The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  “You are hurting me.”

  He tightened his grip and drew her closer until she could feel the sting of his breath against her temple. “You do not know what it is to be hurt, my lady.” He nodded toward the torches that burned on either side of the castle door. “All your life, you have taken such safety and comfort for granted, while my people have had to live in fear of the next raid by your hated English soldiers.”

  Lifting her chin in a gesture of defiance, she said, “If you raise your hand against me, you are no better than those you accuse.”

  “I do not raise my hand against women. That is the way of the English.” He released her as though the very touch of her offended him.

  Rubbing her bruised wrist, she turned away, eager to flee to the safety of the castle. “Never before have I been so brutalized in my own father’s garden.”

  “Brutalized?” His voice was a strangled whisper of fury.

  He caught her roughly by the arm and twisted her to face him. With his hands gripping her upper arms, he held her fast when she tried to free herself. “My lady, if it were my intention to harm you, you would be already lying dead at my feet.”

  Fear and anger made her careless with her words. “The Duke of Essex was right. You are nothing more than a ragged, dirty savage, who does not belong among civilized men.”

  She saw something dark and dangerous flicker in his eyes. His fingers tightened on the soft flesh of her upper arms until she cried out, but he was beyond hearing.

  “A savage, am I?” Drawing her close, he whispered, “Let this be a lesson to you, my lady.”

  She knew that she had pushed him beyond the limit of his control. Fear skittered along her spine as he dragged her against him.

  She stiffened. Sweet heaven, he was going to violate her. Her heart slammed in her chest. Her pulse accelerated. She felt light-headed. Her breathing stilled.

  He bent his head. “Never invite a snake into your garden, my lady.”

  His lips brushed the hair at her temple, then moved lower to graze her cheek. He experienced a sudden shock. Her skin was the softest he had ever touched.

  “Aye, a snake is what you are. But I did not invite you, sir. You are here unbidden.” She stiffened in his arms. His mouth hovered mere inches from hers, teasing her, taunting her. Her heart lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her. She felt afraid, yet strangely exhilarated. She felt as if she were standing on a precipice. One step, one tiny movement, and she would find herself hurtling through space.

  Dillon moved his hands along her shoulders. Staring down into her eyes, he could read fear and innocence there. And something more. Defiance. Though the female was terrified of him, she stood her ground. He found himself responding to that underlying strength in her. Despite her youth and innocence, here was a woman who would be a match for any man. He could sense an almost simmering sensuality in this Englishwoman. A sensuality of which she seemed completely unaware.

  Common sense told him to walk away and leave her as he had found her. But he saw the way she lifted her head defiantly, determined to fight him. His gaze fastened on her mouth. It would take only the slightest movement to taste those lips.

  He hesitated, and thought briefly about fighting the desire. Then swearing under his breath he bent to her. That haughty lift of her chin, those pouty lips, were too great a temptation.

  His mouth covered hers, sending shock waves crashing through her. One moment she was cold from the night air. The next moment she was on fire.

  At first, the kiss was harsh, bruising. But the moment his lips found hers, he forgot that his intention had been to punish her.

  God in heaven. Her lips were soft, and warm, and…trembling. He knew at once that this was the first time she had ever been kissed so brazenly.

  He lifted his head and held her a little away. “My lady.” His tone was gruff. He was amazed at how difficult it was to speak.

  She opened her eyes and looked up in surprise.

  “How is it that you have never kissed a man before?”

  She blinked, humiliated that he would dare to ask such a question. “You are not a man. You are a savage—”

  A smile touched his lips. “And you are even more beautiful when you are angry.” He dragged her against him and covered her mouth with his. She smelled of crushed roses and some vaguely remembered scent from his childhood that evoked a rush of tenderness that left him shaken. Despite his anger, the kiss softened, until his lips moved over hers with gentle persuasion.

  Leonora had been prepared for the worst. Her eyes were scrunched tightly shut. Her hands were balled into fists, which she held as a barrier between their two chests.

  She could have withstood an assault; it would have fueled her hatred of this brute. But she was totally unprepared for this tender side of his nature.

  Hadn’t she always wondered what it would be like to be kissed by a man? Not one of the groping peacocks at court, but a strong, virile man, who would make her blood heat and her knees tremble. Would her eyes be open or closed? Would their noses bump? Would she be able to breathe, or would she be forced to hold her breath until she suffocated?

  Now she no longer had to wonder. His lips were gentle, coaxing hers with feather-light kisses. Heat spread from his hands on her shoulders, from his mouth on hers, to her blood, which coursed like liquid fire through her veins.

  She breathed in the musky scent of him. At that moment, he changed the angle of the kiss. Their heads turned just enough so that their noses didn’t touch. She was surprised and pleased at the way the angles and planes of his body accentuated the softness of hers.

  Against her will, her hands opened and her fingers curled into the front of his cloak. Though she was unaware of it, a sigh escaped her lips, and she gave herself up to the pure sensual pleasure of the moment.

  His lips were warm and firm and practiced, and moved over hers with the skill of one who was accustomed to such sweet diversions.

  She had no defenses against the sensations that pulsed through her. Sensations that were so new, so frightening, they left her trembling.

  His grip on her shoulders tightened, drawing her firmly against him. She gave a little gasp of surprise when his tongue traced the outline of her lips, then darted inside her mouth. Her hands clutched at his back and she felt the heat of him all the way through his cloak.

  Lifting his head, Dillon stared down at the young woman in his arms. She tasted sweet, alluring. Her eyes were wide, luminous, too big for her face. He could read confusion in those eyes, and something more; the first flush of desire. His arms came around her, until he felt the softness of her melting into him. His lips covered hers in a searing kiss that left her dazed and breathless.

  Her breath caught in her throat. The heat became a fire, leaving her weak and clinging. Fear became excitement. Pleasure became need, a need she had never before experienced.

  He was so strong, he could crush her. Yet he held her as carefully as if she were a fragile flower. She could feel the tightly controlled power, which only seemed to inflame her more.

  He felt her fear fade into acquiescence. With her breasts flattened against his chest, he could feel her, warm and pliant in his arms.

  Something deep inside him tightened, and he felt the rush of desire, swift, pulsing, before he banked the need. He had to end this now, quickly, before it got out of control. Had he not just lectured his brothers to be cautious of these Englishwomen? Fool, he berated himself. He was a guest in her father’s home, here in her country on a mission that would determine the fate of generations. What kind of fool would jeopardize everything for the sake of one small female?

  Calling on all his willpower, he pushed her from him and took a step back.

  She struggled to maintain her balance. Her eyes widened for one brief moment before she lowered her lashes and looked away in shame. She had not merely submitted; she had been a willing party to what had just transpired. Now she must find a way to ease her conscience.

 
Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she whispered, “You have just proven to me that the Duke of Essex was right. You are nothing more than a filthy savage.”

  “Aye.” He bowed grandly and his eyes glittered as he reached out a hand and dragged her close.

  Instantly they both felt the flare of heat. And both denied it.

  “So, beware of savages and snakes, my lady.” He caught her chin and stared down at her. Her lips were still moist and swollen from his kiss. The sight of it brought a rush of desire that left him shaken.

  Leonora felt a warmth spread through her limbs at even that brief contact.

  “Next time, this snake may devour you.”

  She twisted herself free of his grasp. “If you dare to touch me again, Highlander, you will face the wrath of my father’s soldiers.”

  She saw the gleam of laughter in his eyes before he swung away. Over his shoulder, he taunted, “If I wanted you, my lady, there would not be enough soldiers in all of England to stop me.”

  With trembling legs, Leonora sank upon the stone bench and dragged cold night air into her lungs to steady her nerves.

  He had been right about one thing. She had never before been kissed like that. Even at court, where passions were boldly played out in front of all, her father had gone to great pains to shelter his only child. There had been men who, emboldened by wine and caught in the grip of power, had attempted to seduce her. But their clumsy attempts had always repelled her. This man, on the other hand, had elicited a response from her that had left her shaken to the core.

  Oh, Mother, she whispered, pressing a hand to her trembling lips. What have I done? How will I ever face him on the morrow?

  Refusing to give in to her fear, she lifted her skirts and stalked to the door of the castle. Damn the savage! she thought as she fled to the safety of her room. And damn the fates that had brought him to her father’s castle.

  In the garden, the man who occupied her thoughts was pacing the darkened paths like a caged animal. And muttering a few rich ripe curses of his own.

  Chapter Four

  A single candle dispelled the darkness in the tower room. Two hooded figures faced each other. On the table between them was a flagon and two goblets. The night sky was visible through the balcony window.

  “You saw for yourself.” The voice was little more than a whisper. “The Highlander cannot be goaded into a fight.”

  “Aye.” The second man’s lips curved into a smile. “But I saw something else, as well. I think I have discerned his weakness.”

  The hand holding the goblet paused in midair. “A weakness? I saw none. The man is fearless.”

  “For himself, perhaps. But did you not see how quickly he prevented his brother from displaying his anger?”

  “Because he is sworn to uphold the peace.”

  “Nay.” White teeth gleamed in the light of the candle. “I saw the look in his eyes when he thought his brother’s temper would explode. That, then, is the Highlander’s weakness. Not fear for himself. Fear for his brothers.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I know it. The Highlander has set himself up as protector of his younger brothers. We will use that to our advantage.”

  “How? They are always together. They have not been out of his sight since he arrived.”

  “No matter. Have your men in position on the morrow. When I give the signal, the brothers must be taken quickly. The Highlander will have no choice but to do our bidding.”

  “If Lord Waltham should learn who plotted this deed, he will go to the king.”

  “Aye. Unless, of course, he believes that the order comes from Edward himself. The king.” The whispered voice was a sneer of disgust. “Because of Edward’s unpopularity, he cannot even raise enough taxes to fund a war against the Scots. Thus we are forced to bargain with these savages instead of facing them on a field of battle. Aye, we will let Lord Waltham think that the order comes from his monarch. If this is what it takes to bring down the throne, so be it.”

  “Hush, man.” Eyes wide with fear peered around, as if expecting to see ghosts armed with swords leap out of the shadows. “Such treasonous talk could find your tongue silenced forever.”

  “Is it treason to desire a strong, independent England?”

  “Nay.”

  “’Tis for that reason I live. ’Tis for that reason I am willing to die. That is why these peace talks must be stopped now. Do you stand with me?” He paused for emphasis. “Or do you stand against me?”

  The man took a sip of ale, considering. “You really believe the Highlander will concede rather than see his brothers die by the sword?”

  “I do. And once he has affixed his mark to the parchment, he will be bound by it, as will all Scots. Then, at least, we will have peace on our terms, and not on his.”

  The man took a deep breath, then held out his hand. “I stand with you in this.”

  “The deed must be done on the morrow, before any talk of peace can begin. You will see to it?”

  “Aye.”

  He lifted his goblet. “To England.”

  “To England.”

  Both men drank until their goblets were drained. Then, they quickly stole from the tower room and made their way to their sleeping chambers.

  Dillon stood on the balcony watching dawn creep slowly across the land. It was not the rich, verdant hills that held his interest, nor the fattened flocks of sheep. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, on that unseen boundary between England and Scotland.

  Home. He yearned for it. Ached for it.

  He was uneasy. All night he had tossed and turned. He knew that much of his unease was due to the female. He cursed again the fates that had thrown them together. Though he despised all things English, he could not deny the attraction to Lord Waltham’s daughter. The kiss they had shared in the garden would not soon be forgotten. Nor the passion that kiss had unleashed. Dillon Campbell was a man who prided himself on control in all facets of his life. What had happened in the garden last night must never happen again.

  But some of his unease was also due to the peace council that would commence this day. The council had been planned by men of good will, but all his senses told him that there was little of that in this place. He was a man who had always trusted his instincts. And ever since his arrival in England, his senses had been shouting danger.

  He rubbed his shoulder, which ached from an old wound. How much of the danger was real and how much imagined? After a lifetime of hatred, was it possible to put aside such feelings and start anew? Could he ever truly trust these English?

  He swallowed the knot of uneasiness. For the sake of his brothers and sister, he would do whatever was necessary to establish an honorable peace between their two countries. But he would never forget that he was a warrior. He would never give up the freedom hard-won on the field of battle. Those were rewards the English would never take from his people. Too many had already given their lives for a few precious freedoms. He would see that their deaths had not been in vain.

  “Did you sleep at all, Dillon?”

  He turned to where his brother stood in the doorway of the sitting chamber.

  “Some. And you, Shaw?”

  “Like a bairn.”

  “Good.” Dillon smiled fondly at this gentle, religious brother, so unlike himself. Perhaps Shaw’s sleep was always so peaceful because it mirrored his soul. “I want you and Sutton to be well rested before the talks begin.”

  Sutton poked his head around the doorway, looking abject. “How could I sleep knowing the serving wench was forced to endure a lonely pallet in the scullery?”

  “A lonely pallet?” Dillon winked at Shaw. “There were at least a score of titled gentlemen at table who were eager to sample the wench’s charms. I’ll wager a gold sovereign she did not sleep alone.”

  “All the more reason that I should have insisted she stay with me,” Sutton retorted. “At least then, the wench would wake this morrow
with a satisfied smile.”

  Dillon threw back his head and roared. These two beloved brothers, the sun and moon of his life, could always make him forget his worries.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us dress and hurry below stairs.”

  “Aye. I am eager to break my fast.” Sutton splashed water on his face.

  “You are just eager to see the serving wench,” Shaw muttered.

  Sutton’s lips curved into a wide smile. “That, too, my brother. But not nearly as eager as the wench is to see me.”

  Shaw was still shaking his head when Dillon turned away to dress.

  Leonora stood in the great hall, directing the servants. Since the council would begin as soon as the men had broken their fast, she was determined that this first meal of the day would be sumptuous. Her mother had always said that a man must first fill his belly before he could bare his soul.

  The cooks had labored through the night to roast wild pigs and lambs, platters of doves and all the fish that could be caught by the nearby villagers. The room was redolent of the fragrance of bread baking on the hearth.

  As she had the previous night, Leonora had taken great pains with her appearance this morning. It was not, she told herself, to impress Dillon Campbell. She was doing this for England.

  Over Moira’s objections, she had insisted upon wearing a rich violet gown that accentuated the color of her eyes and put a bloom on her cheeks. A deep purple amethyst the size of a hen’s egg rested in the shadowed cleft of her breasts, secured by a rope of gold around her neck. Her waist-length hair, as always, was swept into a loose netting that bobbed at her shoulders.

  Her old nurse hurried toward her, carrying a shawl of exquisite lace, which she tossed over Leonora’s shoulders.

  “Ye’ll catch a chill without this, child.”