by Lily Baldwin
The women drew closer together, clasping each other’s hands, but they did not answer.
“Judging by the fear and that glimmer of animosity I detect in both yer gazes, I’m willing to bet ye’re MacDonnell lassies.” Then his eyes settled on the petite beauty in the rich cloak. “And judging by the fineness of yer garment, I can only assume ye must be the Lady MacDonnell herself.”
The black-haired beauty straightened her shoulders. Steel entered her gaze. Giving her chin a haughty lift, she said, “I am the daughter of Laird MacDonnell, so ye’d best be letting us on our way or…”
The woman’s voice quivered before it trailed off as Jamie withdrew his broad sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. “Or what?” he said, his voice deadly soft.
With the tip of the blade pointed down, he let his weapon drop. It drove into the ravine floor. The women reached for each other and stepped back. An instant later, he jumped to the ground in front of them, forcing shrill screams from their lips. They clung to each other as he approached, freeing his sword from the earth when he passed by.
He kept his eyes trained on the lady. He needed to find out why the Lady of Clan MacDonnell—newly betrothed to the son of the most powerful clan in the region—was standing in a ditch on his land.
He stopped in front of her, holding his blade loosely in his hand. “Why are ye here?”
The lady met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. Still, she did not answer. His gaze dropped to her small hand, gripping so tightly to her maid’s arm that her knuckles shone white. He glanced at her maid who trembled while she eyed his men on the ridge above.
Jamie circled around them. “I suggest ye answer me, or I will make my own conclusions.” He stopped in front of her and drew close. “Mayhap, ye’re unhappy with the soft puppy to whom yer betrothed, and ye came here to find a real man.”
“My betrothal is none of yer concern,” she bit out. He could tell she was grappling for courage.
He leaned closer still. “Ah, but ‘tis very much my business, and why do ye think that is?”
Her eyes darted around nervously, but she offered no answer.
“Because ye’re on my land,” he snarled.
Her eyes widened. She clung closer to her maid.
Slowly, he returned his blade to its scabbard. Then he reached out and took hold of a lock of her black hair, stroking his thumb across the soft waves. She smelled of lavender and honey. “I suppose I could ransom ye.”
She drew a sharp breath, then snaked her hand out and jerked her hair free from his grasp. Blue iridescent eyes widened as he drew even closer. Her bottom lip trembled, drawing his gaze to her full mouth.
She swallowed hard. “The dozen head of cattle ye stole a fortnight ago should be ransom enough.” The fear in her eyes belied the strength of her tone.
He cocked a brow at her. “I was merely taking back what was already mine.” Without looking back, he motioned for his men to jump down from the ridge. The loud thud of each of his warriors jumping to the ground sounded behind him, a chorus of his Highland brethren, which further widened the women’s eyes and caused their feet to scurry back. They cringed with terror, and as well they should.
For centuries, their clans had feuded, always on the brink of war. And the only thing worse than a MacDonnell man in Jamie’s mind was a MacDonnell woman. They were notoriously spoiled, fork-tongued vipers. “Ye still have not answered my question. Don’t make me ask ye again. What are ye doing on my land?”
Her chin lifted, and for a moment, a flash of defiant strength shaped her delicate features. “This land is ours.”
Jamie grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her off the ground until they were eye to eye. “Ye don’t want to make me angry.”
~ * ~
A shiver raked up Fiona’s spine as she hung, suspended in the air, staring into amber eyes, burning hot with fury. If the wild, hairy, monster of a man snarling at her wasn’t yet angry, she did not want to know his true rage.
“The soil ye’re standing on has long belonged to Clan MacLeod. Now,” he hissed. “I am going to ask ye again. What are ye doing on my land?”
“Yer men attacked my escort.”
His eyes widened for a moment, just a flash, but she had glimpsed his surprise.
“I gave no such orders.”
“Be that as it may,” she snapped, forgetting her fear. “MacLeod warriors attacked us on the open road.”
Fresh anger flashed across his face the instant before he set her down. She grabbed Esme’s hand and backed away, eyeing the enemy. Tension filled his shoulders. She noticed his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
He closed the distance between them in one mighty step. “If ye were attacked, then it was because ye were trespassing on MacLeod land. The land from the road to ravine is ours, given as a dowry from yer clan nearly half a century ago,” he growled.
Her heart pounded. She swallowed hard, wishing Alasdair and her men would suddenly appear on the ridge and fire a dozen arrows into the devil’s back. But they were nowhere in sight. The task of defending her clan fell on her shoulders alone. She took a deep breath and fought for courage. “That union was never consummated, which forfeits the dowry,” she shot back, but inside her mind was screaming at her to stop talking.
At that moment, she needed to worry about survival not defending her clan’s honor. She was alone with her maid in the woods inches from the MacLeod, the very man who haunted the dreams of every MacDonnell child.
He shook his head at her, giving her a look of disgust. “Yer grandmother ran off before the wedding. She was a faithless viper, a stranger to honor and decency.”
“Decency?” Fiona blurted in outrage. Her grandmother had fled the betrothal because she feared for her very life, which Fiona was about to point out to the massive man glaring down at her when Esme grabbed her hand.
“This is not the time,” Esme cautioned under her breath.
Fiona swallowed her protests. She tore her gaze away from the MacLeod’s and looked beyond him at the fierce band of warriors—all as hairy and unkempt as their leader. Each man shot daggers from his eyes that cut through her fear to her very soul.
Esme was right. They were at the mercy of the enemy—an enemy known only for their cruelty.
She searched her mind for the words to make him go away when, suddenly, he turned on his heel and started to climb back up the ridge. His men followed.
Fiona glanced at Esme and lifted her shoulders in surprise. Mayhap, he was just going to leave them. Please go, she prayed.
“Are ye coming or do ye need my help to walk?” he called down to her when he reached the top.
“We will make our own way home,” Fiona said in a rush before she started to turn her back to him.
“’Tis almost as if ye wish me to turn ye into a sack of grain and throw ye over my shoulder.” His voice was deep and foreboding.
Fiona froze, knowing not to doubt his threat. She eyed the slope. “We will climb this ridge or die trying,” she whispered to Esme who nodded firmly in reply.
Fiona crossed to the foot of the steep banking and hitched up her tunic, careful not to lift the hem of her skirts above her ankles and took two steps up the ridge before sliding back down. Her hands flew in front of herself to catch her fall. Steeling her shoulders, she tried again, but this time, her foot caught on her tunic. She fell face down into the dirt. A breath later, she heard Esme cry out. Fiona pushed up on her hands and knees and glanced at her maid who was sprawled out on the slope.
Fiona scrambled up onto her feet and met the Highlander’s fierce gaze. “If we could get up this bloody ridge, we would have done so already.”
He shrugged. “No matter. I’ll carry ye.”
She took a step back. “Don’t touch me, not again.”
He jumped down from above. She swallowed the squeal that rose in her throat as he landed inches from her.
“We can make it back to our men on our own. We don’t need yer help.”
The amber flecks in his brown eyes brightened as he leaned close. “Understand one thing, Lady MacDonnell. I do not seek to aid ye. I want ye off my land before I’m accused of mistreating ye. Yer foolishness could start a war, which I don’t expect ye to care about, but I do.” Then before she knew what was happening, he grabbed her waist and flung her over his shoulder.
“Unhand me,” she shouted at his thickly muscled back.
“I don’t think ye want me to let go of ye right now.”
She lifted her head and looked at the ground, which from his great height, appeared very far away, indeed. Holding her tongue, she closed her eyes. She could feel his back muscles shift with power as he trudged up the slope. His smell reached her nose, and as much as she wanted to be repelled, it struck a nerve within her. There was something raw and masculine in his scent, something rugged and…
“Blast,” she whispered, annoyed with herself.
He was a hideous man who thought nothing of raising his hand against a woman or child. What did it matter how he smelled?
When he reached the top, he didn’t put her down. She heard a horse nicker the instant before he slung her over its back. She winced and started to sit up, but his strong hand pressed her back down.
He swung up behind her, sliding his leg under her. “Hamish, ye come with me and bring the maid. The rest of ye head to the keep.”
She was furious at being treated so roughly. “I will ask ye again to let us go.”
He leaned over in his saddle. “Would ye rather I ransom ye or leave ye here to feed the wolves?”
“Neither,” she answered.
“Then be silent, or ye’ll find out what happens when a woman disobeys her laird.”
“Ye’re not my laird.” What was wrong with her? Did she have a death wish?
“When ye’re on my land, I’m yer laird.”
Remembering his threat to hold her for ransom, she swallowed her reply.
Blast the storm that washed away the bridge! She should be nearly home by now, not draped over the enemy’s horse. Shifting her gaze to the side, movement in the trees caught her eye. She gasped realizing it was the fawn, still slowly limping. Emotion swelled in her chest.
I’m sorry I couldn’t save ye, sweetling.
Her gaze followed the deer as it slowly tramped through the trees toward a sight that flooded Fiona’s heart with warmth. A doe stood amid the thicket.
Despite the tenuousness of her own position, she could not help but smile, such was her happiness knowing the fawn had been reunited with its mother.
Now, if only she could be reunited with her men.
She grunted after the MacLeod drove his bare heel into the stallion’s flanks. Her stomach jarred against his thigh. She heard Esme groaning behind her and knew she suffered the same treatment.
Before too long, the trees began to thin, and Fiona saw shifting figures out on the roadway. The red, blue, and deep green of the MacDonnell tartan caught her eye. She opened her mouth to call out, but the MacLeod’s hand flew to her lips, silencing her.
He pulled her up-right, her back flush against his hard chest. “Would ye have me thrown into a MacDonnell prison as thank ye for my trouble.” His lips grazed her ear. “Just like a MacDonnell woman, full of deceit and treachery.”
She bristled at his insults. “Of all the filthy and unruly men,” she sputtered.
“By rights, yer ransom should be filling my coffers.” He set her roughly on the ground. “Congratulations on yer betrothal,” he spat before he turned his horse around and disappeared into the forest.
Esme made the sign of the cross as they watched the men retreat into the wood. “The next time ye see yer Adam MacKenzie, ye’ll have to thank him for saving yer life. Mine, too.”
“I’ve never felt happier with my father’s decision than I do right now. Not only because our alliance with the MacKenzie forced that beast of a man to return us, but, imagine, I might have been promised to a hateful man like that.”
“MacLeod men aren’t men at all. They’re devils, and their wives bear the worst of their anger.”
Fiona shuddered as she turned away and hastened toward her men. Still, the memory of his amber gaze, bright with fury, filled her mind, and she prayed never to set eyes on the MacLeod ever again.
Chapter Four
“Fiona, ye’re breathtaking,” Esme exclaimed, clasping her hands over her heart. “Truly. Ye will be the most beautiful bride ever to grace the MacKenzie chapel.”
Fiona smiled, smoothing her hands down the thick lavender brocade of her surcote. “Moira did fine work on the alterations. It fits so well now.”
“She did, indeed,” Esme’s younger sister, Abby, said as she came closer to study the seams. “No matter how I try, I cannot match my stitches to Moira’s fine hand.
“Be gentle with yerself,” Fiona said. “Remember, Moira has been doing this sort of work her whole life. Ye’re but five and ten. Yer skills will improve with time.”
“And practice,” Esme said, looking pointedly at her sister.
Abby made a careless gesture with her hand. “Forget all that. Look at ye,” she beamed. “Ye’re the bride I’ve seen in my dreams. I can imagine ye now.” The young lass closed her eyes. “Yer long black curls are unbound and covered by a frosting of white lace. Yer beauty arrests everyone in the chapel. They are silent, reverent in their manner as they behold their lady.”
“Och, Abby, that is plenty,” Fiona said, shushing the younger woman. “The only one due any reverence in church is our Lord.”
“Aye, Lady Fiona is right. Yer praise, although well intended, is blasphemous,” Esme scolded.
“All right,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “Forget what I said about reverence. I just think ye look beautiful, my lady, and I hope when I wed, I may look even half as beautiful as ye, although I can’t imagine that dream will ever come true. Not with this nose.”
“Yer nose is lovely,” Fiona insisted, patting Abby’s hand.
“Abby, I will send ye to the kitchens if ye start complaining about yer nose again,” Esme admonished.
Her sister shrugged. “The veil will cover my nose, so I needn’t imagine it away. I would wear exactly what you have on now, my lady. I would wish for everything to be the same, except I wouldn’t have Adam MacKenzie waiting for me at the altar.”
“Abby!” Esme scolded her wee sister before turning to look at Fiona. “I am so sorry, my lady.”
Fiona only smiled. “Ye needn’t be. Thankfully, ‘tis I who am marrying Adam and happily so.”
Esme nodded. “And why wouldn’t ye be? Adam MacKenzie is a fine man—young, handsome, and good.”
“He’s too good,” Abby added.
Esme rolled her eyes. “What does that even mean, child? Are ye suggesting our lady marry a wicked man?”
Abby’s eyes widened. “Nay, of course not.” Then a dreamy glow glazed over her eyes as she moved to the window. “But mayhap a good man with the heart of a rebel with rough, strong hands.”
“What do ye know about such things?” Esme exclaimed. “Listen to ye. If ye keep this up, I will tell da. He’ll have ye back on the farm so fast.”
Abby’s face went pale as she whirled around and gasped, “Ye wouldn’t?”
“Do not press me, or I’ll—”
“My dears, enough,” Fiona at last called out, silencing her maids. She was used to their bickering and had come to expect it from the sisters. Fiona was an only child and had never experienced the unique quality of a sibling relationship until her father had first brought Esme and Abby into the keep five years ago when Fiona turned thirteen. Esme had been fifteen at the time and Abby just eight.
“Listen to this one,” Esme said to Fiona, jerking her head at her younger sister. “With her affection for wicked men, she might have liked the MacLeod.”
Fiona grimaced. “Let us never speak of him, especially not while I am wearing my wedding clothes.” She turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror
. A bride stared back. She smiled, thinking that in just three days, she would be traveling again to the MacKenzie stronghold, but this time to stay.
Adam MacKenzie was everything she could have dreamed in a husband. He was eight and ten, just like her. Despite his cursory training in weaponry and defense, he was slim and gentle. His soft hands were better suited at grasping a quill than a broad sword, which didn’t bother her in the least. He was also handsome with golden hair that hung smooth and straight to his shoulders. His eyes were green and sincere. His skin was smooth but for his neatly trimmed beard.
“Have ye ever kissed Adam,” Abby asked, interrupting Fiona’s reflections.
Fiona raised her brow at the younger woman who now sat on her bed with her knees tucked into her chest, wearing an eager expression.
Esme cocked a brow at Abby. “Ye know better than to ask such a question.” But then her features softened. “Och, who am I kidding? I’ve been dying to ask ye the same thing.” Esme sat next to Abby on the bed and looked at Fiona expectantly.
Fiona laughed at the pair, but their unwavering gazes told her they both wanted an answer. She felt her cheeks warm as she crossed to the high-backed chair near her bedside and sat on the edge. She leaned close and whispered, “Ye ken Adam is the perfect gentleman. But on several occasions, he has placed a flower in my hair. When he did so I felt his breath on my neck. And once, when he took me for a walk around the MacKenzie castle grounds, he pulled me into the herb garden and…”
“Aye,” the sisters said in unison as they leaned toward Fiona.
“He pressed a kiss to my cheek.”
“Is that all?” Abby complained.
“That is proper,” Esme said, looking pointedly at her sister.
“I’ve been kissed before,” Abby blurted. An instant later she covered her mouth with her hands.
“What are ye about?” Esme snapped. “Who did ye kiss?”
“I didn’t kiss him,” Abby insisted. “But a few days ago, I met a young man at market. He’s one of the stable hand’s cousins come to train here. Anyway, he asked me to talk while he cleaned one of the stalls. He listened to me chatter on, and I was nervous, so I talked even more than normal. And when he was done, he washed his hands, plucked me down from my perch on the stall wall and pressed a kiss right to my lips.” She fell back on the bed. “It was glorious!”
