Back at the cottage, he tied his end of the rope to one of the wall posts. “Why are you doing that?” she asked.
“Och,” he said mildly, “just making sure you wilna be following me to Inverness.”
He untied her hands but then yanked her arms behind her.
Panic began to swell in her. “What are you doing?”
“Tying your wrists behind you,” he said.
“But how will I get free?”
He simply shrugged.
“Nay! You canna do this!” She began to fight, ignoring the pain shooting through her arm and the fresh trickle of blood she felt moving down her shin. “Nay!”
The bastard was twice her size and far stronger. He threw her facedown onto her bed, the rope at her ankle going taut and biting into her skin. Digging his knee into her upper back to hold her down, he tightened the twine over her oozing skin.
Then he stepped calmly off the bed. As Aila turned over to her side, she saw him through her bedchamber doorway, stepping over the strewn items on the floor and heading toward the front door.
“Wait!” she called.
But he swung open the door and stepped outside, his palm fondling the dull hilt of the dagger he’d strapped to his waist. Her dagger.
The door slammed behind him, leaving Aila alone for the first time all day. She tested the rope at her ankle. If she went to her knees and turned, she might be able to work the knot loose from behind her. Then—if she could get to the kitchen, she could find a knife and cut her wrist bindings loose. It would take a while, but she didn’t think she’d starve to death before she was able to free herself.
She sighed, her body shuddering with relief. The day had been like nothing she’d ever experienced. In the presence of an unstable, violent zealot who’d killed her maid and could very easily have killed her. She’d never been so on edge for so long, her senses so attuned to every little movement.
She was absolutely exhausted. She couldn’t wait to fall back into her ruined bed and sleep until she couldn’t sleep anymore.
But first, she had to free herself. And find Max.
A smell wafted over her, and Aila looked up, suddenly alert all over again. It smelled like… Oh no.
Fire.
Outside, there was a crackling noise—the sound of burning thatch.
Oh God. William Sutherland had set her cottage on fire.
Chapter Eight
Max opened his encrusted eyes painfully, then squinted against the harsh glare of light. Where the hell was he?
He sat up carefully, fighting a surge of dizziness. Pain sliced through his skull, and he reached his hand up to feel a tender lump the size of an egg on the side of his head. Below the lump, his hair was caked with blood, and he felt dried blood streaked across his ear.
He looked around, seeing that he was near the well behind Beauly Castle. Stumbling to his feet, he tried to remember what had happened.
It had been night when he’d come out here, but it was daytime now—about eight in the morning, judging by the position of the sun. He’d spent the night unconscious on the ground. Thank God he hadn’t frozen to death. It had been an unseasonably warm night, all the snow gone—melted away in the afternoon of the previous day.
But why was he out here? What had knocked him in the head?
And then he remembered—the face he’d seen for just a flash of a second before he’d fallen unconscious.
Sutherland?
Bloody hell. Max lurched toward the castle, battling through another wave of dizziness.
Aila would have come out to find him if he hadn’t returned in a timely fashion last night, but she hadn’t. Which could only mean one thing.
Sutherland had her.
After a quick, fruitless search of the castle, Max rushed to the stable to saddle his horse. He was at least twelve hours behind Sutherland now. God only knew what that villain had done to Aila in all this time.
He reeled to a halt just inside the stable.
The horse was dead.
The goddamned bastard had killed his horse.
Rage knotting his innards, Max set out on foot at a jog—each step jarring his head and threatening him with unconsciousness. But he willed himself to stay alert. At the village of Beauly, he cajoled an innkeeper out of a horse and rode south as if the hounds of hell were lunging at his heels.
It was well into the afternoon when Max finally arrived on the edge of Aila’s land, about a mile from her cottage. The poor mare was lathered and half-dead, he’d worked her so hard.
At the top of a rise, he slowed her for a moment to see if he could spot Aila’s cottage in the distance.
He couldn’t see the cottage—the terrain was rocky, hilly, and uneven, and the cottage was tucked in between two small rises. What he did see, however, made his blood curdle in his veins. A plume of smoke rose up from the treetops, creating a roiling black cloud in the watery blue sky.
Fire.
He urged the poor animal to a gallop, praying she didn’t trip in a hole in the uneven dirt of the road.
Minutes later, Aila’s cottage came into view. It was nearly engulfed in flames—one side of it completely ablaze. It looked on the verge of collapse.
Max raced to the burning structure, then stopped the horse, dismounted, and ran as close as he could to the heat. “Aila! Aila, are you in there, lass?”
No answer. Probably because she wasn’t inside, he reasoned.
But damn it. What if she was in there and gagged, or not able to speak for some other reason?
The thought of her in there, of her being burned, did terrible things to his insides. He had hated knowing Aila was in danger all day. But knowing she might be dead… or near death… nay.
If she died, he wouldn’t survive it.
He loved her. He loved her vigor, her diligence, her hard-working spirit, her wicked intelligence, her adventurousness in their bed… He loved her petite body and her red-blonde curls and her green eyes and her quicksilver smile. He loved every single thing about her. In the past days, she’d become an essential part of his existence. He could no longer imagine a future without Aila MacKerrick.
“Aila!” he shouted. No answer.
But it didn’t matter. He had to go inside and make sure she wasn’t there.
There was no time to waste. It would be too late soon. He touched the door handle, but it singed his hand. He stepped back, and as he had the first day at Beauly Castle, he kicked the door in.
Half-burnt, it gave way quickly under the force of his boot. Covering his mouth with the back of his arm, he surged inside.
The heat was so intense it felt like it was melting his skin, and the smoke so thick he could hardly see anything beyond a few inches ahead. By memory, he made his way from the main room toward the doorway leading to her bedchamber.
“Aila!” he called, then coughed violently, his eyes watering.
“Aila!”
Nothing.
He walked through the open door into her room. Her belongings were strewn all over the floor. What had happened here? “Aila? Aila!”
His voice was growing weaker. The air hotter, the sounds of flames licking at the timbers intensifying.
He might die in here. Which would be fine, as long as Aila was all right.
Though he’d really rather live.
And then he saw her. The faintest shadow in the smoke, curled into a ball on her bed. She wore the one and only dress he’d ever seen her wear, red tartan shot through with yellow. It was the yellow that caught his eye now.
He lunged to her. “Aila!”
She didn’t move. She was unconscious… or dead.
Blinking hard, he scooped her into his arms, realizing her hands were bound.
Holding her limp form tight against his body, he turned to go back through the door into the main room. The smoke was blinding him. He’d taken two steps when something tugging on Aila’s leg made him stop short.
Jesus. The bastard had tied her to the cottage before setting it afire. Rage surged up within Max, and with it strong determination. He’d live through this, if only to see Sutherland pay for what he’d done. He quickly withdrew his sgian dubh from his stocking and sliced through the rope at Aila’s ankle, then the one binding her wrists.
Finally, he turned back to the door to her bedroom.
What he discovered, however, was not a door. It was a wall of flames.
He stood, staring. He could try to run through them—risking catching both of them on fire. Or…
He could try the window.
He turned back to the tiny square-paned window. Gently, he laid Aila back on the bed. Flames licked at the other side of the bedframe. He didn’t have much time.
He opened the window quickly, then leaned back over Aila. “Aila, love, wake up. Wake up, Aila.” His voice was no more than a raw rasp. He slapped her gently on the face. Her eyelids fluttered, and then she began to cough. “Thank God,” he murmured under his breath. She was alive. He’d thank God for the rest of his life for that.
“All right,” he choked out. “We have to go through the window.”
She looked at him dazedly. Flames crawled over the bedcovers toward her, but she didn’t seem to notice them.
“Now, Aila! We have to go now.” He picked her up and steadied her on her feet. “You must go through the window.”
Her eyes remained focused on his. She didn’t seem aware of much else.
“Aye.” Her lips formed the word, but he couldn’t hear it. She pressed her hand to her mouth and coughed violently, her whole body spasming with the force of it.
“Good.” His voice was beginning to fail him. “I’ll… lift you. Go… legs first.”
He lifted her and told her to kick her legs up. She did, swinging them over the window ledge. Then he helped her shimmy through. She hardly fit, and he didn’t know how the hell he was going to do it. But he would. He didn’t have a choice.
Finally, she slipped out of his grasp. He looked out the window to see her on her hands and knees outside, choking, gasping for air. Overhead, the thatch on this side of the house was now fully aflame, the heat so oppressive it felt like it was crushing his bones.
She turned to face him, trying to speak, but she still couldn’t make a sound. He hoisted himself up and through the window, arms first, then his head. His shoulders got stuck, and he turned, first one way and then the other, attempting to wedge himself through. His shirt tore, and rough wood clawed at the flesh of his shoulders, but finally, he pushed through to his waist and hips. He fell the rest of the way out, using his arms to protect his head as he rolled.
He popped up to standing instantly, grabbed Aila’s waist, and hefted her up as he stumbled away from the house. Flames erupted at the window through which they’d just escaped.
Coughing and sucking in heaving breaths of air, they watched as the house burned. Moments later, the roof collapsed. Soon, there wasn’t much left of the cottage but the charred remains of the stone walls. Chickens meandered close, then scurried away, startled by the intense heat.
After the roof collapsed, Aila couldn’t watch anymore. She turned to Max, and he took her into his arms as she curled against him. Vaguely, she realized she’d now lost everything she’d held dear for her entire life. Gin. Her house. Her dagger—her only source of wealth.
But Max was beside her, holding her. She still had something precious in her life. He was new to her, but no less precious for it. He was something to live for.
She stayed there, tucked against Max’s body, until the sun dipped low on the horizon, the chill began to penetrate her bones, and her house was nothing but sporadically smoking charred stones and embers.
Finally, Max sighed. “D’you ken where he went?”
She looked at him dumbly. “Who?”
“Sutherland.” He bit out the name.
“Inverness,” she whispered. “He intends to start building his army there.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
“But it’s almost nighttime. We shouldna travel at night. ’Tis too dangerous.” Her voice was scratchy and weak, but at least she could speak now.
“Do you want to make camp here?”
Biting her lower lip, she shook her head. “Nay. Let’s go to the Grants. They live about a mile away on the road to Inverness. They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.”
He agreed, and they set off for the Grants’ cottage.
As Aila had promised, the Grants, an older, white-haired couple along with two grown daughters, did indeed take them in. When Aila told them the story of Sutherland and what had happened to her house, Mrs. Grant burst into tears.
“Oh dear,” she sniffed, patting a handkerchief to her eyes. “’Tis all my fault. I told the man where you lived. He said he was… he was your cousin from Edinburgh. I trusted him…”
“Of course you did,” Aila soothed, patting the woman’s back. “And I’ll no’ have you blaming yourself, now. It isna your fault.” And then she used the reasoning Max had given to her two days earlier. “This is Sutherland’s fault. All of it.”
The Grants’ cottage didn’t have much space, so Max and Aila were relegated to the floor, though Mrs. Grant did make them a soft bed piled with plaids. Then she encouraged them to sleep together there, even knowing they weren’t married. “There’s no space to separate you,” she said practically to Aila. “And anyhow,” she added with a broad wink, “’tis nicer to sleep beside a braw, warm body in winter.”
So when the rest of the family retired to the cottage’s two tiny chambers, Max and Aila curled up in their plaids in front of the hearth, their arms wrapped around each other.
“She obviously thinks we should marry,” Aila said. “Since my parents died, she’s been badgering me to find myself a man to help me in caring for the property.”
Max chuckled, but the thought of her finding a man—other than him, of course—made his insides twist into knots.
“Not that there’s anything to care for anymore,” Aila said softly.
“The land is still yours.”
“Aye. But where will I live? I’ve got nothing now but a thousand acres of Highland scrubland.”
“That’s something, though.”
She sighed. “Aye. I suppose.”
He pulled her tight against him. “Aila… I’m a man with no home except where the Knights tell me to go. But I have the means to help you rebuild yours.”
“You dinna have to do that.”
“I want to.”
She buried her head in his chest, and he stroked her long red-gold locks, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
He wanted her to stay with him, be at his side like the other Knights’ wives.
He wanted her to be his wife.
But she was tied to her home and her land—she’d said the reason she hadn’t married was because she couldn’t find a man who’d help her care for her land. The Knights spent most of their time in London. She didn’t belong in that enormous city, surrounded by the English. She was a Highland lass through and through, and she belonged in the Highlands.
If he asked her to stay with him, she’d probably laugh in his face.
He kissed her softly, mindful of her injuries. She was bruised all over, her wrists and ankles terribly chafed, her knee sliced open, and her arm was tender and swollen where Sutherland had squeezed it. Max had wrapped it carefully earlier, and she’d remained stoic throughout, but he could see the pain in her eyes.
Holding her gently, he kissed her thoroughly, pressing his lips to her body over the top of her chemise. She gazed up at him through her bright green eyes.
He loved this woman. He’d do anything for her. To keep her safe. To make her happy.
He stroked her breast over the fabric, then moved his hand down, over her hip. Then he pulled up her skirt and stroked over her thigh and between her legs.
“You’re already wet for me, lass,” he murmured.
“Always for you, Max.”
He slid into her slowly, and they both released a long breath of pleasure. Deep inside her, he hesitated and looked down at her. “Bonny lass,” he murmured. “My bonny, brave Aila.”
He made love to her slowly, taking his time, pleasuring them both with long, languid thrusts. Steadying himself on one arm and reaching between her legs, he stroked her too. He’d learned her body over the past several days. Learned just how to rub her into rapture. He did it now, stroking her body with his thumb and with his cock until she gasped and her channel began to flutter around him, her fists bunching in his shirt.
He let go then, pushing deeper, harder. Just when she began to come down from her peak, he reached his. Burying his face into her soft neck and breathing into her hair, he released deep inside her, the pleasure coursing through his body in heavy waves.
When it was over, he slumped beside her and took her in his arms. She tucked herself tight against his body.
“I love you, Max,” she whispered.
Chapter Nine
When Aila woke, dawn light crept in through the two small windows that flanked the front door. She stretched, then reached for Max.
He wasn’t beside her.
She sat up, scanning the room. He wasn’t here. Perhaps he’d gone outside to the privy, or for some air.
She rose, wrapped herself in one of the plaids, and slipped outside. “Max?” she called softly, not wanting to wake the Grants.
No answer.
She checked all around the cottage, then the privy. He was nowhere to be seen. With a sinking feeling, Aila went to the small stable beside the cottage and slipped inside. The Grants owned one horse, but they’d stabled the horse Max had brought from Beauly village here last night.
The animal was gone.
She stared at the empty stall for a minute, grinding her teeth together so hard she thought she might break them.
Max had gone after Sutherland without her. He was trying to keep her safe. He’d probably known that if he waited until she was awake, she would have argued until he gave in. So instead, he’d sneaked away while she’d been sleeping.
Her Wicked Highlander: A Highland Knights Novella Page 7
