“Rory!” He barely recognized Fleur shrieking his name.
The man behind Fleur tightened his grasp of her, but it was more a protective stance than to run off with her again.
“Rory, this man was...was kind to me.” Fleur hollered reproachfully. “Don’t. He doesn’t deserve to die.”
Surprising him more, Fleur held an arm behind her, guarding the man. That was when Rory saw she held the reins. Not the man. She had the control.
Something had soared through him so fast and so pervasively that he hadn’t even noticed when it had happened, other than now when it was fading. He’d heard of bloodlust before, but until that moment, he’d thought it some odd vampire-like notion. He hadn’t wanted to bathe in the man’s blood. Rory had simply wanted the man behind Fleur dead. It had seemed so pure and just to do. It had seemed like the perfect thing to do, in fact. And for a moment he regarded the lady, wondering why she would demand such an insane thing.
But he sheathed his sword, and words finally came back into his mind. Somewhat.
“O’ course,” was all he could utter.
He reined his horse to walk to hers, glancing at the beautiful lady in the orange and pink glow. Lord, she was heavenly. Her skin was just a tad dirty, but under the smudges was a gold radiance similar to the dawn’s light. She brought his senses back to him. She would be so good for him once he could make her his.
“Yer dirk,” Rory demanded of the kidnapper.
He leaned to one side and extracted his knife from his hose, handing it, handle side, to Rory, which he placed alongside another dirk in his hose.
Language, once again, was difficult to remember, so Rory stole the lady by her waist onto his horse. In the process she made a small noise, almost sounding like a protest, but her arms were around his neck when she was before him. He reached over and grabbed the reins of the abductor’s horse with narrowed eyes. When he looked down at the lady in his arms, he couldn’t help but smile. Something felt right in the world again, like cogs twirling together in a clock. He held her closer, feeling her cold soft cheek against his own, her breast fitting nicely against his chest. Releasing her to sit in the fore of the saddle, he wished she would reach one leg around and sit astride him. He longed to have her closer and felt his already tight cock begin to lengthen at the thought.
She stiffened, and he withdrew from their embrace.
Again, words, which usually came to him so easily and with a certain amount of charm too, evaded him, and he could only struggle with his thoughts as he looked down at her. Finally, he said, “I’m glad to see ye fine.”
She smiled, but it seemed forced. Well, the woman was probably scared out of her clever mind, poor thing.
“Stay,” he said to Fleur, dismounting from his horse.
Having both reins in his hands, he retrieved one of the knives within his hose. Cutting a foot from the leather reins, he turned his horse, with Fleur still sitting atop, toward the direction of the fighting. With her back to him, he jumped up enough to grind the knife into the side of her kidnapper’s gut, making him groan and pitch forward. He pulled the man down to whisper in his ear. “Tell the lady of yer wound, and I’ll ensure the dirk go through yer heart instead o’ yer innards, ye ken?”
The man nodded slowly and looked to the lady. Rory glanced her direction too, noticing she had twisted and watched him. He smiled at her, sure his shoulder protected her from viewing his blade in her kidnappers’ side. Her grin jerked into place and again it looked compulsory. She looked forward once more. He’d purposely aimed the knife where he knew little harm would come to the man, other than he might bleed for a few hours. But he deserved much worse. He’d tried to take Fleur away from him. No one would live through that.
He withdrew the knife and wiped the blood on the kidnapper’s plaid, then bound the man’s hands together with the strip of reins he’d cut. After that, he took the reins again, and fastened them to the back of his saddle. Then he jumped up behind Fleur.
Aye, everything was right in the world again. Mayhap even better than usual, for the lady was in his arms, holding onto one of his hands, which was wrapped around her thin belly. As they rode forward to the sounds of the lessening strains of the fight, Rory couldn’t help but feel that finally his life was going in a direction he wanted.
Until he saw Duncan, glorified battle god, ensure victory over the arses who had dared to steal Fleur.
Chapter 16
Duncan wasn’t sure what hurt the most, seeing Fleur’s eyes widen, become fearful and perhaps disgusted when she looked at the blood and gristle of his kills, or seeing her wrapped in Rory’s arms. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone this day, although he’d been angry beyond compare, worrying about Fleur. But he was merely to arrest the abductors, for the laird to do with as Himself saw fit. Now though, whomever the men belonged to had reason to retaliate against the MacKay. Jesus, he’d made a mess of things.
But that large man, the one with the black beard now headless and limp in the middle of the trail, had gone after him in such a rage. Duncan’s old instincts had flared to life, to protect himself against all odds. More than likely the man was simply desperate to get Fleur to his poor laird and seek her ransom, but the way he’d fought against Duncan, with savage, unthinking, blundering moves, made him think that the man was half mad. Perhaps even a little suicidal.
Lord have mercy, for Duncan now wondered if he had helped the man to his death. After the beheading, another one of the abductors tore at Duncan, and he’d merely defended himself with his sword. But the repercussion of Duncan’s one defensive move caused the man’s blade to swing backward, toward its owner too fast, too furiously. The man slit open his own neck with that fatal blow. After blood spilled at an alarming rate from both dead men, the rest of the kidnappers raced away. Duncan had had to call out to his young troops to let the abductors flee.
The sun had risen and already the heat of the day simmered close to unbearable. Duncan thought it was Ewan, good lad, who had ordered the men to start digging holes for the deceased. The valley they stood in was a lush green and would have been beautiful if not for the stench of the coppery blood and the already buzzing of flies. Duncan hated blood loss now. He even hated the violence. God, he hated that his body knew how to perform it more intimately than he knew how to please a woman.
He glanced away from Fleur, wondering if she recriminated him, and the thought speared through his toughened skin to his heart. Lord, but he was a beast of a man. He didn’t mean to be. He hadn’t meant for any of them to die. Years of training had come through at the worst of times. That, and he truly wasn’t sure if that first big bloke didn’t aim at trying to kill himself.
“Once the men are buried, we’ll go back to the horses, ride for a bit,” Duncan ordered.
“First, though, my lady,” Rory said loudly enough for everyone to hear, but obviously aimed his statement at Fleur, “would ye care to rest? Before we go back?”
Duncan frowned, wishing he’d thought of saying as much, thinking of her needs above his own powerful need to inculpate himself.
She shook her head. “I just want to get back to...Helen.”
For a heartbeat, Duncan had thought she would say his name. But that would have been ridiculous. Fleur was the most beautiful creature probably to have ever entered Scotland, and why would she want a monster like him? She was better off with a man like Rory who could provide for her without already sacrificing his soul, a golden man everyone seemed to like and respect, a titled man who could give her wealth and power.
What did he have to give her? A scarred heart? Did he even possess a heart any more, Duncan wondered.
Soon enough the dead were buried, and Duncan and the troops were well on their way. He wondered why Rory had taken a prisoner, who held his hands close to his belly, his face ashen and his bright blue eyes wide. The prisoner hadn’t said a word, but kept glancing at Fleur, as if...as if worried about her.
Laird MacKay would more than likely brand t
he man or send him back to his laird, if he had one, with an apology for Duncan’s accidental killings. And Himself would need to issue an apology. Duncan would say sorry to the laird too, try to explain himself.
Then the thought of leaving home flittered once more through his mind, but instead of taking the bait and thinking of ways to escape Durness, he looked at Fleur, still tucked against Rory. Her face was pale, her hair a beautiful mass of black that swirled and swayed with the horse’s gait. A few strands escaped the mess of a chignon and framed her face, teased around her thin shoulders.
She wore one of his mother’s old kirtles again, this one a rusty red with a white lace-up shirt he’d fantasized of unfastening. She’d been wearing his coat yesterday morning, but now she didn’t, and she looked frozen through. Lord, he loved it when she wore his things, making him feel...ah, hell, it made him feel as though she already possessed him. He’d thought she had liked wearing his coat too, once his plaid, wrapped tightly around her wee shoulders. But now she looked so vacant. She probably hated him for what he’d done, for killing.
No matter how she felt about him, he wanted nothing more than to hold her. To feel her little body against his, to ensure she was safe and close. Make sure she wasn’t scared.
It was noon when they stopped by a stream to water themselves and the horses. Rory watched and clucked over Fleur like a mother hen, which ensured that Duncan avoided her, although he wanted nothing more than to ask her how she was.
Instead, he took the prisoner and walked a distance with the limping man, both of them stretching their legs. The captive looked exhausted and mayhap sick too. Duncan had untied the man, thinking he might want to loosen his grip against his belly, but his hands stayed clenched to his torso.
“Need water?”
The man nodded.
Duncan handed him his leather bag he’d filled with boiled water. One never knew about the rivers and creeks, what with the recent outbreaks of cholera. With one hand still on his belly, the man gulped down the water. That was when Duncan saw blood ooze between each of the man’s fingers.
“Ye’re bleedin’.”
“So are ye.” He nodded at Duncan’s chest.
Lord, he knew he was hurting but thought it had more to do with Fleur sitting with Rory. There, over his heart was a gash. Not too deep, but wide enough to sting.
“Didn’ even notice.”
The man tried for a smile, seeming peaceable and compliant—although, Duncan well knew looks could be deceiving.
“What’s yer name?”
“Greggor.”
“I’m Duncan. ’Tis yer wound bad?”
Greggor slowly let the water drop beside his hip. He glanced around Duncan, eyes narrowed and weary, never answering.
Duncan followed his gaze to Rory, standing more than a hundred yards away. It simply hurt too much being so close to Fleur and not having her at his side, asking her if she was all right, checking for any signs that she was hurt. So he’d walked as far away as he could.
Finally the prisoner said slowly, “I gave the lady up quick. I—at first I thought ye mosstroopers, trying to nab her from us. But then I realized ye were her people and gave her up.”
“How—?”
The man spied down Rory again with a note of anger darkening his eyes.
“Captain MacKay attacked ye? Unprovoked?”
The man shrugged, then winced. “I stole her from ye. I doubt he was unprovoked.”
Still, it bothered Duncan that Rory would harm the man, especially since he was giving up Fleur. There was no honor in that sort of assault. Well, perhaps Greggor wasn’t telling the whole of the story. Mayhap the man was a liar. But then what he said next floored Duncan.
“Something’s not right with that man. Fleur...she’s good and sweet, and she shouldn’ be with him. I—I ken we shouldn’ done what we did, but we needed the money—”
“Did yer laird send ye for her for ransom?”
“None of us have a laird anymore.” The man spit in the opposite direction from where they stood. “Haven’ ye heard? Cromwell’s killed most of them. We have nothin’ now.” He glanced up at Duncan, full of remorse. “Faolin, the one I reckon ye beheaded, got drunk from drinking rotten apples, then had the idea to kidnap yer princess when we heard of her.”
“Heard of her?”
“Lord, ‘tis throughout the land how the great Duncan has himself a princess.”
“Ye ken me? That’s how ye ken her name?”
He hesitated for a beat, but then nodded. “I wasn’ for the plan. I thought it stupid and suicidal to oppose the likes of ye, but Faolin...ah, the man was deranged, but so big and bullish no one would argue sense into him. So we came, none of us a-wantin’ to.”
Duncan looked down at his boot. “I’m sorry about his death and the other too.”
“’Tis for the best. The two of them were goin’ to get us all killed. Ifn ‘twill be just me and Faolin and Broo, then that’d be for the best. Let the other men live, aye?”
Duncan shook his head. “I doubt the MacKay will execute ye. We aren’ goin’ to hunt down the others either. As long as they stay away.”
Greggor shrugged and looked again at Rory. “They’ll stay away now that Faolin’s gone.” He took a sip of a breath and winced. “The lady tried to protect me. She might try to say a word for me to yer laird, hmm? But that one,” his eyes narrowed at Rory then, “he’s goin’ to kill me. I saw it in his eyes.”
Nothing about this sat right with Duncan. He hated to believe Greggor. After all, he’d been weak enough to be an accomplice in abducting Fleur. Still...something about the story rang true, and that made Duncan feel as if his innards might reject the little that was in there.
“Will the lady tell me the same story ye just did, about the captain attackin’ ye the way he did?”
Greggor shook his head. “Nay. That man waited ‘till she looked away, then stabbed me. Said if I told her, he’d kill me, and I believe him.”
Duncan stretched one side of his neck, thinking. “I’ll make sure Ewan watches ye, while I find ye a web to stuff around that bleedin’ gut o’ yers. Ye sure ye’re not hurt deep?”
Greggor shook his head. “Not too deep. Just hurts like a son o’ a bitch and won’ stop bleedin’.”
Duncan called Ewan and Thomas to watch over Greggor then hiked around a crag for a spider web. Ashes might stop the bleeding too, but Duncan doubted he could find anything like that out in the wilds. Walking around a large boulder, he looked for cracks in it, where spiders usually liked to claim their homes. Lord, his own cut wasn’t too deep either, but kept bleeding. He stopped his search and peeked under his white shirt. Gasping, he was surprised it would hurt so much to have the fabric peel from his tender skin.
That’s when he heard the unmistakable sound of quick footfalls. Expecting one of his own men, he turned, pointing at his cut.
“Why didn’ anyone tell me I was bleedin’?”
He saw a blur of dark red, then realized wide flowing skirts and a dirty white shirt approached in a flurry. Fleur! She caught him completely by surprise, jumping on him, and they fell. He somehow sat upright but was stunned with her in his lap holding him tightly around his neck.
She didn’t say a word, but crawled up until she sat astride him, holding him in a vice he wasn’t sure he could breathe in, her head beside his, her soft cheek next to his whiskered one. Then he felt her shaking. Placing his arms around her, he soothed his hands down her back.
“I’ve got ye,” he finally thought to say.
She pulled away enough to stare at him in his eyes, her own shooting accusations at him. “Don’t you care about me?”
He couldn’t tell her how much, but gurgled an odd noise.
“Why didn’t you at least ask me how I was doing? If I was all right?”
“I wanted to.”
Her full lips broke into a silent snarl. “Why didn’t you?” A perfect tear streaked down her cheek.
He wiped it away tend
erly and couldn’t help but keep his hand on her silky skin. It was more pleasure than he could have ever imagined, touching her like this. The intimacy she had forced on him, sitting on him like this. She wasn’t just in his arms, she was so close he felt her light weight on his thighs. If she weren’t wearing so many skirts, her center would touch his. And when she’d held him, he’d felt her breasts and stomach against his. God, that had been heaven.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked again. “Do you care about me? I know you probably think I’m insane, and, honestly, I wouldn’t blame you for that. Because I’m not sure how I got here either, but—and I know we haven’t known each other long, but don’t you care at all about me?”
“Probably too much, aye.”
Her slim shoulders slumped and her eyes softened. She wrapped her arms around his neck again and held him close. This time, he did the same around her waist. He felt her trembling, then the sensation of something wet met his neck, right where her face was pressed against him.
“I’ve got ye. Ye’re safe now, Fleur.”
She squeezed him tighter, scooted until her skirts were no longer in the way, only his plaid. The realization that her body aligned with his stole every thought in his mind. For a moment. When he hardened, he pushed her away slightly, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.
He tried to smile, tried to think of something to say to her.
“Don’t,” she ordered. Then she shimmied back where she had been.
He grimaced as she surely felt why he had pushed her away. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh.” Her breath whispered against his ear, making his condition even more noticeable, he was sure.
Still, he tried to comfort her, caressing up and down her back and arms. Her grip around his neck loosened slightly, her trembling subsided, and her breathing became more even.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” she whispered.
He couldn’t fathom a reason either, other than he needed her. It had become quite simple as he had raced through the countryside searching for her. He needed her. He didn’t even understand why himself, but that didn’t seem to matter.
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