Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  They stared at each other. Silence echoed between them. “Ye are sure of your decision, Daughter?”

  There was a moment of absolute quiet. “I am sure.”

  But just at that instant, Dugald turned to glance at them. Even Flanna could feel his gaze, so hard and hot was it. Shona turned. The tension between the two was like a cord of steel, stretched tight, pulling them together.

  Flanna drew a deep breath. It had been like that with her and Roderic, and never, not in a thousand lifetimes, would she find a man she could love more. She would not wish less for her only daughter. But what could she do?

  “Flanna,” Roderic said, but she could not quite pull her gaze from the scene before her.

  Roderic, warned by her attention, turned toward Dugald, his brows lowered.

  “Nay,” Flanna whispered. “Dunna do it, my love.”

  Roderic turned toward her, his expression haunted.

  “Had I listened to my father’s council, I would not have married ye.” Love sparked between them. She reached for his hand. “I would not have been whole,” she said, and they turned together and left their daughter to her own mistake.

  Aboard Eagle, Dugald watched them go. It was as if they were offering her to him, begging him to take her, knowing she did not belong with a man like William of Atberry.

  “Riders, gather near the north end of the field,” called the master of the games.

  The announcement shook Dugald back to reality. What the hell was the matter with him? She was not for him. He should have continued riding alone this morning, investigating the woods, instead of returning here, where he knew he would see her. True, on the morning of the archery contest, he had agreed to compete in the horsemanship exercises also, but he had been insane then, determined to prove himself to Shona in any way possible.

  Lucidness had returned since then.

  Pulling his gaze from her, Dugald turned his attention to the games. As long as he was here, he would learn what he could, keep low, and think.

  Sir Godwin was called to compete first. He rode forward and was given a long wooden shaft.

  Bracing it against his hip, he placed his mount behind the line and waited.

  In a matter of seconds the master called the start.

  The knight spurred his mount. It lunged forward. The first ring was speared on the lance. The second also, but on the third, Godwin’s mount veered sideways and he missed the next three rings.

  He returned to his comrades looking a bit chagrined. But none improved on his performance until William of Atberry rode onto the field.

  It was he that won the match.

  Dugald watched as William made his way to Shona’s side, felt his heart constrict as William kissed her hand. Mother of God, she was beautiful beyond words, and yet…and yet as Dugald watched her, he could not fail to see the change in her.

  She seemed unusually staid, as if her vibrant life had been stilled, and now and then, when her betrothed was not demanding her attention, she would turn her gaze to his. The shock he used to feel at her touch was now present even at the contact of their gazes.

  William turned from his conversation with another, stared directly at Dugald, and smiled— almost a pitying smile, as if there had never been any hope that a bastard would win her.

  Anger welled up within Dugald. Damn the noble ass for winning her, damn him for his superiority.

  Hoping to cool his ire, Dugald tied Eagle in the shade of a copse of elms and fetched himself a mug of ale. But the spirits did little to calm him, for each time he looked up it seemed that William was fondling Shona, brushing his knuckles possessively across her cheek, touching her hair. Dugald tried to pull his attention away, but just then William glanced up and grinned, as if he knew the fire that burned in Dugald’s soul.

  Mother of God, he ached to wipe that smug expression from the duke’s face. An official called the start to a half mile horse race, and suddenly Dugald found himself pulled toward his mount as aggressiveness boiled in his system.

  There were a hundred ways a man could accidently die in a horse race, Dugald thought, but as he passed Hadwin, he stopped himself.

  What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t kill William of Atberry, accidently or otherwise.

  Indeed, Dugald had been most careful to portray himself as an arrogant womanizer in search of a rich bride. Hardly should he be ruining that image by riding this lop-eared horse in a competition he was likely to win whether he liked it or not.

  It was time he went to work in earnest. Time he learned the truth instead of allowing his wick to lead him about like a hound on a leash. He would return Eagle to the stable then do some digging, he told himself, but just as he turned, his gaze caught Shona. She stood at the edge of the crowd, her lush mouth pursed, her eyes flat, the fire in them gone.

  Turning slightly, Dugald saw that William was mounted and beside the others, his horse restive, his demeanor calm, as if he were completely unaffected by the time he had spent with Shona. What kind of man could so easily forget her presence?

  A man that needed to be shaken off balance, Dugald decided. And suddenly there was nothing in the world he could do to stop himself. He found himself walking across the green toward Shona, pulled against his better sense until he stood beside her.

  The buzz of the crowd around them hushed a little.

  “You are not riding?” he asked.

  Her eyes grew wide. She shifted her gaze to her betrothed. “Nay, of course not.”

  “But you owe me a competition,” he said. “Another chance to best you.”

  A tiny spark of fire flashed in her eyes. Mother of God, he was a fool, but he welcomed it like a summer breeze.

  “I would gladly beat ye again, Kinnaird, but as ye see, the field waits, and I dunna even have a horse saddled.”

  Dugald glanced toward the riders, then back at her. Without so much as acknowledging her betrothed, he bowed as he lifted his reins toward her. “Then twould be only honorable to offer my own mount,” he said.

  Her strawberry lips parted in surprise, then, “I dunna think William would like it.”

  Anger spurred through him. For the past two years he had lived alone at Isle Fois in search of peace. Why now would he court the chaos her presence brought? But one glance at her told him the truth. Peace without love was a small comfort, and life without her seemed suddenly shallow and hopeless. “Lord William is your master, then?” he asked stiffly.

  The spark in her eyes turned to an inferno. “Twould hardly be your chance to best me if ye yourself are not riding.”

  “But twould be little victory in winning the prize if the best of the lot was not racing.”

  “Ye know nothing about my ability with a mount.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, holding her gaze. “I have quite fond memories of seeing ye astride.”

  Her face grew pink. Mayhap she was remembering the first time they met, thinking of how she had taken his horse. But he could not help but hope she was thinking of another time, of her slim thighs straddling him, of her breasts bare and her face glowing.

  “My thanks, Sir,” she said, “but—”

  “Shona.” William rode up on his handsome bay. There was a smile on his face, but beneath that smile there was something else. Something not so jovial and no longer so certain. Satisfaction swelled through Dugald. “Your conversation seems to be delaying the race.”

  She glanced up into her fiance’s face. “This gentleman offered to let me ride his stallion.”

  “How gallant,” William said. “But I’m certain tis not the kind of thing a sweet maid such as yourself would contemplate.”

  There was a moment of delay before her answer. “In truth,” she said softly, “I was considering it.”

  “I’m sure you’ve no wish to embarrass me, lass,” William said; then turned to Dugald. “If ye plan to race that…horse, ye’d best get in the line, Kinnaird. Ye’ve no wish to cause a scene.”

  “Don’t I?” Dugald ra
ised his brows. He had been born to cause a scene—a blue eyed boy amongst a million dark-eyed natives. Why stop now?

  “What is it you fear, William?” Dugald asked. “Do ye think she might best you?”

  “Nay.” There was the slightest grind in his tone. “I but fear she might be hurt.”

  “Shona, my love, mayhap ye should return to your mother.”

  “Aye. Return to your mother like a good little lass, Shona,” Dugald said, turning away. “Prove that you are no longer a MacGowan.”

  “What?” Her tone was sharp, breathy.

  He turned back. Their gazes met like oil and fire. Pulling his away, he took a step toward Eagle and patted the stallion’s broad neck. “He’s a powerful animal. I do not blame you for being scared.”

  “Kinnaird.” She nabbed his sleeve suddenly.

  He tried to ignore the shock of her touch, but there was little hope of that. Their gazes clashed like steel on steel.

  “Aye?” he asked, barely able to force that one word from between his lips.

  “This beast is but a mild mannered hound compared to the stallions I rode as an infant.”

  Mother of God, he loved her like this, with fire in her eyes and triumph in her soul. He would gladly kill any man who crushed that vibrancy from her.

  “Truly?” he asked, raising a brow and trying to disavow the rush of hot emotion she caused in him.

  “Truly.”

  He shrugged as he lifted the reins toward her. “Then he is yours.”

  Eagle nuzzled her ear. For a moment, he thought she would refuse, but something would not let her. Whether it was his taunting, the thnll of the race or William’s own unintentional goading, he could not tell.

  She mounted on her own, for William would not help her and Dugald dared not touch her, but neither was he quite able to let her turn away, so he caught Eagle’s reins. The stallion irritably laid back his ears and snapped at his hand.

  Dugald tightened his grip. “Watch him at the start,” he warned softly. “He’s not as mild mannered as he seems.”

  “Rather like his master?”

  “He’ll lunge to the side,” he said, finding his voice, yet evading her questions. “Let him run. In truth, there’s little else you can do.” He wanted nothing more than to touch her hand, but he did not dare, not now, not when she was her most vibrant, most alive. It was moments like this that held the ultimate danger for him.

  She glanced at William for an instant before turning Eagle toward the starting line. The crowd was silent, the other competitors shocked. As for Dugald, twas all he could do to keep his heart from leaping from his chest.

  “It seems I owe you,” William said.

  Dugald smiled. Twas the first crack he had seen in the man’s careful demeanor. “I will look forward to collecting,” he said, and turned away.

  Behind the starting line, horses pranced as their riders stared at Shona’s approach. It seems they were not quite ready to see their object of obsession become their competition. William rode stiffly behind her toward the line.

  Moments passed as riders steadied their mounts. Shona was placed in the middle of the pack.

  The gray next to her trumpeted and struck with a foreleg, but Eagle did no more than glare, for he, like Dugald, had long ago learned to differentiate between true danger and an empty threat.

  Right now there was nothing to consider but the finish line. Eagle’s tattered ears pricked forward, his neck bent, and upon his back, Shona sat perfectly still.

  For the first time, Dugald realized her feet didn’t reach the stirrups, but she seemed unconcerned by that disadvantage. Her hands were low and steady and she was bent low over Eagle’s heavy crest, her gaze straight ahead and her cheeks flushed.

  “All ready?” Bullock shouted.

  No one answered. There was a moment of pause, then, “Go!”

  Shona’s yell was lost in the cries of the other riders, but it made no difference, for Eagle was the type to win no matter the cost. He lunged into the combatant gray on his right, knocking that horse off balance, then sprang forward, his powerful quarters driving him. But the others sprang with him, and while Eagle was driven by Shona’s gentle legs, the other’s horses were driven by riders who could not bear to be beaten by a woman. Though they were all willing enough to drool and swoon over her, they had no desire to lose to her.

  Stanford yelled. Sir Godwin dug his mount’s flanks with his spurs, and William, leaning over his horse’s neck like a man possessed, slashed a whip against his bay’s rump.

  Two horses in the middle of the pack collided and went down, spilling their riders. Eagle leapt to the side to avoid them, throwing Shona over his withers.

  She scrambled to regain her balance, grappling with the reins and the mane as Dugald held his breath. Horses thundered past, but in an instant Shona dragged herself back in position.

  The last horse was now two horse lengths ahead, but Eagle had been down before, and now, with a featherweight on his back and the smell of a challenge in his nostrils, he leapt forward. Shona leaned lower, her face nearly pressed against his neck as she screamed into the wind.

  They ate up the distance, devoured the stragglers, ran down the main pack, and finally raced past William and the others to soar beneath the finish line.

  Dugald soared with them, felt the wind in his hair, the glory of victory. Never had he seen anything so beautiful. She was laughing, her right arm raised in victory as her left slowed a still-pounding stallion. Her face was aglow, her hair, loosed by the wild ride, flowed behind her like a river of fire, and in her eyes there was a joy as deep as forever, a joy he had given her, a joy he would never forget, not as long as he lived.

  But suddenly a small girl leapt from the crowd. She was carrying a banner. It whipped wildly in the wind, and Eagle, spurred by the exhilaration of his victory, bolted sideways.

  Shona grabbed for the pommel, trying to stay aboard, but suddenly the girth split loose and the entire saddle spilled sideways. There was nothing she could do but go with it, slipping with a shriek of dismay as she fell beneath the horse’s pounding hooves.

  Chapter 19

  Dugald ran to her, pushing people aside, shoving himself through the crowd, until he fell to his knees beside her.

  “Shona!” He breathed her name, his fingers skimming her face. Her eyes were closed. A laceration slashed across her left cheek. His hand shook as he felt for a pulse in her throat. It was there, erratic but strong. Without thought, without volition, he lifted her into his arms.

  Rachel rushed up, her face pale. “She lives?”

  “Aye.” He forced out the word.

  “To the infirmary. Quickly!” she ordered. “Kelvin, fetch Muriel and my mother. Sara, come with me.”

  William appeared suddenly before them. “Shona. Shona, wake up. Nay!” He fell to his knees.

  “This is my fault. Please, lass, awaken.”

  Dugald said nothing, but pressed quickly past him and hurried toward the keep.

  “Carefully, carefully,” Rachel said. “Put her on the bed.”

  He did so. Her head lolled sideways, her eyes remained closed.

  Mayhap he had completed his mission after all, he thought, but the irony of the situation turned his stomach and ripped at his soul. “What shall I do?” he asked, but Rachel was busy dumping a small bag of herbs into a bowl of water.

  She stirred it with a wooden ladle, dunked a cloth into it then handed the rag to him. “Hold this on her wound.”

  Dugald pressed it carefully to her cheek. In truth, he had seen a hundred people die, many by his own hand. She was only one more, he told himself. But something in him whispered that he lied. If she died the best of him would die, too.

  “Tis not this wound that causes her unconsciousness,” he said, but Rachel was already examining her further.

  “A bump on the back of her head. A scrape on her neck.” She cataloged her cousin’s wounds as if to herself, then ran her hands down Shona’s arms and push
ed up her skirt to examine her legs.

  “What goes on here?” William asked. His voice was soft, but his posture was stiff when he stepped into the room.

  “I am seeing to her wounds,” Rachel said, startled by his entrance.

  “You will not!” he growled.

  The room went as silent as a tomb.

  “What?” Rachel asked.

  Anger sparked in William’s eyes, but in a moment it flashed away. He stumbled across the room and fell to his knees beside the bed “I am sorry. I just…I cannot bear to see her like this. Tis my fault.”

  He rocked back and forth. “My fault. I should not have let her ride, just as I should not have got my Deirdra with another child. Now my Shona will die, too.”

  “Damn you!” Dugald swore, and lunged across the room to grab William by the shirt and drag him to his feet. “She will not die, you filthy…”

  A knowing spark gleamed in William’s eyes.

  Dugald tightened his grip, but the door opened behind him.

  “What goes on here?” Roderic asked.

  “My lord,” William moaned as he drooped in Dugald’s fist. “Tis my fault. Tis mine.”

  “I need peace, Uncle Roddy,” Rachel murmured. “I need them gone. Please.”

  “Ye heard her,” Roderic said, his voice stony, his eyes blank. “Leave now, or die where ye stand.”

  The hours following Shona’s injury were agonizing. Even after Rachel assured him that her cousin would soon be well and up to her usual mischief, Dugald paced.

  But finally he gained the presence of mind at least to see to his horse. He found Eagle in his stall, unscathed and untroubled. After rubbing him down with a twist of straw, Dugald sought out his saddle. Someone had found it on the green and laid it in the aisle next to his mount. He picked it up and absently glanced at the girth. He should have replaced it long ago, should have been more careful; should never have urged her to ride. Many years this leather girth had supported him. It seemed a cruel joke that it would fail now under Shona’s slight weight, he thought, as he ran his fingers over the wasted strap.

  It had torn near the buckle. The leather was soft and frayed there, but…he scowled. At the right edge of the strap, a small portion of the tear was smooth and straight, almost as if it had been cut with a knife.