Highland Promise

by Hannah Howell

  “As ye were being trained to be a lady, ’twas most like for the best.”

  Bethia grimaced slightly, realized she was leaning against Sir Eric, sleepy and at ease in his arms, then decided she was too weary to concern herself with the lapse. “I fear I didnae do weel in that training. Mayhap I was left too long with the men, allowed to romp free like some lad. Mayhap ’twas just that Sorcha was so graceful, so quick to learn all the arts of a lady, that none saw the need to force me to continually stumble and fail.”

  Eric was sure there had been good in Sorcha, but he thought that if he heard much more about her wondrous perfection he would gag. He was not sure why he was so angered by the image of rejection Bethia so blithely painted, but he accepted the feeling. It was possible that he felt such a swift, strong bond with her because he too had been rejected. The love and acceptance of the Murrays had certainly softened the blow, but the sting of such disregard by one’s own blood could never be fully erased. He wondered if Bethia was truly blind to how poorly she had been treated or if she simply fought to ignore it because it hurt.

  Or even worse, he wondered with a sudden frown, she might believe it was deserved. Bethia might truly believe that her twin had been so much more perfect than herself. Such a lack of confidence, fed and nurtured over the years, could make seducing the woman very difficult indeed and Eric knew he would be doing his utmost to seduce her. His hunger for her was strong and getting stronger. He was just no longer sure how he would do it. Flatteries would certainly be scoffed at. Then he looked at the way she rested against him, clearly enjoying the way he stroked her hair. Perhaps flatteries would not be needed.

  A flicker of guilt rippled through him, but he ruthlessly pushed it aside. It was wrong to seduce a wellborn maiden, but he knew arguing such things as honor and respect would not stop him. He simply decided that, if she succumbed, if she relinquished her maidenhead to him, he would marry her. His brothers would think him mad to decide such a thing when he had known the lass for mere hours, but to his surprise, he felt no qualms at all about his decision. Perhaps, he mused with a faint smile, the instinct to mate had finally been roused in him.

  Eric became aware of how heavily Bethia was leaning against him and, relutanctly, but gently, pushed her into a seated position. “I think ye need to bed down now, lass.”

  Bethia blinked, rubbed her hands over her face, and realized she was more asleep than awake. “Aye, I am weary.” She staggered to her feet. “I will just slip away for a moment.”

  Even as she stumbled into the shadows, Eric hastily moved to the far edge of their camp and relieved himself. As quickly as he could, he laid out their bedding side by side. He sat down and was removing his boots when she returned.

  Barely a foot from the fire, Bethia stopped abruptly and stared at the bedding. It took her sleep-dulled mind a full minute to accept what she saw. Her bedding was spread out next to Eric’s. She glared at him.

  “Now, lass, why are ye looking at me as if I am some adder poised to strike?” Eric asked, lying down, tugging a blanket over himself, and crossing his arms beneath his head.

  “Mayhap because ye look much akin to one at the moment,” she replied. “I will sleep on the other side of the fire.”

  “A fire already so small it gives off verra little warmth.”

  “We have blankets to give us warmth.”

  “Bethia, ye need not fear me.”

  “Nay? Are ye sure ye arenae thinking to, weel, convince me to thank ye for your aid in some way?”

  “One thing I learned ere I was e’en old enough to care was that a mon always heeds a lass’s nay.” He patted the bedding next to his. “Come and rest. Ye can wrap yourself tight in your own blanket. Use it as a shield, if ye wish. ’Twill still be warmer for the both of us if we sleep side by side. Aye, and set the bairn atween us. He will also be in need of some warmth.”

  There was no arguing that. James would not only be warm nestled between them, but protected. Although Bethia was nervous about sleeping so close to Sir Eric, she realized that she was not truly frightened by the idea. She could not make herself see him as a threat. After setting James in the middle of the bedding, she sat down and removed her boots, praying all the while that the man’s bonny face was not dulling her wit.

  After a great deal of fidgeting and arranging, Bethia settled down on her side facing the fire, then softly cursed. She should be facing James, her arm lightly encircling the child so that she would be warned if he tried to leave the bed. After some more fidgeting, she got herself turned round and curled protectively around the sleeping child. Despite her best efforts to close her eyes and ignore the man lying so close to her, she looked at Eric, not surprised to find him grinning at her.

  “Settled now, are ye?” he asked, idly reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair off her face and ignoring her frown.

  “Aye. Ye cannae fault me for being cautious,” she said, cursing the defensive tone of her voice. She had every right to wonder if he played some game with her.

  “Weel, ye may ease your fears. The bairn separates us.”

  “He isnae much of a barrier.”

  “Nay, but I swear to you, Bethia, the word nay is all the shield ye will e’er need with me.”

  “Good, for if ye think I will be giving ye any favors just because ye are helping me, ye had best think again.”

  “I dinnae need to think on it e’en the once. Nay, I dinnae want ye to fall into my arms because ye feel gratitude.”

  “Then we are in agreement.”

  She tensed when Eric raised himself up on one elbow and leaned over the baby. His face was suddenly much too close to hers. Bethia looked at his mouth, knowing it was a mistake, but unable to stop herself.

  “Aye,” he said softly. “When ye come to me ’twill be because ye wish to share my passion. The last thing I wish in my bed is gratitude. Weel, mayhap a wee bit after I pleasure ye wouldnae be amiss.”

  Bethia gasped softly, but was not sure if it was only because his words shocked her. Just hearing the word passion on his lips set her heart racing. Her surprise kept her from jerking away when he touched his lips to hers. Then the feel of his warm mouth against hers was enough to hold her in place as he gave her a short, seductive kiss. Even as she regained enough of her wits to untangle her arm from her blanket, fully intending to shove him away from her, he lay back down on his side of their rough bed.

  “What did ye do that for?” she whispered, clenching her hand into a tight fist to stop herself from touching her lips in wonder over how such a gentle caress could make the blood pound so hotly through her veins.

  “I was but saying good sleep to you.”

  “Weel, next time try just saying the words.”

  “’Tis nay as much fun.”

  Bethia pressed her lips together, refusing to say anything else. It would only give the impossible man another chance to speak and further unsettle her. She closed her eyes. Looking at him was equally as dangerous.

  The words he had said, however, were not so easily ignored. He wanted her to share his passion. She was not fool enough to think that passion was just for her, but that realization was not enough to cool her sudden interest. There was a far too large part of her that was intrigued, indeed, strongly tempted, to discover what Eric’s passion was like. Bethia suspected that a man as beautiful as Sir Eric Murray had a great deal of experience in the art of passion and was probably very skilled.

  Such curiosity, she decided, was not truly bad. What worried her was the strong possibility that the feelings stirring within her went far deeper than mere curiosity. Bethia lightly touched her lips, still feeling the warmth of his. His kiss had not been very passionate—a slight pressure of his mouth, a brief tease of his tongue—but it had sent sharp, hot feelings spilling throughout her body. Sir Eric was indeed a threat to her, but she could not leave his side for she needed his help too much. Bethia could only pray that he would not betray her to her enemies and that she would have the strength n
ot to betray herself in his arms.

  Chapter Four

  Bethia knew glaring at the river they had to cross would not make the rough water flow slower or run lower, but she did it anyway. For three long days they had slunk over the countryside, William and his sons hot on their heels. A few times they had even seen their enemies and nearly been seen themselves. Bethia heartily wished she could raise an army right now, ride out to confront William, and cut him and his loathsome sons down. The fear and the constant need to hide were driving her mad. She desperately wanted to feel safe again, wanted James protected and warm.

  A quick glance at the man standing next to her made her silently curse. Sir Eric might be doing a fine job of keeping her and James alive, but he was also driving her mad. He said good night each night with a kiss and woke her each morning with another. The night kisses were almost chaste, but the morning ones were pure, heated seduction. Fool that she was, she never found the strength to refuse either. As they rode, he belabored her heart and mind with caresses and words that stirred her passions. She felt tense, irritable, caught between wanting to beat Eric senseless and hurl him to the ground to force him to finish what he had started. The man was indeed pushing her into madness.

  “I am nay sure we can cross safely here,” she said, forcing her thoughts to the important problem of eluding the men hunting her and James.

  “It can be done.” Eric idly stroked his horse’s neck. “I would prefer to stay upon dry ground, but that isnae possible. And William is so close at our backs that we havenae the time to wander about looking for a better trail.”

  “And if there is one, he or some of his men probably crouch there.”

  “Aye. Ye can swim, I pray.”

  “Oh, aye, verra weel. Bowen taught me.” She smiled faintly. “In truth, he and Peter decided to teach Wallace, and I demanded that they teach me as weel. Bowen finally agreed, saying that since I was such a sharp-tongued wench ’twas certain some mon would try to drown me one day.”

  Eric laughed softly yet felt a twinge of sadness as well. Whenever Bethia spoke of her childhood, she spoke of Bowen, Peter, and Wallace. Her father and mother were rarely mentioned unless she spoke of Sorcha. It was good that Bethia had found someone to care for her, yet that should have been her parents. Every tale Bethia told revealed that she had been treated much as her cousin Wallace had for a while, as some bastard child they were forced to take in. Even worse, in his mind, was the growing evidence that the wondrous Sorcha never did anything to change matters. The situation was beyond his comprehension.

  “Weel, ’tis best to get this done.” Eric made sure James’s sling was firmly secured high on the saddle.

  “Would it nay be better if one of us carried the lad?” Bethia asked as she hitched up her skirts to free her legs.

  “We will need all of our limbs free to fight the strength of the water. And Connor is far taller than either of us. Set here as he is gives the lad a better chance of keeping his wee head clear of the water.”

  “And Connor will head straight for the opposite bank?”

  “Aye, and then wait there. He has proven himself a strong swimmer, unafraid of water, time and time again.” He held his hand over the horse’s flank. “Ready?”

  “Aye.”

  Bethia fought back a sudden surge of panic when Eric slapped the horse and the animal plunged into the water. James quickly began screaming as the cold water penetrated his sling and splashed his face. Bethia took a deep breath and dove into the water, Eric swiftly doing the same. The cold made her curse, but she gritted her teeth and began to swim, her gaze fixed upon the horse. The water was rough and littered with debris, the current strong, but the horse never faltered and quickly reached the other side. Connor shook the water from his coat and caused James to scream all the louder. Bethia closed her ears to the child’s distress and concentrated on getting to the other side. By the time she reached the bank, she was shivering from the cold and the strain.

  Sitting down, oblivious to the mud, she looked for Eric. A scream of warning and terror erupted from her throat when she saw a tree branch whirling his way. She leapt to her feet even as it slammed into him. For one heart-stopping moment, he disappeared beneath the water. Even as his head reappeared, Bethia saw his arm curled around the branch. He did not start swimming again, however, and she realized he was now simply fighting to keep from drowning. Unless he regained his strength, that was already a lost battle.

  Grabbing the horse’s reins, Bethia hurried along the bank, keeping Eric constantly in view and frantically trying to think of some way to help him. A few yards down the river the wood he clung to became tangled in a small dam formed by other debris. Eric managed to pull himself a little farther out of the water, but Bethia could see how weak he was. He could even have been hurt when the branch struck him. The small dam shifted and bounced in the current and she knew it would not hold for much longer.

  Bethia stripped off her soaking clothes until she wore only her thin linen shift. The weight of her clothes had wearied her during her first swim and she dared not risk letting them sap the rest of her strength now. She grabbed the rope Eric kept looped on his saddle, tied one end of it to the saddle horn, and then draped the rest of it over her shoulder. As she took a deep breath and prayed for strength, she leapt into the icy water and swam toward Eric.

  “Lass, ye fool, what are ye about? Go back,” Eric demanded when she reached his side, but the hoarse faintness of his voice stole most of the power from his command.

  “I intend to save your bonny hide,” she said as she tied the rope around his waist.

  “I doubt I look verra bonny at the moment.”

  She noticed how pale he was. His lips were tinged blue with cold, and blood from a graze on his forehead was smearing the side of his face. “Nay, ye do look a wee bit pitiful. Now how do I get your horse to pull us out of this mess?”

  “Just tell him to pull. He will ken what to do.”

  After slipping her arm around his chest, Bethia yelled the command at Connor. It took one more bellow before the horse began to move. Bethia quickly turned onto her back, her body submerged beneath Eric’s. She fought to keep both of their heads above water and to ward off the trecherous debris swirling around them as they were pulled toward the shore.

  Once on the bank, Bethia let the horse drag Eric onto the shore and then removed the rope. As Eric lay gasping for air and shivering, Bethia took a few moments to rub herself dry, dress, and then change James. Collecting what she felt was needed to attend Eric, she hurried back to his side.

  Despite Eric’s dire need to be dry and warm, Bethia found it disturbing to undress the man. He was certainly not looking his best, the cold stealing all of the life from his skin, but he was still fine enough to make her hands tremble slightly as she rubbed him dry. His chest was broad and smooth. A thin line of fair hair started at his navel, dove down to his groin, where it blossomed slightly, then fanned out to lightly coat his long, muscular legs. It annoyed her a little that he even had nice-looking feet.

  “Considering that I am frozen to the verra marrow of my bones, I doubt I look verra monly just now,” Eric said with a rueful glance at his groin, the cold he still felt making his voice tremble.

  Bethia gave him a slightly disgusted look as she started to tug on his dry clothes, then drawled, “Why, nay, sir, ye look as bonny as James. Ne’er kenned a mon could be so cute down there.” Despite her worry for his health, she was almost able to laugh at his shock.

  Eric started to laugh, then winced and clutched at his aching head. “God, woman. Like wee James? Cute? God’s bones,” he said and laughed again, but with a little more care this time. “How ye wound me.”

  “I believe your vanity will survive.” After wrapping him in a blanket, she leaned over him to more closely examine the wound on his head. “’Tisnae deep enough to require any stitches,” she murmured as she wiped the blood off his face with a scrap of cloth.

  “Some hint of mercy at las
t.”

  Bethia just smiled faintly as she put some salve on his wound, then wrapped a bandage around his head. He had ceased to shiver so bad that his teeth clicked, but he still looked pale. She knew he was very weak too, for although he had tried to help her get him dressed he had been able to do little more than tug down on his jupon a little.

  “Dinnae look so fretful, lass,” he said as he slowly forced his aching body into a seated position.

  “Are ye sure ye can move?” When he stood up and swayed, she quickly put her arm around him to steady him.

  “Enough to get on my horse. We cannae sit here, lass. Those dogs chasing you and the bairn were verra close the last we looked. ’Tis why we crossed here, if ye recall.”

  “Aye, but ye are verra unsteady, Eric.”

  “Just get me in the saddle. I will sit behind you and hang on whilst ye take up the reins.”

  “Will Connor let me?” Bethia asked, eyeing the huge horse warily as she helped Eric stumble over to the animal.

  “Aye, since I will also be on his back.”

  It was not going to be easy to get Eric there, she mused, as they reached the horse. “Just let me gather the bairn and what little I have unpacked,” she said.

  “Do that. I will just slump here against old Connor and prepare myself to be hoisted up into the saddle.”

  There was something very similar to petulance tainting his rich voice and Bethia had to bite back a smile. Eric clearly did not like to be dependent upon a small woman—probably on any woman. She quickly picked up the few things scattered around on the bank, including their very wet clothes, then settled James in a dry blanket sling across her chest.