A Highland Knight's Desire (A Highland Dynasty Book)

by Amy Jarecki

  When they were riding, he’d wondered why she constantly pulled the sleeve over her left hand. After he’d helped her dismount, he caught sight of her crippled appendage. In that moment, he’d wanted to examine it, but she’d seemed embarrassed.

  Duncan didn’t care. The hand did nothing to detract from her beauty. And heaven help him, she was prettier than a white rose in full bloom. Her wide-set, azure eyes reminded him of the sky on a winter’s day with not a cloud above. Feminine, coppery eyebrows arched over her eyes as if in a constant state of amusement, taking in every detail. Her face flawless like the white rose petal, kissed by an ever-present pink-rose blush. A pert nose suited her face. But gazing upon her red-rose lips brought on unholy stirrings beneath his braies.

  Those urgings intensified when he’d cradled her buttocks between his thighs through the entire night’s journey. He’d not deny that her scent nearly drove him mad. Meg wore no perfumed oils. She didn’t need any. Her own bouquet reminded him of honeysuckle warmed by summer’s heat, and it had filled his nostrils with each breath.

  When on horseback she’d fallen asleep, and a lock of beautifully curled hair caught the breeze, caressing his face. He’d snatched it between his fingers. Surprised at her hair’s silken softness, he raised it to his nose. Her scent ravished him. He’d clenched his bum cheeks to dispel his longing.

  In no way could he fondle, kiss or lust after the Earl of Angus’s sister. Any errant move on Duncan’s part would most definitely result in the earl withholding payment, or worse, sullying his reputation as the king’s enforcer.

  Unfortunately, the lady was forbidden fruit.

  Duncan adjusted so his backside wasn’t touching Meg intimately. He’d control his errant thoughts if it killed him.

  Meg’s bottom angled into his with her soft moan. Duncan’s entire body tensed—including the damned part that shouldn’t. He rose up on his elbow and glanced over his shoulder. Lips slightly parted, she was fast asleep. God help him, she looked like an angel.

  He lay back down and closed his eyes. He didn’t even like angelic women, for Christ’s sake. He preferred the brazen women from the alehouse—women with large breasts and hearty behinds. Meg’s scent had forced his mind to run amuck. Yes, that was it. ’Twas time to snuff her from his mind. Besides, if he didn’t sleep, he’d be of little use when the time came to ride.

  Meg jolted at the deafening sound of rapid hammering on wood. Her eyes flashed open, only to be stung by thick smoke. Horses whinnied. Their hooves pummeled at the stall walls.

  Springing to her knees, she shook Duncan’s shoulder with all her might. “The stable’s on fire!”

  Everyone sprang into motion.

  Archie and Eoin raced toward the horse stall.

  Duncan jerked up, brandishing his sword. “Bloody hell. Where’s Sean?” He glared at Meg as if she should know.

  She spread her palms to her sides. “Do you think they caught him?”

  Duncan grasped her elbow and pulled her up. “Not Sean. He’s a ghost.”

  Running through the foggy smoke, Eoin lead two horses. “The fire’s spreading fast.

  “Mount up.” Duncan beckoned Meg with his hand, grasped her by the waist and tossed her onto the saddle like she weighed no more than a sack of oats. Then he effortlessly slipped into the saddle behind her.

  Meg’s eyes burned. She fanned her face and coughed.

  John rode beside them. “What’s the plan?”

  “They’ll be waiting for us for certain.” Duncan pulled a dagger from his sleeve and handed it to Meg. “Do you know how to use this?”

  Holding one arm across her stinging nose, she grasped it. “Aye.”

  Duncan picked up the reins. “Run for the trees!”

  James drew his sword. “Their horses will be spent.”

  “God, I hope so.” Duncan leaned forward and kicked his heels.

  Archie removed the crossbar just as Duncan and Meg crashed through the door.

  Meg clung to Duncan and closed her eyes. Swinging his sword, he barreled into the open lea. Men screamed; arrows hissed. Meg prayed. Hooves slapped the sloppy snow. The wind beat her face, and her nose ran.

  She dared open her eyes. The tree line swiftly approached. She glanced behind. English soldiers were on their heels, keeping pace. Black smoke from the barn billowed into the heavy clouds above. Flames engulfed the door they’d just ridden through.

  The English charged after them, but as James said, their horses were spent. With every step, the Highlanders raced farther away from their pursuers. Meg looked to the sky. It was still morning. They’d perhaps gained two hours of sleep, mayhap three.

  Who knew when they’d be able to stop again? Though she felt inordinately tired, Meg’s excitement thrummed hot through her blood. For the first time in her life, she was in danger and on the run. She clutched the dagger and fingered the grip. She’d use it if left with no other choice. The idea made her heart beat faster. She’d never guessed danger would ignite a fire deep within. The chill biting her face and the wind in her hair invigorated her. She was on an adventure far away from the protection of Tantallon Castle, and she’d never felt so alive. Meg slid the dagger into her rope belt and patted it.

  When the sun reached the noon hour, Duncan finally slowed their mount to a fast walk.

  “I knew we shouldn’t have stopped before we crossed the Tweed,” John said.

  The hackles on Meg’s neck stood on end. “If we hadn’t stopped, the horses would be worthless.” She hated it when someone suddenly became an expert in light of circumstances past.

  “Aye,” Duncan rumbled against her back.

  Something moved in the shadows. Meg tensed.

  He tugged the horse’s reins and drew his sword. Meg brushed her fingers over the dagger in her belt. Metal hissed, drawn from the five other men’s scabbards.

  A lone horse and rider walked out from the scrub, hands held high. “Thank God you got out . . .”

  Duncan sheathed his sword. “Sean? Could you not give us fair warning? The fire in the stable nearly cooked us alive.”

  Meg swiped an errant strand of hair from her face while the others rode alongside them.

  “I rounded back, but they cut me off. I nearly killed my horse trying to beat them.” Sean steered his mount west and led onward. “It gets worse. Northumberland’s men fanned out. They’re everywhere.”

  Duncan cued his horse to a fast trot. “Expecting us to ride straight to Tantallon . . .”

  “I’d reckon so. I’ll wager he’s setting traps all the way from Melrose to North Berwick.”

  “There’s a lookout yonder.” Duncan pointed. “We should have a good view from there—hopefully see how far behind us the English are.”

  They rode up the steep incline, the horses snorting with exertion. Holding tight to the pommel, Meg surveyed the view behind. If she could see the enemy, they’d be spotted for certain. Fortunately, all remained quiet.

  They crested the hill and Duncan circled the horses. “We must split up.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “Robert and James, head to Roxburgh and then cut north. The rest of you, spread out—lead them north. Sean, take a message to the Earl of Angus that his sister’s alive and will be returned as soon as ’tis safe.”

  Sean gave a clipped nod with his helmed head.

  Archie pointed his thumb at the coat of blackened armor tied behind him. “You’d best set to arming yourself.”

  “Nay,” Duncan said. “This gelding is already overburdened carrying the both of us. Keep it safe for me.”

  John patted his horse’s neck. “And where are you heading, brother?”

  Meg’s ears pricked. Exactly where would this big Highlander take her now?

  “West.” Duncan steered the horse to the far slope of the outcropping. “I’ll see you all at Kilchurn in a sennight’s time.” He tugged the reins and regarded his men over his shoulder. “God’s speed.”

  Chapter Seven

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nbsp; As soon as the others were out of sight, Meg couldn’t shake the eerie sense of being watched. Her gaze darted through the trees, and she leaned forward to peer around Duncan’s enormous frame to gain a glimpse behind them. “Why did we separate from the others?”

  He swayed in the saddle in concert with the horse’s movement, and seemed unusually calm, as if running from the English were a daily occurrence for him. “They won’t expect us to head west.”

  Meg refused to allow his serenity to put her at ease. “But is it not more dangerous without your men-at-arms?”

  “Everything we do is dangerous, m’lady.” His gruff voice rumbled and filled her with disquiet. At least she told herself as much. The gooseflesh rising upon her arms could be caused by nothing other than unease. Heavens, Duncan’s voice alone sounded dangerous.

  “How is your . . . uh . . . your injury?” Surely it wasn’t improper to speak of a man’s backside when she referred to it with concern for his well-being.

  “It bloody hurts.”

  She cringed. “Someone should tend it.”

  “Do not worry about me. It’ll come good in a sennight or two.”

  Meg sat quietly for a moment, but Duncan’s every breath filled her ears like the roaring of the sea. Tapping the claw’s pincers, she tried not to think of his incredibly warm thighs cradling her buttocks, or the protective chest pressed against her back. If she kept talking, surely these things would stop muddling her mind. “Do you know where we are?”

  “Still in the borderlands, I’d reckon.”

  Meg clapped her hand to her chest. “You’re not certain?”

  “Aye, m’lady, I’m well aware that we’re between Melrose and the Firth of Clyde—where you Lowlanders draw the line between borderlands and lowlands is a quandary to me.”

  Meg groaned. Sir Duncan could be maddening. “Since I hail from the lowlands, you probably think me snobbish and daft.”

  “I did not say that, but now that you mention it, Lowlanders can come across as believing themselves to be superior.”

  Meg straightened her spine. “I most certainly do not believe myself superior to anyone.”

  “Nay?” His chuckle rolled through her insides. “You’re the daughter of an earl—born into nobility and a life of great comfort. Tell me, do you believe your chambermaid to be your equal?”

  “You’re preposterous.” Meg ground her molars. “How about your groom? Your servants? Your valet? You are nearly as nobly born as I.”

  His devilish chuckle rumbled again, making her heart flit about like a finch. “Ah, m’lady, but you were the first to mention snobbery.”

  She glanced at Duncan’s face over her shoulder. Why did he have to be so wickedly handsome? “You’re insufferable.”

  “Am I?” He ran the reins through his fingers, as if she hadn’t insulted him in the slightest.

  Meg adjusted her seat and cringed. Blast him. Riding double with Duncan was far too intimate—scandalous, even. The sooner they could find her a mount, the better. “Do you think Lord Percy’s men will follow us?”

  “I hope not.”

  His response was no answer. And why on earth were they traveling west? Presently they were moving farther away from North Berwick with every step. Did he have a plan? Meg cared not to be used as a pawn. Nor did she care to be taken around the countryside without a clue as to her whereabouts. “Where is this Kilchurn you spoke of?”

  “’Tis the seat of the Lord of Glenorchy. My family’s keep. You’ll be safe there until I can spirit you to Tantallon.”

  “Is it in the Highlands?”

  “Aye, on Loch Awe.” From the reverence in his voice, one would think it the most idyllic place in Scotland.

  Still trying to peer through the trees, Meg adjusted herself in the saddle, her buttocks flush against Duncan’s thighs. He grunted. She ignored his protest. “What is it like?”

  “Och, you ask too many questions, just like Archibald.”

  “Honestly?” She tried to sound astounded. “You’re as overbearing as I envisioned a Highland barbarian to be. Besides, what else is there to do? Sit atop this poor gelding and ride all the way to the western shore as if we are taciturn?”

  He grumbled and remained silent for several uncomfortable paces. “’Tis the solace.”

  Meg gave up watching for the English. Surely they wouldn’t be lying in wait ahead of them. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You asked me what I like about Kilchurn.” He shifted his hips. “The keep sits at the base of Ben Cruachan and overlooks the bluest loch in all of Scotland. I love to stand atop the battlements at sunset and watch the sun reflect oranges and violets off the water. When all’s quiet, it puts my soul to rest.”

  That got her attention. Now the rugged knight spoke like a poet? Meg sighed and reclined against Duncan’s chest. Just when she’d begun to think him a complete brute, he blurted out prose from the heart. No matter how hard he tried to portray the gruff warrior, Meg suspected a softness simmered at his core—one he guarded fiercely.

  “Are you the eldest?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  Are we back to monosyllables now? “I’ve met John—do you have other siblings?”

  “Aside from John, I’ve a younger brother, Iain, who’s fostering with the Earl of Argyll.” He eyed her. “Then I’ve four sisters, and they’re all as chatty as you.”

  She chose to ignore his jibe. “Aside from Arthur, I have four sisters as well—all married but me.”

  “Yet, lass. You’ll be a fine match for any nobleman.”

  “Nay.” Meg held up her left hand. He’d already seen it, after all. “’Tis the claw.”

  “A wee crippled hand shouldn’t make any difference. Especially when you have . . .”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Meg wasn’t about to allow that comment to pass without an explanation. “No, tell me.”

  His hand slipped from his reins and pressed against her abdomen while he shifted his hips again. “Eyes that can claim a man’s soul and hair of fire.”

  Heaven help her thundering heart. Thankfully, he resumed his grasp on the reins. Meg emitted a nervous chuckle. Bah. He couldn’t possibly mean a single word. She swiped her hand over her tresses. “I cannot abide my hair. ’Tis as unmanageable as a gnarled stack of straw.”

  “I wouldn’t say that—your curls are a bit profuse, but I like a wild mane of locks on a woman.”

  He had the most vexing way of making her feel self-conscious. How was she supposed to respond? No man had ever thus complimented her, especially after a glimpse at the claw.

  “What happened to your hand, if you don’t mind my asking?” His voice took on that deep burr again.

  But Meg considered this a more suitable conversation. “Has always been this way—born with it.” She tapped her pointer finger to her thumb. “The pincers work fine.”

  “Is it a family trait?”

  “Nay, just a feature of Meg, thank heavens. However, I did inherit a number of Douglas vices, like impatience and an awful temper.”

  “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He ran the reins through his fingers. “But if being quick to anger is a vice, then I think all of Scotland is afflicted.”

  Meg hummed. “You do have a sense of humor, aye, Sir Duncan?” She craned her neck and looked at him. A flutter stirred deep inside. She could study the dark angles of his handsome face all day.

  Dipping his chin, his gaze met her eyes. Alluring, deep mahogany rimmed by black. Everything about his eyes screamed danger. Meg’s heart skipped a beat. Her stare trailed to his lips. The bottom one was fuller—pouted a bit. Her tongue shot out and moistened hers. Duncan’s mouth was so close, all she had to do was rise up a few inches and their lips would touch.

  His eyelashes lowered with his gaze. She hadn’t noticed before, but his black lashes were inordinately long. Something inside her breasts swelled. It was unholy for a man to be so indescribably beautiful, yet rugged as the High
lands.

  Without thinking, she ran a finger along the angular line of his stubbled jaw. He’d appeared clean shaven in the chapel, but now, a beard shadowed his face. When it prickled her finger, she gasped, not expecting the stubble to be so coarse.

  “You keep looking at me like that and we’ll not make it to Peebles,” he said with the growl of a devil.

  Meg shook her shoulders and adjusted her bottom in the saddle—right against his crotch. Lord have mercy. She needed her own mount. Being this close to a barbarian toyed with her sensibilities. “Your beard has grown in since we met. I simply found so much unruly growth strange.” There. That should prove I’m not to be trifled with.

  “As I recall, your brother had an impressive beard. Surely a man’s facial hair isn’t foreign to you.”

  Generally speaking, men’s facial hair had never fascinated her in the least. But something about Duncan’s black beard had wee fairies flitting about her stomach. She mustn’t tempt him. He’d already alluded to his improper thoughts before. “I apologize.” She shifted her hips before she could stop herself. I must stop moving. “Sharing a saddle with you is rather disconcerting. I do hope we can acquire another horse in the next town.”

  He tugged her closer. “As do I, lass. As do I.”

  Isaac stood at the top of the crag and turned full circle. Hoof prints scattered in every direction except south. Miserable heathens; they’d made his task near impossible. He’d never be able to return to Alnwick. His wife and newborn daughter would starve. Not that it concerned Lord Percy in any way. Isaac clenched his jaw. He bore the earl’s harsh treatment only to support his family. If it weren’t for his girls, he’d have walked away from Northumberland a long time ago.

  Lusting for revenge, the earl walked a thin line between madness and sanity. He had his title reinstated, his riches—what more did he need? Northumberland should leave well enough alone and move on with his wretched life.