Gwendolyn hesitated, but then bit her lip and nodded.
A moment later, she settled onto Bran, and the moment she entwined her arms around Dugall’s middle, he slapped the mare’s uninjured hindquarter. She needed no further encouragement to charge off after the barouche.
“Hold on tight,” Dugall all but growled.
He released a shattering whistle, and Bran’s tense muscles bunched as his powerful form sprang frontward. Rather than pelt bent-for-hell down the road, Dugall guided the stallion into the woods.
They’d provide a degree of cover from the damnable blackguard shooting at them.
With each jarring of Bran’s stride, Gwendolyn’s breasts bounced into Dugall’s back. Head buried between his shoulder blades, she clasped his waist as if her life depended upon it.
He feared it very well might.
Carelessness might’ve explained one volley, but multiple blasts bespoke something much more sinister. It didn’t escape him that Gwendolyn had apparently been the target and not the barouche’s occupants.
A scare tactic or something more?
As worrisome was whether they dealt with a single gunman or multiple. Likely just the one since the time between shots indicated the cur had to reload.
“Will they make it to Craiglocky unharmed? Will the children and the others be safe?” Though her voice was steady, fear and worry tinged Gwendolyn’s questions.
“I’m sure of it. Once beyond the bend, the road is open and there’s naught but pastures and meadows. Nae place for an ambush. And as we’re already on McTavish lands, I expect a patrol heard the gunshots. Even now, I’ll wager clansmen are thunderin’ in our direction.”
Was Hollingsworth so desperate to retain his control at Suttford, he’d sunk to this? Had he truly become such a dreg of society? Such a cockscum, he would try to kill Gwendolyn?
So that he could attain Jeremiah’s guardianship?
Or was it a ploy to frighten them so badly, they’d leave Scotland?
“What of Marigold?” Gwendolyn’s face pressed into his back muffled her words. She clung to him as Bran pelted between the trees.
Dugall deliberately wove the horse back and forth, making them a more difficult target to hit.
Whoever had taken the shot at the mare couldn’t have been terribly close, and chances were he and Gwendolyn had already moved beyond the range of the gun.
Amongst the trees’ shadows they’d become more difficult to spot, too.
Nonetheless, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“She was only nicked. She’ll either make her way back to Suttford House or follow the road to Craiglocky, which is what I’m hopin’.” Even if the injured mare didn’t show up at the Keep, Clacher would raise the alarm in the unlikelihood the shots hadn’t been heard.
In short order, the area would be crawling with McTavish clansmen.
“Where are we going?” Gwendolyn raised up so she could speak directly into his ear. Unfortunately, that pressed her marvelously full breasts even firmer to his back, and rocked her pelvis into him as well.
Desire pealed a boisterous chorus in Dugall’s veins. God help him, even in the midst of this peril, he was consumed with the need to bed her.
The next few months would prove sheer torture; blast his gallantry to Hades.
Slowing the stallion and patting Bran’s withers, Dugall scrutinized the area, looking for any hint of danger. Head cocked, he listened for clues that they’d been followed.
Nothing unusual resounded in the woods, nor was the forest silent.
Good signs, both.
The birds continued to sing and squirrels to chatter. If danger lurked nearby, silence would reign.
He relaxed an iota, though only just. “There be a cave a little farther along. On the other side of this wood. We’ll wait there until the clan comes searchin’ for us.”
He felt her nod against his shoulder.
She trembled now, great shudders that shook her along the whole length of his back. He’d prefer she sat in front, where he could comfort her. But there’d been no time for such folly whilst fleeing from a madman’s gunfire.
“I’m so worried about my family.” Her quavering breath made him want to stop Bran—to hell with the danger—then take her in his arms and promise her they’d be fine.
Except he didn’t dare.
They might’ve escaped danger this once, but an attack so soon after their arrival didn’t bode well. The brazenness hadn’t escaped Dugall either. The shooting was that of a desperate man.
Neither spoke as Bran carried them onward. The horse’s breathing had returned to normal, but Dugall still felt like his heart had wedged permanently in his throat.
Such terror had gripped him when the last shot struck the mare. It easily could’ve been Gwendolyn, and the knowledge eviscerated him, leaving him vulnerable in a way he’d never experienced before.
Odin’s toes, he didn’t like the feeling.
The powerlessness. The utter vulnerability.
It didn’t help that he carried no weapons on him either. Before they returned to Suttford House tonight, he’d be armed to his teeth.
Shortly, they arrived at the cave, more of a secluded overhang nestled between the wood’s edge and an outcrop, than an actual cavern.
He dismounted, then raised his hands to assist Gwendolyn down.
She regarded his upraised arms for an extended moment, then with a twitch of her pretty mouth, swung her leg over Bran and placed her hands on Dugall’s shoulders.
Relishing the feel of her trim form in his arms, Dugall held her tightly to him as she slid off the horse. The top of her head almost reached his chin, and he indulged in a smug smile.
He’d known she’d be tall enough for him. A perfect fit. Like a coin; two sides of the same mold.
Aye, he was a churl for enjoying the moment despite their perilous circumstances. But he wouldn’t regret the experience. Everything about this woman—from the endearing freckles dotting her nose, to her eyes so green, Highland grass paled in comparison—enthralled him.
Once standing, she crossed her arms and clapped her hands to her shoulders. She clinched her mouth against her chattering teeth.
Shock had set in.
Dugall gave her a reassuring smile, and after patting Bran—the stallion wouldn’t budge unless Dugall told him to—he grasped Gwendolyn’s arm. Bending over, he guided her under the overhang. “Watch yer head. The ceilin’ be low.”
A flat stone, much like a natural bench, partially ran along one wall, and he gently pushed her down upon its hard surface.
“Sit, Gwenny,” he whispered. “Ye’ve sustained a considerable fright.”
Hugging herself, she sank onto the granite and released a puff of air. She quaked from head to toe, like a late-season leaf during a windstorm.
Damn, he wished he had his flask. She could use a nip of whisky to bring the color back to her ashen face.
So could he, by God.
What he’d experienced when the blood spread across Marigold’s flank, knowing Gwendolyn was mere inches away . . .
He gave a mental shake to dislodge the image.
Had the shooter been a better aim, the outcome might’ve been wholly different.
Dugall stepped to the entrance and, head canted, listened for any indication Ewan and the clan were nearby.
Or the shooter.
He whistled, an imitation of a bird; a signal the clan used to communicate in situations such as this.
No birdsong echoed a response.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Gwendolyn huddled on the rock, still shivering uncontrollably. She gave him a wobbly smile. “I’m unaccustomed to having my horse shot.”
Should he tell her
that she most likely was the target?
Nae.
Not until he had more evidence to support his suspicion. But this just made his staying at Suttford House all the more necessary. And perhaps a few McTavish clansmen ought to join him as well.
But what excuse would he concoct for their presence that she’d believe? He’d think of something feasible.
Dugall lowered himself onto the rock, and after stretching his legs before him and locking his ankles, gathered Gwendolyn to his side.
She came willingly, almost eagerly, and laid her head on his shoulder. She wrapped one arm across his chest and clung to him.
“Relax, leannan.” He kissed the crown of her head, breathing in her essence. Orange blossoms. And vanilla. And whatever that seductive floral aroma was. “I’ll keep ye safe. I promise.”
She tilted her head, and met his eyes for an instant before she dropped her focus to his chin. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she swallowed before rasping, “Coming here, to Scotland, was a mistake.”
Chapter 13
Gwendolyn couldn’t stop shaking, and it peeved her to no end.
She wasn’t an insipid female given to histrionics or waterworks.
No, by Juniper and June bugs.
She was the head of her family.
She should be brave and strong.
She knew how to shoot a gun—had seen and tended gruesome injuries.
And she’d been the one to wash and dress her mother, father, sister-in-law, and brothers before they were laid to rest one final time.
Yet she’d never felt more inadequate or insecure or afraid than she did at this precise moment.
What if—?
She could barely allow herself to form the terrifying idea. What if the shooting hadn’t been accidental? What if she had been the target?
Foolish fabrications or a feasible possibility?
“I was lying to myself when I said I could do any of this.” She fluttered her fingers in the air before wiping a curved knuckle across both eyes.
She sniffed and shook her head against the wall of Dugall’s broad chest. If she didn’t bring her emotions under control soon, he’d think her a complete water pot.
He continued to work his soothing magic, slowly and lightly caressing her spine, and every now and again pressing his lips to her head. Much the same way she did when comforting one of the children.
Only she wasn’t a child, as her very womanly responses to his touch silently shouted. With each stroke, the urge to moan, to arch into him, and throw her leg over his trunk of a thigh grew stronger.
“Do what, lass?”
His query pulled her from her sensuous daze.
“Be the children’s guardian. Move to a new country and start a life here. Equip Jeremiah to be a Lord of Parliament.” She gave a watery chuckle and again swiped at the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “I don’t even know what in creation the title means.”
“It be the equivalent of an English barony.” His warm, melodic baritone further lulled the fright from her. But not the feelings of inadequacy.
She never should’ve come to Scotland. Never should’ve agreed to visit Craiglocky.
He shifted and his pectoral muscles bunched beneath her hand.
Oh, the naughty, tempting things tripping across her mind.
By heavens, maybe she never should’ve permitted Dugall to hide them away in this hole in the ground either.
She gave a rueful shake of her head, wincing when her hair caught on his coat. “If leather were brains, I don’t possess enough to saddle a grasshopper when it comes to honorifics.”
The rich timbre of his chuckle rumbled beneath her ear.
“Ye’re too hard on yerself, lass.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and dared to kiss her temple. Like a sweetheart would. “Ye love those children as if they be yer own. Ye put Hollingsworth in his place with a finesse few possess.”
He tilted her chin, then gave a charmingly rakish wink. “And ye saved my life and even stitched my handsome face.”
“Hardly saved your life, conceited beast.” She chuckled again and slapped his chest. His wonderfully wide, sculpted chest, straining at his shirt’s lucky fabric.
She’d never met a more powerfully built man, and her feminine curiosity yearned for a glimpse of him shirtless. Maybe more than shirtless.
Not that such a thing could ever be permitted.
He cupped her face in his big palm, rubbing his thumb down her damp cheek. “Nae, not conceited. Just truthful.”
And too confident for either of their good.
“I ken I be easy on the eye. I didna have any hand in it. ’Tis the guid Laird’s doin’, and I wilna be ashamed or falsely humble.”
He ran his other strong hand up and down Gwendolyn’s spine, the movement so natural and comforting, she wanted to crawl into his lap and wail her fears. To nestle closer and pretend for a few precious minutes that such a good and decent specimen of manhood was her mate, even if he was several years her junior.
She’d craved a man’s touch for so long, and she feared, much like a tippler couldn’t resist another drink of ale or a tot of whisky, she’d become addicted to Dugall Ferguson’s practiced wiles far too easily.
More troublesome was the worry she mightn’t be able to resist him if he wanted to take their relationship to a different, more intimate level. She hadn’t a doubt he knew the ways around a woman’s body, that he’d introduce her to fleshly delights with a prowess borne of experience.
Her nipples puckered excitedly at the notion.
Praise heavens he couldn’t see the traitorous things.
But she must resist. It was imperative. Too much depended upon it.
For her heart’s sake as much as the children’s wellbeing, she couldn’t indulge in the enticement, no matter how tantalizing. No matter that she’d go to her grave a virgin. For if she lost the guardianship, she quite literally had nothing left.
Where would she go? What would she do?
What would happen to Aunt Barbara and Kandie? How traumatic for Julia and Jeremiah, too. Julia had known no other mother besides Gwendolyn, and Jeremiah could barely remember Jenny anymore.
No, Gwendolyn mustn’t be selfish. She must think of the others who depended upon her. Put aside her personal wants. Surely these physical cravings could be controlled.
But then Dugall’s rapt gaze twined with hers, and she could no more haul hers away than snatch the stars from the heavens.
He dipped his head and touched her lips with his. A fleeting, butterfly-wing-soft brush. And every last vestige of self-recriminations disintegrated. Floated away like a dandelion’s fragile down on a windy day.
She arched into him, eagerly accepting his tongue into her mouth, welcoming his hands cupping her buttocks, pressing her to the hard mound at his groin.
She’d been half-crazed with want for him since he opened his eyes and stared into her soul. And even though this was rash and impetuous, even while her logical self shouted for her to stop this idiocy, she couldn’t.
And that frightened her as much, in an entirely different way, than Marigold being shot.
“Dugall,” she breathed as he feathered scorching kisses across her eyebrow, down her jaw, and then touched his tongue to the sensitive spot behind her ear.
A throaty moan escaped her, so wanton, if she hadn’t been completely enthralled, she might’ve blushed.
Another sound penetrated her passion-induced daze.
A bird warbled, and Dugall tensed, lifting his head, the planes and angles of his face alert and cautious.
“What—?” Renewed fear pranced along Gwendolyn’s spine; its sharp claws drawing blood with each cautious step.
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh, l
eannan.”
Twice he’d called her that. What did it mean?
The bird chirruped again, and he levered to his feet. Even bent at the waist as he sidled to the entrance, he radiated masculine grace with each sinewy movement.
The chatty bird continued to tweet, and a delighted smile crinkled his face before he echoed the call.
“The clan be here.”
Bran snorted, shifting restlessly, and Dugall gripped the stallion’s harness and spoke low into his ear. The horse moved his big head as if nodding in agreement.
The relationship between Dugall and Bran brought a new welling of emotion to Gwendolyn’s throat—made her more homesick for South Carolina.
She missed her mare. Missed walking the stables each morning and greeting the horses. Missed the foals and fillies.
Missed the familiarity and comfort of knowing she was safe. That her family was safe.
Another melodious trill rent the air, and after Dugall answered the call, a relieved grin split his face. “That’d be my brother.”
A few moments later, several brawny Scots, weapons drawn, emerged from the woodlands, their movements silent and stealthy.
Gwendolyn shoved to her feet and made an attempt to repin the curls that had escaped the knot at the back of her head. The task was made more difficult by her lopsided hat.
She probably looked wretched and mussed.
Scared pissless, too.
Not how she’d imagined meeting Dugall’s family the first time. Maybe this would diffuse the other issue between her family and the McTavishes.
With that optimistic thought emboldening her, she came to the cave’s opening and clasped her hands before her. Inhaling deep, calming breaths into her lungs, she ordered her stuttering pulse to steady itself. She’d not meet Dugall’s clan cowering and quaking like a spineless ninny.
A tall man, his hair and eye color a close match to Dugall’s, strode to the entrance. He might’ve been ten years older than Dugall, and the half-circle scar on his cheek stood out starkly, a testament to his concern.
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 11
