explain the reason for my going to England. If you have not noticed it is I who gives orders here. When we arrive at Somerset, my brother will decide what he wants to do about you and your maid."
They stood nose-to-nose, Victoria's eyes boring into his, neither wanting to be first to back down. She put her hand out to Conor's chest and attempted to push him aside and he grabbed it, holding it between them in his fist. "Be careful, lady, I am not in the right mood."
Victoria's eyes narrowed, yet she did not retreat. "Release my hand, sir."
Unsure of what possessed him, Conor didn't release her hand. Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, allowing his lips to linger on each one. She gasped and tried to pull her hand free.
<
br /> "Stop this at once, let me pass!" When Victoria leaned forward, he bent down and took her mouth with his. Upon touching her lips, a surge of arousal lurched through him and he deepened the kiss without restraint, placing his hands on her waist, he drew the plush woman against him.
Her body tensed, she pushed at his chest without avail for he was too strong for her. Just when he was about to release her, she softened and began to kiss him back, opening her mouth to allow his tongue to explore her completely.
Victoria raised her hands and ran her fingers through his hair. That’s it lass. He moaned and released her mouth trailed kisses to her creamy throat.
A hard slap to the back of his head made him jerk back and lift his hand to the affected area. She'd hit him.
"How dare you!" She spat and took a wobbly step back before rounding him and scampering toward the wagon.
The damn spitfire caused him to lose control. It was time to put an end to whatever game she played. Conor stomped off to the river and washed his face, the frigid water helped him gather control of his beating heart. The hardened cock would have to go down on it's own.
He went straight to his horse, making sure not to look at her. Once they were on the road, Conor rode ahead and traded places with one of the forward scouts to avoid being near Victoria for the rest of the trip home.
Chapter 3
"There it is. Somerset" Hamish pronounced. It was twilight when they arrived at the keep. Several guardsmen rode out to greet their party. Victoria watched with curiosity as the new group of men neared. In front rode a man with the same striking black hair and grey eyes as Conor. Obviously this was the brother Hamish had described to them earlier. The Laird McDougall.
The brothers dismounted and embraced each other. Victoria found it particularly interesting, as she'd never seen her brothers act in such a manner. Nearly identical in coloring and stature, they presented a handsome picture as they walked away from the others, deep in conversation. Although both were remarkable in size and height, Conor was broader and more muscular.
The laird lifted his head and regarded Victoria and Mary for scant seconds then without a word he mounted his horse. The brother's rode side-by-side toward the keep, with the now larger party following behind.
Victoria was awestruck at seeing Somerset. It wasn’t what she expected at all. The castle like structure was huge, more of a fortress, its enormous grey stone walls jetting towards the skies. High rock walls guarded the front while ragged cliffs that fell to the sea protected the back.
There was no doubt in her mind. Just the sight of Somerset alone was enough of a warning to anyone mad enough to consider an attack. Dense wooden gates were opened allowing the party to enter into the outer court.
Once inside the courtyard, there were groups of clans people about to greet them. The women stretched their necks to get a glimpse at her.
The keep was well guarded. Victoria counted over fifty warriors who mingled about, before she stopped.
Her situation was dire. Victoria blinked away tears of despair. Even her brothers could never aspire to confront and win over such a formidable clan. There wasn't much hope of ever leaving. Her only hope was to convince the laird to return her.
The women were assisted off the wagon by a young boy of about twelve that showed them to a set of small rooms on the second level of the keep.
The lad stood rigid by the door until Victoria noticed him. "The laird would like you to sup with him milady. The evening meal will be served shortly.”
Victoria looked down at her dirty skirts and knew her hair was in the same deplorable condition, a tangled mess. "Please tell the laird I am not fit to sit at his table tonight. I need to wash my dress and bathe. I would beg of his kindness that a meal be brought for us here in our rooms please.”
The boy seemed shocked at her refusal, but left after a curt nod.
A few moments later two maids entered their room. One with a tray laden with food and the other maid carried a simple wool gown for her and another more basic shift for Mary. They informed them a bath would be brought up for Victoria shortly. Mary followed the maids back to the servant’s quarters to wash up and change, leaving Victoria to eat her meal. The room was simply furnished with a sturdy bed, a washstand and a small writing table. Two chairs flanked the fireplace in which a cheerful fire burned brightly.
After the days of travel, she wanted nothing more than to finish her meal, take a hot bath and go to bed. It would be easier to think clearly after resting. She'd be better able to contrive an escape plan for she and Mary.
In the morning, she would find the laird and insist he return her to England immediately. Surely a man who oversaw a keep of this size would be intelligent enough to understand that it would be in the best interest of his clan to return an English citizen to her family and avoid incident.
It took much preparation before bathing. The tangles in her hair had to be brushed out. The warm water almost brought tears to her eyes. Although she rarely lingered overmuch in a bath, this day she remained in the water until it cooled. With reluctance, she lifted from the water, dried off with a large cloth and donned her borrowed night shift.
She wondered what Conor did at the moment. It was nonsense of course to be thinking of him. The man had not only orchestrated the killing of her husband and his mother, but also kidnapped her. Yet, for whatever reason a part of her needed to know the circumstances. Why had he done it? Only someone seeking retribution or revenge traveled so far to kill someone.
She pictured Conor McDougall in the arms of a woman welcoming him home and pushed the though away. She shouldn’t care what the hateful man did at the moment.
Then again, who was she to call him hateful? Yes he did force himself upon her, but she'd kissed him back. It was only after the sound of his moans did she realize what a horrible widow she was.
The thought of Darien Turner and their short marriage made her realize she would not be able to mourn him properly due to the circumstances. Truth be told, she never did get to know him well. They rarely talked except for exchanging greetings. She'd only lain with him twice. He much preferred the company of one or more of his servants in his bed, be they male or female.
On several occasions she overheard the moans and shrieks at night and knew that what happened in the room next to hers was distasteful. She'd heard the rumors of his deviant passions and ignored them, glad not to be included in whatever he did. Now he was dead and she a prisoner, perhaps because of something he'd done.
Victoria looked up at the moonlit ceiling and sighed. What would happen to her now? It was possible the Scots would use her as part of their revenge against Darien. A shiver at the thought ran through her. Somehow she'd find a way to escape. There were not alternatives, but her own wits.
The following morning, Victoria strode into the great room. A maid ushered her to a long bench-style seat. The matching table was topped with steaming meats, root vegetables, and hot loaves of bread for the morning meal. Conor and his brother were already in the room at the far end. They stood close, deep in conversation when she entered.
She'd never dined in a Highland home. Expecting a lack of civility, she was pleasantly surprised when a man she recognized from the journey stood and assisted her to sit.
"Thank you," Victoria murmured.
He replied with a grunt.
According to her mother, although larger clans might be less cultured than the English, they were usually well read. It was hard to know as close-knit clan members rarely allowed an outsider, more precisely the English, near their homes.
Victoria sat with her eyes downcast, until the familiar deep voice sounded.
"How fair you today, Miss...?" Conor McDougall sat across the table from her.
"Westcott. I fare as well as can be expected," she replied, meeting his gaze. She'd not seen him since their arrival.
Bathed and shaved, he did not resemble the bearded brute she'd traveled with, but remained just as striking.
He turned to his brother who sat at the head of the table, "May I present my brother Calum, the Laird McDougall."
Victoria recognized him as the man who'd ridden out to meet them the day before. The laird, the man with the power to affect her future.
The laird turned to her, his expression hard to read. "Miss Westcott."
"I wish to meet with you after the meal," the laird told Conor, before directing his attention back to Victoria. They had the same startling grey eyes, but the similarity ended in coldness of his gaze when Calum regarded her. "Miss Westcott, I hope your chambers are to your liking."
"They are adequate."
He lifted an eyebrow but did not respond.
Two women entered the room, arms linked. The first was introduced to her as Meagan McDougall the wife of the laird. She wore her light-brown hair braided and wrapped around her head. The second woman was Cailyn McDougall, Calum and Conor's sister. She was a softer version of her brothers, resembling them in coloring, but her eyes were a bright blue and her face heart shaped and striking.
Meagan McDougall glanced to Victoria only briefly, her expression hard and her mouth in a tight line. Upon sitting, she began a conversation with Cailyn, purposely ignoring her.
In contrast, Cailyn directed a warm smile at Victoria and leaned to her when Meagan spoke with her husband. "I'm so sorry for the circumstances. I know this must be frightening for you. Perhaps we can spend some time together tomorrow? We have a large garden, unfortunately it's not as colorful right now, but it's still a pleasant place to walk" Her vivid blue eyes held hers.
"I would love that," Victoria replied, earning a new glower from Meagan who'd caught the last of what Cailyn said.
While the meal progressed, the laird and Conor spoke in hushed tones. From where she sat, Victoria could not make out what they said, so she watched closely and strained to read their lips.
Sensing her regard, Conor's gaze took hers. Her heart leapt at the scorching heat in his eyes, and she swallowed past her suddenly dry throat.
Highlander's Kiss: The McDougalls, Books 1-3 Page 2
