Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  She swallowed uneasily. “Perhaps a little.”

  “Then you should stop asking questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.”

  She gathered the tartan about her and tried to ignore the chafing burn of the binds at her wrists.

  “I assume that was your famous band of rebels,” she said, because she wanted to keep him talking. She wanted to know why this was happening and learn where they meant to take her. “I’d imagined there were more of you,” she continued. “Because from the stories I’ve heard, you and your friends slaughter entire English armies in three minutes flat.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  She turned her cheek to speak to him over her shoulder.

  “So it takes you longer than three minutes to slaughter entire armies?”

  He paused. “Nay. Three minutes is accurate.”

  She shook her head at the mere idea of it.

  “But we don’t attack armies,” he said, correcting her.

  “We’re not daft.”

  “No. That is most definitely not the word I would use to describe you.”

  They crossed a shallow burn, where the horse’s hooves splashed through the cool trickling water. Amelia hugged the tartan to her chest.

  “What word would you use?” the Butcher asked, touching his lips to the back of her ear as he spoke and sending a torrent of gooseflesh across her neck and shoulders. He had an annoying habit of doing that, and she wished he would stop.

  “I can think of a number of very vivid expressions,” she said, “but I will not speak them aloud, because you still might change your mind and decide to slit my throat.” She turned her cheek to the side again, and her nose almost touched his. “You see, I’m not daft, either.”

  She’d mocked him with her last words and was surprised to hear him chuckle softly in her ear.

  “You seem too bright to be sharing Bennett’s bed,” he said.

  “I told you before, we are engaged to be married, and the fact that I was in his bed…” She paused, not sure how to phrase it exactly. “It’s not what you think. I was escorted to the fort by my uncle, the Duke of Winslowe, who is my father’s heir and now my guardian. Richard was called away from the fort last night, and only wanted to ensure that I would be safe and comfortable.”

  «Well, at least you were comfortable.”

  She clenched her jaw against a sudden pulse of anger.

  “Until you broke into my room and interrupted my happy dreams of wedded bliss.”

  “There was no breakin’ in, lass,” he said. “I had a key.”

  “Ah, yes, the one you stole from the soldier in the corridor—the one you murdered in cold blood.”

  “That wasn’t murder,” he said, after a quiet pause. “This is war. The lad signed up for it, and it was a fair fight.”

  “No one signs up to die.”

  “Highlanders do, if the need arises.”

  She shifted in the saddle. “How delightful y courageous of you all . It’s too bad you are committing treason when you perform these impressive acts of bravery.”

  He shifted, too. “You have quite a mouth on you, Lady Amelia. I can’t deny I’m aroused by it.”

  Aroused. No man had ever said anything so bold in her presence, or taken such liberties with her before, and the shock of it made her cheeks turn scarlet. “Then I will close my lips,” she said, “and keep them shut, Mr. Butcher. Because the last thing I want to do is arouse your passions.”

  “Are you sure?” She could feel the heat of his lips as he whispered in her ear, and the gooseflesh returned. It tingled across her skin, and she cursed her body’s frustrating response.

  “You seem like a passionate woman, Lady Amelia,” he continued. “You might enjoy the lusty style of a Highlander’s lovemaking. We’re not like your polite English gentlemen.

  We’re not afraid to grunt and thrust and use our mouths to pleasure our women.”

  A surge of heat shot through her veins. She felt a renewed urge to leap off the horse again and run all the way back to London, but she’d already learned her lesson in that regard.

  If she did that, he’d have her on her back in the grass again, and she didn’t think she could survive another incident like that without losing control of her senses.

  “I am not saying another word to you.” She sat up straighter in the saddle, so that her back was no longer touching the solid wall of his chest, but it did nothing to cool the fires of anxiety that were coursing through her blood.

  He leaned forward and whispered a warning in her ear.

  “You’re wise to keep your mouth shut, lass, because I can only resist so much. Your lively little tongue might push me over the edge. Ah, look. Here we are—at my luxurious abode.”

  He reined in his horse.

  Feeling shaken, Amelia fought hard to focus on their surroundings. His “luxurious abode” was nothing more than a cave—a cold, dark cavern cut into a steep-sided mountain, surrounded by moss and lichen-covered granite.

  They truly were barbarians, living like animals in caves. A smoky mist curled ominously around the horse’s legs.

  “It’s the Butcher’s lair,” her captor said, pulling his tartan away so that the cold morning air once again assaulted her damp skin. Tossing the plaid over his shoulder, he swung himself to the ground.

  While she continued to stare at the pitch-black entrance to the cave, he pulled the axe from the scabbard, slipped it into his belt, and held his arms out to her. “Come, lass, I’ll make a fire for us, and you can curl up in a warm bed of fur, and then I’ll make a necklace for you out of all the pretty bones from the soldiers I murdered tonight.”

  She looked down at him in horror, not entirely sure he was jesting.

  Just then, the golden-haired lion of a Scot who wanted to slit her throat came galloping toward them from the other direction.

  The Butcher watched him approach with narrowed eyes, then spoke to Amelia with a firm tone of command. “Get off the horse, lass. My friend wants to kill you, so it’d be best if you waited in the cave while he and I talk it over.”

  The necessity of escape burned in her mind as she slid off the horse and hurried to the cave entrance. She stood for a moment just inside, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the reduced light, while the other Highlander arrived behind her and dismounted. She looked around for anything she might use as a weapon and began to tug frantically at her bonds.

  Chapter Three

  Angus MacDonald swung out of the saddle and landed with a heavy thud on the ground. His golden mane of hair, disheveled and wet, fell forward over his brow, and his horse trotted away toward taller grasses.

  “Damn you, Duncan,” Angus said. “What was going through your bluidy brain? We’ve been tracking Bennett for the better part of a year. I thought we were of the same mind.”

  “We are.” Duncan led his horse to a bucket of water outside the cave entrance.

  He was not in the mood for this. He’d just killed five men and his clothes reeked of blood and filth and death. He wanted to go to the river and wash his hands and weapons, and clean the sweat and grime from his body. Above all , he wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep. For many, many hours.

  “I didn’t abandon the plan,” he explained to Angus, his closest friend, the fearless warrior who had saved his life in battle more times than he could count. “But Bennett wasn’t where he was supposed to be. That’s the only reason he still lives.” Duncan turned and faced Angus. “But if you cross me one more time in front of the others, I swear to God and all that is holy, I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life.”

  Angus stared at him for a long, hard moment before he turned toward the rock face of the hill and laid a scarred hand on the granite. He spoke quietly, his voice heavy with frustration. “I wanted his head tonight.”

  “And you think I didn’t?” Duncan replied. “How do you think I felt when I raised my axe and found myself looking down at an innocent woman?�
�

  Angus pushed away from the stone. “She’s not so innocent, if she’s engaged to that swine.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Duncan suddenly felt a pointed stab of irritation at the mere mention of her engagement, which disturbed his equilibrium. The woman had stirred something in him from the first moment. He’d been struck dumb by her penetrating green eyes and her bold and foolish bravery. He’d spent far too much time studying the lush curve of her breasts and her fiery red hair. She had thrown him off balance, and that sort of weakness was not an option. Not now, when they had come so far. He simply could not afford to become distracted.

  “Perhaps? She’s English, Duncan. She looked down at me like I was pond scum and she was the fookin’ Queen of England.”

  “She’s a proud one,” Duncan replied. He lifted the heavy saddle off his horse and set it on the ground, then removed the bridle. “That’s because she’s the daughter of a great man. You’d know him as the Duke of Winslowe.” He glanced knowingly at Angus. “Surely you remember him. He led a battalion at Sherrifmuir.”

  Angus’s eyes widened. “The duke? The one my father almost killed on the battlefield?”

  “The same.” Duncan rubbed the flats of his hands over the sinewed flanks of his horse, wiping away the cool, moist lather while trying not to think about the famous colonel’s daughter, who was waiting for him inside the cave.

  Angus whistled. “Now I see why you let her live—at least for the time being.” He frowned in confusion. “But she plans to marry Bennett?”

  “Aye. That’s why she was at Fort William—evidently dreaming of her future nuptials when I nearly lobbed off her head.”

  Angus paced back and forth in front of the cave entrance.

  “Is it a love match between them? Surely not.”

  “She claims it is.”

  “Has she fookin’ met him?”

  Duncan breathed deeply with frustration. He had no answer to that question, because any woman’s betrothal to that animal Richard Bennett made no sense to him.

  Angus faced Duncan squarely. “Do you think she knows what her fiancé did to our Muira? You don’t think she might have put him up to it, do you? Because of what my father tried to do to hers on the battlefield?”

  It was a troubling thought—surely not possible—but Duncan nevertheless gave it fair consideration before he shook his head. “Nay, I don’t think so. She doesn’t strike me as the ruthless type.”

  “What’s the attraction, then?” Angus asked. “Why is she with Bennett?”

  It was at least easy to imagine what had caught Bennett’s eye. Not only was Lady Amelia the daughter of a duke, providing the highest social connections, but she also was beautiful beyond imagining.

  Duncan found himself conjuring up images of what had happened between them in the field, when he had her on her back, squirming and rubbing up against him. She’d ignited his aggressions to such a shocking degree, it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from taking her right then and there. It was difficult to say what might have occurred if Fergus and Gawyn hadn’t arrived when they had, for he was still hungry for her.

  Focusing his attention on the task of grooming Turner’s coat, he reminded himself that he shouldn’t be thinking about his prisoner that way and that he should avoid such thoughts in the future. She was an object to him. She was his enemy and his bait, nothing more. He could not forget that.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I intend to find out.”

  Angus strode to the cave and looked in. “Then what? An eye for an eye?”

  Duncan’s gut churned. This was a dirty business, and he loathed it.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” He left his horse to graze. “Go wait for the others on the ridge. I’ll need some time alone with her.”

  “How much time?”

  “A few hours at least.”

  He felt Angus’s gaze on his back as he entered the dark chill of the cave.

  “To do what, Duncan?”

  “I told you, I don’t know yet. But I’m tired and irritable, so just leave me in peace until I figure it out.”

  * * *

  The fast-approaching Royal North British Dragoons were spotted in the distance by a young soldier, who was positioned on Fort William’s high north wall . “Colonel Bennett returns!” he shouted, and there was a flurry of activity in the courtyard below. Groomsmen hastened to fil buckets from water barrels, and foot soldiers lined up with their muskets on their shoulders, the straps of their haversacks slung across their chests.

  The thunderous rumble of hooves signaled the time to open the gates, and the impressive mounted regiment of soldiers galloped into the fort.

  Lieutenant-colonel Richard Bennett was the first to dismount. He withdrew the important contents of his saddlebags, then handed his horse over to a groomsman.

  Striding toward Colonel Worthington’s quarters, Richard pulled off his gloves and removed his cavalry helmet.

  His saber bounced against his thigh as he walked with single-minded purpose to address Worthington, for he had news to report. He’d burned another crofter’s cottage, where he’d found maps, weapons, and letters from a number of known Jacobites.

  A moment later, Richard was received by his commander.

  He was not prepared, however, for the unsettling image before him when he stepped through the door.

  The snowy-haired Duke of Winslowe was seated in a chair, and the colonel was standing over him with a glass of brandy, which the duke seemed unwilling or unable to accept, because he was too distraught.

  “Thank God you’re back,” Worthington said, turning from Winslowe. “Something dreadful has occurred, and we will need to rely on both your discretion and your resolve to set things right, Bennett.”

  “You have my utmost cooperation, Colonel Worthington.”

  “It concerns Lady Amelia.”

  Worthington paused, and Richard swallowed heavily, bracing himself for the news that the colonel seemed reluctant to report. “What has occurred?”

  The commanding officer breathed deeply, then at last conveyed the details. “Your betrothed was abducted last night.”

  Richard stood motionless, clenching his jaw, until he could locate the composure and self-control required to speak calmly. “Abducted? By whom?”

  “There is evidence to suggest it was the Butcher of the Highlands.”

  Richard’s upper lip twitched. He took a step forward. “You are telling me that that savage has taken my fiancée from inside the heavily guarded, full y garrisoned stone wall s of Fort William?”

  The portly duke looked up at him and nodded. “My niece,”

  he said. “My brother’s only daughter … I have known her since she was a babe in her mother’s arms. We must do something, Bennett. I was the one who brought her here, and if anything happens to that gel, I will never forgive myself.”

  Barely able to see beyond the scarlet rage that was burning his eyes, Richard gripped the hilt of his sword and backed away. “Who is responsible for this? Who was on duty last night?”

  They both watched him with concern, and when they did not answer quickly enough, he shouted at them both, “Who, dammit!”

  “They’re all dead,” the colonel replied.

  Richard backed away toward the door. “I will find her,” he said. “And when I do, I will cut that Jacobite traitor into a hundred pieces. Not just for Amelia’s honor, but for my king and country as well .”

  Richard strode out of the room, crushing instantly the flicker of distress that had lodged in his gut, for he was not the kind of man who gave in to such weakness.

  * * *

  Amelia sat on the floor of the cave, fighting against an overwhelming sense of defeat. No matter how hard she tugged and wrenched at the thin ropes binding her wrists, she could not free herself. She was trapped like a helpless fawn in a wolf’s den, and soon her captor would return and do what he’d wanted to do to her all along, since the moment he�
��d crept into her fiancé’s bedchamber. Then suddenly Duncan was there before her, kneeling down, pulling a knife from his boot. Terror exploded inside her.

  “Please, ” she said, tugging harder and more desperately at the bonds. “If you possess the smallest shred of humanity, you will let me go. You must.”

  He raised the knife in the dim light, and just when she thought he was going to cut her throat, he sliced through her bonds instead. They dropped lightly to the ground.

  “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” He took both her hands in his and held them up to inspect the undersides of her wrists.

  “I admire your tenacity, but look what you’ve done to yourself.”

  A thin trail of blood was dripping down her arm. He reached for a cloth, dipped it into the pot of water that hung on a hook over the unlit fire, and touched it to her wrists.

  Gently he washed the blood away.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asked, glancing uneasily at the sword he carried. “Because if I am to be put to death, I wish to know.”

  He remained focused on what he was doing. “I’m not going to kill you.”

  She was grateful for the information, certainly, but was still a far cry from feeling reassured.

  “What about the other Highlander?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much.” She glanced toward the mouth of the cave.

  “You’re right. He detests the very ground you walk on.” The Butcher folded the cloth and continued to wipe her forearm with the cleaner side of it.

  “Why? Because I am English? Or is it because I am engaged to Colonel Bennett?”

  Duncan paused. “I reckon both those things make him want to murder you where you stand.”

  The cloth touched a tender spot, and Amelia snapped her hand back.

  Duncan looked at her intently, and somehow without a single word he persuaded her with his eyes to endure the discomfort without complaint. She found herself responding, as if she were being lured into obedience.