Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  Duncan walked the horse for a few minutes, then stopped.

  “Push forward, lassie,” he said to her. “It’s time I joined you.”

  He slid a boot into the stirrup and swung up behind her, then gathered the reins in both hands.

  Amelia had mixed feelings about his close proximity in the saddle with her again—with those strong hands gripping the leather reins and resting on her thighs.

  They would move faster now, she told herself, trying to ignore his distinctive male scent as he kicked in his heels and urged the horse into a gal op. They would reach Moncrieffe sooner, and she would be one step closer to safety and the return of her freedom.

  That was all she wanted. To be safe and free. To that end, she would continue doing what she’d been doing all along.

  She would stay close to Duncan in order to reach Moncrieffe Castle and find a way home. She would be brave until the moment when he final y let her go. And she would not think too much about his masculine appeal, or his maddening arrogance, or his teasing, tantalizing flirtations. Nor would she reflect upon how kind he had been to the boy and the drover, or how he had saved her, most heroically, from those horrid English soldiers on the beach.

  No, she would not think of any of that. She would push those thoughts away. They were heading toward Moncrieffe Castle. That was all that mattered.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, when the air was humid and warm, they stopped at a shallow section of the river to cool themselves. Duncan was perspiring. His loose linen shirt was sticking to his back. He crouched down, dipped his hands into the water, rubbed them together vigorously, then splashed some cool droplets on his face.

  A short distance away, Amelia removed her shoes. She picked her way barefoot over the pebbles, gathered her skirts up in a tangled bunch, and waded into the river, stopping when it reached her knees.

  Duncan sat back. He stretched his legs out and leaned on both elbows, watching her bend forward and splash handfuls of water on her face and neck, as he had done. When she straightened, she closed her eyes and tipped her face toward the sky. Her copper-colored tresses reached all the way down to her sweet, tempting bottom.

  She brushed her damp fingertips lightly down the length of her throat and across the tops of her breasts, seeming to delight in the featherlike sensation. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, her skin dewy with perspiration. She parted her lips and wet them with the tip of her tongue. It was a slow, sensual, erotic gesture, and Duncan began to lose himself in an idle daydream.

  In the quiet recesses of his mind, Amelia was standing nude in the river, while he was on his knees before her, half-submerged in the water, rolling his tongue around her pink nipples and probing her sweet navel. He relished the saltiness of her skin and the sweet perfume of her body, which filled his head with pulsating yearnings. Running his hands down the curve of her waist, he laid open-mouthed kisses across her belly and hip. His cock shifted and grew, and he closed his eyes on the pebbled riverbank, tipped his head back toward the sun, and inhaled deeply. The heat warmed his face and legs.

  Abruptly he opened his eyes and shook himself.

  “Fook, ” he whispered, and stood up. She was the Duke of Winslowe’s daughter. He shouldn’t be thinking such things, nor should he be wasting time here in the middle of nowhere when Richard Bennett was still wreaking havoc in the Highlands.

  “Get out of the river!” Duncan shouted. “It’s time to go!”

  Startled, Amelia turned to face him. “So soon? But the water feels so good.”

  “Put on your shoes,” he said irritably. “We’re leaving.”

  He did not look at her again until after she had mounted the horse. Then Duncan led Turner by the reins for at least half a mile before he final y swung up into the saddle to ride behind her.

  * * *

  At dusk, they set up camp near a single standing stone, high on a hill top under the stars. It was a rare clear night without a single breath of wind. The moon was full —almost too brilliant to behold—and the mountains were sharp, pointed silhouettes against the deep twilight beyond.

  Duncan started a fire and cooked the smoked pork Beth had packed for them, which they enjoyed with a hearty rye bread and a bag of juicy whortleberries he had picked in the forest.

  When they finished eating, he reclined back against the tall stone and withdrew a pewter flask from his sporran.

  “This, lassie, is Moncrieffe whisky, the very best in Scotland.” He looked at it for a moment. “And Lord knows I need a good, deep swig of it tonight.” He raised it in an informal toast, tipped it back and drank, then pointed the spout at her. “Maybe you should take a swig yourself, feel its arousing vigor, and then you’ll understand why we’re so proud to be Scotsmen.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “A well -made spirit is going to show me that?”

  “Aye, lassie, and a whole lot more.”

  She looked at him with challenge. “I see what you are trying to do. You are trying to frighten me, and make me nervous about being here alone with you.”

  “You should most definitely be frightened,” he said. “I’m a strapping hot-blooded Highlander with an axe, and I have needs.” He paused and narrowed his enticing blue eyes at her.

  She shivered at the suggestiveness of his tone but raised her chin defiantly, for she was determined not to show him any fear. At the same time, she sensed he was only trying to warn her to be cautious. He seemed determined to keep her at a safe distance.

  He stretched out his legs and reclined back against the standing stone, then drank from the flask again. “Ah,” he groaned. “This is the best Scotland has to offer. How the earl does it I long to know.”

  “I find it difficult to imagine you longing for anything,” she said. “Don’t you usual y just take what you want?”

  He lifted his head. “Nay, lass. Otherwise, you’d be deflowered by now, and feeling very grateful for it.”

  She exploded in a dramatic show of affronted laughter. “It is absurd how confident you are.”

  “When it comes to my skills as a lover, there’s nothing absurd about it. I’m very good at pleasing women.”

  “The famous Butcher,” she pondered. “Good at lovemaking and chopping people in half. What an attractive set of skills you possess.”

  Amelia stared at the flask. She was thirsty, and there was nothing else to drink. And certainly the notion of sleeping like a baby had its appeal.

  “I should prepare myself to be dazzled, should I?” She accepted the flask. “What if I swoon?”

  “No worries, lass. You’ll just tumble over sideways, and the grass is soft.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Looking down at the flask, she swirled the contents around, then tipped it back and drank.

  Well ! She might as well have been swallowing liquid fire.

  As soon as the whisky shot down her gullet, a blazing inferno erupted in her stomach and she began to wheeze. “You call this fine?” She spoke like a raspy old man.

  “Aye, lassie, it’s stronger than the ball s on a bull .”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “And you enjoy this?”

  Continuing to hold on to the flask, for she was determined not to be bested by this celebrated Scottish drink, she took a moment to recover. In a moment or two, she would try again.

  Tipping her head back, she looked up at the stars, and soon her thoughts drifted back to the events of the day. She thought of Elliott and how he had survived alone in the woods for two days.

  “The drover we met said Elliott didn’t have a mother,”

  Amelia mentioned. “I am without both my parents now, but at least when I was a girl I had a mother I could call in the night when I had a bad dream and she would come and hold me.

  I’ll never forget how it felt to be held in her arms.” She tilted her head to the side. “I don’t suppose you ever had that, or ever had to call out for someone in the night.”

  He seemed relaxed while he lounged
back against the stone, yet his eyes were as intense as ever. “I called out plenty of times, and my mother always came.”

  “You had nightmares? And a mother?”

  “Despite what you might think of me, lass, I’m not the spawn of the devil.”

  A touch embarrassed by her comment, she took another drink. Again the whisky burned her throat, but it went down easier than the first time.

  “It might surprise you to know,” he continued, “that my mother was an educated woman of French descent. She taught me to read and write, and sent me away to be educated.”

  Amelia drew back slightly. “Indeed, I am surprised. You were educated formally? Where?”

  “That’s not a question I’ll be answering.”

  Nevertheless, she tucked it away for later, because she wanted to know.

  “How did your mother feel about your father’s harsh discipline?” Amelia asked. “I can’t imagine a scholarly woman would enjoy seeing her child treated with such brutality.”

  “Nay, she didn’t like it, but she wouldn’t dare speak against him.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “Did you ever try to defy him?”

  “Aye, more than once, because I didn’t always like what he did to me, or others. But he was my father and I respected him, and I’m the man I am because of him.”

  She took another drink and began to appreciate the subtle, aromatic flavors beneath the spirit’s sheer muscular brawn.

  “But what about right and wrong?” she asked. “Did he teach you anything about that? Or just how to fight and survive in the Highlands?”

  He considered that for a moment. “That’s quite a question, lassie. I cannot say for sure whether or not my father always did what was right, or tried to convey an adequate set of morals. In fact, I know sometimes he didn’t. But maybe I know that because of what my mother taught me. She was a thinker and taught me to be one, too. My father, on the other hand…” He stopped. “He was just a warrior. Mostly muscle.

  Not much in the way of a conscience.”

  Just a warrior.… Not much in the way of a conscience.

  Amelia was shocked to hear Duncan say these things. “At least you had two different perspectives to influence your life.

  They both played a part in making you into the person you are today.”

  Indeed, she had seen two different sides of him over the past few days. She had seen a kind and helpful man who tousled a young boy’s hair, while previous to that she had witnessed the Butcher’s fury. She’d watched him toss an English officer into a lake, then pursue in order to kill .

  A wolf howled in the distance, followed by a scuffling sound nearby. Duncan alerted to the sound. He picked up his pistol, which he had placed in the grass beside him. He cocked it and rose to his feet. Amelia stayed low, looking up at him.

  Slowly he pulled the dagger from his boot and handed it to her.

  She looked up at him curiously, and their eyes locked with a dark fervor as she wrapped her hand around the grip. He was giving her this weapon to protect herself should anything happen to him—or to help him fight, if need be. He was trusting her with it.

  He pointed down at her, then at the tall standing stone, suggesting she move behind it. Silently he strode forward through the grass, away from the snapping fire. He stood with his back to her for a long moment, listening careful y to the sounds of the night.

  There was another wolfish howl, but it seemed very far away, a mere echo, probably from the opposite mountain range. For a moment Amelia believed there was nothing to fear, until she heard the sound of movement swishing through the grass.

  Her belly fired with panic. Was there never a moment’s peace in the Highlands?

  Duncan crouched low and pulled his axe from his belt.

  Amelia crawled behind the standing stone.

  What if it was a wild boar? Or an enemy soldier?

  Perhaps she should be praying to see a man in a red coat, marching toward them with his musket loaded or his bayonet fixed and ready for battle, but after what had happened back at the beach, she was not sure of anything anymore. all she knew was that Duncan was standing between her and this uninvited guest and, whatever the root of his motivations, he was ready to lay down his life to protect her.

  The moonlight was bright overhead—so bright, it was easy to see the edge of the hill side. Peering out from behind the stone, Amelia watched with keen, focused eyes.

  At long last, the intruder reached the crest of the hill and took a seat not ten feet away from Duncan, facing him squarely, and without the slightest sign of fear or aggression.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Don’t move,” Duncan said. He had not yet lowered his weapon.

  Amelia was crouched behind the stone, her heart crashing like thunder in her chest, while she watched the extraordinary exchange.

  “What does she want?” she asked in a whisper.

  “She’s curious.”

  It was the white wolf, sitting calmly.

  None of them moved. Duncan was down on one knee, his pistol aimed squarely at the sharp-toothed beast while he held his axe low in the other hand. Amelia suspected he was ready to fling it through the air if the wolf suddenly charged, but for the longest time nothing happened—until Duncan slowly, careful y, sat back on his heels and lowered his weapon.

  The wolf panted heavily in the cool night air, then closed her mouth and turned her head toward a sound, listening keenly. Satisfied that it was nothing, she let her mouth fall open again and resumed panting. After a while, she licked her chops and laid her chin down on her front paws, and watched Duncan with wide, blinking eyes.

  Amelia came out from behind the standing stone. Duncan said nothing as she approached and knelt beside him. The wolf lifted her head and sniffed the air, then sat up again.

  Then, without warning, she turned and trotted away, down the hill .

  Amelia exhaled with relief. “Did that real y just happen?”

  “Aye.”

  They sat for a few minutes, watching the spot where the wolf had disappeared from sight. Not a single blade of grass moved.

  “But why didn’t she hurt us? If she was afraid of you, or wanted to eat us for dinner, she would have growled or challenged us, wouldn’t she?”

  “I’d wager she had a full belly.”

  “I see.” Amelia sat quietly for a moment. “So if she returns in the morning, there’s still a chance we might become a meal?”

  He slipped his axe into his belt and stood. “It’s possible.”

  He held out his hand. Amelia took hold and let him pull her to her feet while she discreetly hid the dagger in the folds of her skirt.

  “It didn’t occur to you to shoot her, Duncan? Elliott probably would have wanted you to.”

  “I think the lad might have had trouble doing it, too, if he’d been here in my place.”

  Amelia stared after the wolf. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

  “Aye.”

  Feeling the heat of Duncan’s gaze upon her face, Amelia looked into the lustrous blue of his eyes and felt a little inebriated. A soft breeze—the first of the night—gusted past them and fluttered her skirts. She pushed a lock of hair away from her face.

  “Come back to the fire,” he said. Together they pushed through the grass to their little camp, and Duncan spread the fur out on the ground. “You’ll lie with me tonight,” he said, “in case she comes back.”

  Were it not for the wolf, Amelia would have fought him on that issue, but she did not think she would be able to sleep otherwise. And perhaps also she was feeling more relaxed because of the whisky, not to mention the knife she held in her hand.

  She picked her way around the dying campfire to join him.

  Before they lay down, however, he eyed her shrewdly.

  “I’ll have the dirk now, lass.”

  She sighed. “You’re not going to trust me with it?”

  “Nay.”

  She paused a moment, then decided it
was pointless to argue. Besides, after what had happened the night before, she didn’t want to find herself in the position of having to choose between her freedom and Duncan’s life. He had protected her from those soldiers and the wolf. She simply could not kill him. Not now. Not ever, she supposed.

  She held out the weapon. He slipped it into his boot, then dropped lightly to his knees. “Let’s get some rest.”

  They lay down together as they did in the cave that first morning. Amelia faced the fire, and he curled up behind her, tucking his knees into the backs of hers. He covered them both with his tartan.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Indeed, she was snug and warm, although she was a far cry from relaxed.

  For a long time they lay there without talking, and just when she began to think she might be able to fall asleep, he spoke.

  “Can I ask you a question, lass?”

  “I suppose I can’t stop you.”

  He hesitated. “Why did you say yes to Richard Bennett?

  You seem intelligent enough, and I don’t think you’re blind.

  You said you admired him because he was a gentleman, but there are scores of gentleman prancing about a London ballroom. Why him? Is it because he saved your father’s life?”

  She thought hard about all the possible answers to that question. She remembered the times Richard had called upon her and how dashing he had been in his clean scarlet uniform. She had been infatuated at the outset—quite inescapably. She was a young, inexperienced girl with romantic dreams, eager to be wooed by a brave and noble hero.

  And her father had confirmed those first impressions and approved of the match. He was, after all , alive because of this handsome young officer, who had galloped across a raging battlefield, straight into the line of fire, to save his life.

  “It’s complicated,” she said, “but I see now that I did not know him as well as I thought I did. all our encounters were polite and proper, and I had romantic ideas. My life before this was sheltered, and after my father’s death I believe I was in a hurry to wed. I felt very alone and almost in a panic, so perhaps I was blind. I saw only what I wanted to see.”