Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  “You were looking for a replacement for your father,”

  Duncan suggested. “You wanted the protection of a husband.

  You wanted security.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, though it was a difficult thing to say.

  “Since I all owed you to ask me a question,” she said, “and I answered it truthful y, may I ask you one, too?”

  “You already asked me a number of them tonight.”

  “Just one more…”

  He did not say yes, but he did not refuse, either.

  Wetting her lips, she stared at the glowing embers in the fire. Her breathing was irregular, her body restless.

  “Why have you not taken me, Duncan? If it’s vengeance you want against Richard…”

  He was quiet for a long moment; then he nuzzled her ear and spoke in a heavy, seductive voice that stroked her mind like velvet. “Maybe I still will .”

  She lay motionless, intensely aware of the ragged beat of her heart. She had not expected him to say that, but she was not horrified. Quite to the contrary, her body was melting irresistibly into the curve of his legs and torso and she was aching with a strange, unexplored desire.

  “You shouldn’t have brought it up, lass,” he said. “Now my thoughts are wandering, and my hands want to wander, too.”

  Another breeze swept across the hill top, hissing through the tall Highland grasses. A strange anticipation rippled through her belly; then he rolled on top of her, so smoothly and natural y, it seemed almost destined to occur. She felt the weight of his hips pressing into hers.

  He braced himself high above her on both arms and looked down at her in the moonlight.

  She could not move. She was immobilized by a host of emotions she could not begin to comprehend.

  He began to swivel his hips in small circles, rubbing up against her. “I told you this morning that you were in more danger than ever.”

  “Please, Duncan…”

  “Please what? Stop?”

  She knew she should say yes or simply nod her head, but she was incapable of doing either of those things. The only thing she could make sense of was the fire coursing through her veins. She stared up at him with wide eyes until he slowly eased his upper body down and touched his lips to hers.

  His open mouth and probing tongue melted every last fighting scrap of her resistance. She knew she shouldn’t want this, not with this man, but neither could she refuse the need to quench her desires.

  He nudged her legs open with a knee while he continued to make love to her mouth with his lips and tongue. She moaned, feeling as if she were overcome by some kind of fever, then found herself gripping the fabric of his kilt in her fists.

  “Tel me to stop,” he said forceful y as he kissed the side of her neck, his movements growing more urgent.

  Of course, she would do exactly that—she would tell him to stop—but something compelled her to let it go on for just a few seconds more. Her hips thrust upward on their own, and she kissed him in return, fiercely, angrily. Then at last she uttered a few words, in a desperate sigh of passion.

  “Oh, Duncan, please stop.”

  “Say it like you mean it, lass, or I’ll soon be inside you.” He drew up her skirts, then slid his axe-roughened palm across the top of her thigh. She squirmed with pleasure.

  His hand feathered over her knee, then to her hip and across her stomach. His voice was gruff and sexual. “I want to slide into you. I want to kiss your breasts and your thighs and your soft, naked belly. If you tell me you want that, too, lass, I’ll undress you.”

  “No,” she murmured, “I don’t want it.”

  But she did. She couldn’t understand it, but she did.

  “Then tell me to stop, and do it quick.”

  She parted her lips to say it, but no words came out.

  His hand moved slowly up the length of her sleeve and over her shoulder; then he brushed her hair away from her neck and kissed the tender flesh at the front of her throat.

  She sucked in a quick breath, still fighting against the desire that washed over her like ocean waves.

  “What if I were a gentleman?” he asked, looking into her eyes with challenge. “Like your Richard? What if I wore a velvet jacket and lace cuffs and shiny buckled shoes? What if I was the son of a wealthy duke or earl? Would it be all right then?”

  “But you are not any of those things,” she replied. “And he is not my Richard. Please stop, Duncan. Stop now.”

  He lay very still , looking down at her, saying nothing.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the possibility that he might decide he did not wish to stop. Why should he? He was ten times stronger than she. He could simply take her by force if he wanted to. He could tear at her skirts and impose himself upon her, and there would be nothing she could do about it.

  He rolled off her then, onto his back.

  Knowing she had narrowly escaped ruination just now—and escaped her own unfathomable desires as well —she let out a breath and fought to recover her composure. It frightened her to think how close she had come to ravishment, and how desperately she had wanted him, and how amorous she still felt.

  She lay still for a long time, staring up at the sky, afraid to speak or move. She turned her head and watched his profile and reflected very careful y and profoundly upon the fact that he had stopped when she’d asked him to.

  “I’ll trust you,” he said, “not to bash me in the head tonight, or slip the dagger out of my boot and stab me with it.” There was a hint of anger in his voice, and she wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or himself.

  “I won’t,” she replied. “And again, I am truly sorry for what I did to you last night.”

  “I’m only sorry that you are pledged to my enemy. If you were not, I wouldn’t have to use you this way.”

  “Use me … As bait, you mean.”

  “Aye. That’s what you are to me, lass. Nothing more. So do not think otherwise, just because I touched you and held you in my arms tonight. It was just lust—basic animal lust—and do not think that it’ll make me forget what I mean to do.”

  Had he forgotten it? Was that why he was angry? Or did he think she was trying to distract him from that objective?

  “You are referring to your desire to kill Richard.”

  “Aye.”

  She sat up and pressed the tips of her fingers to her throbbing temples. Heaven help her. She might as well have been the one knocked senseless the previous night, because her brains were clearly addled. She, too, had forgotten who they were and why they were here. She desired Duncan passionately and had lost sight of the fact that he wanted to use her to kill a man in cold blood.

  “You still don’t believe it, do you?” he asked. “You still think I’m mistaken, and that the people of Scotland have embellished the stories about your precious Richard. You’re still loyal to him.”

  “That’s not true,” she said. “I do believe that I was too hasty in accepting his proposal. I recognize the fact that I was naïve and did not take enough time to get to know him. But if I’ve learned anything from all this, it is that I must think for myself and form my own judgments. Therefore I cannot, in good conscience, condemn a man based on what his enemies say. I must at least allow him the opportunity to answer the charges. When I see him again, I will most certainly give him that chance.”

  Duncan stood up. “The mere idea of you in the same room with Richard Bennett makes me want to vomit. I won’t allow it.”

  “But even if he is guilty of those crimes of which you accuse him,” she said, “that does not give you the right to kill him. Even the worst criminal deserves a proper trial.”

  Duncan’s brow darkened with displeasure, and he began to pace.

  “If Richard is guilty of something,” she continued, “let him be arrested and dealt with according to the law. You should not darken your soul any further to ensure justice is served.”

  “But my soul is already destined for hell ,” h
e growled.

  She shivered. “I don’t believe that. There is always hope. People can change.”

  But did she truly believe there was hope where Duncan was concerned? He was the Butcher of the Highlands. He’d killed dozens of men.

  They said nothing for a long time; then he shot her an irritated look. “You remind me of my mother sometimes. She was beautiful, and she was a stubborn idealist. She didn’t approve of violence, and she worked tirelessly to convince my father that she was right and he was wrong.”

  “Did she ever succeed in convincing him?”

  Duncan laughed bitterly. “Nay. That was a futile ambition.

  She and I both ended up bruised and battered over it. My father was a warrior. He had no interest in diplomacy, and I was stuck in the middle, between her and his crushing, iron fist.”

  Amelia sat back. Had Duncan protected his mother against his father’s brutality?

  Not wishing to provoke him any further than she had already, Amelia waited a moment for his anger to cool.

  “My father was a warrior, too,” she said in an effort to calm him, “but he could also be kind. He believed in peace.”

  “He was a soldier, Amelia. He fought and he kill ed.”

  She shuddered, for she had never thought of her father in that light, nor had she ever imagined him actual y killing a man. She did not want to imagine it now. “He fought for what he believed in.”

  “As do I, lass, and for that reason, I cannot let your fiancé live.”

  The comment struck her hard, like a punch in the stomach.

  Alas, when Duncan had mentioned how he once tried to stand between his mother and his father’s iron fist, Amelia thought she might be able to draw him away from his murderous quest. But looking into his eyes now and seeing the fury that dwelled there, she knew he could not be persuaded.

  «Will you deliver me to Moncrieffe Castle?” she asked, needing to know how all of this would play out. “I know we are traveling in that direction, but even if Richard has left the castle and gone elsewhere, will you leave me there in the earl’s care? The earl was a friend of my father’s. Wouldn’t it be best if—”

  “Nay!” Duncan said harshly, facing her. “I will not leave you anywhere! Not while your fiancé still lives.”

  He breathed deeply for a moment, as if struggling to control his anger; then he moved around the fire. “You should sleep, lass, but I’m awake now, so I’ll sit against the stone and keep watch.”

  He sat down, picked up the flask he’d left in the grass, but it was empty, so he tossed it onto the pile of saddlebags.

  Shivering from a sudden chill in the air, Amelia lay down again and wrapped the fur around her. She closed her eyes and wondered miserably if she would ever feel sure of anything again.

  * * *

  The lass wanted him to spare Richard Bennett’s life. How disappointed she was going to be when he ended it.

  No, it would be much worse than that. She would see him as the savage that he truly was. She would be repulsed by the blood on his hands, and the stench of death and despair that followed him everywhere. She would loathe him, far more than she did now.

  He should not have tried to slake his lust for her tonight. If he’d been listening to his brains instead of his ball s, he would have kept her at a safe distance—perhaps even bound and gagged the entire time. He should not have revealed anything of himself to her. She knew too much as it was.

  What was he to do, then? he wondered wretchedly as he watched her final y drift off to sleep. Let Richard Bennett live for the sake of her courtly, idealistic principles about order and justice? Let him continue to rape, murder, and destroy?

  Duncan tipped his head back against the standing stone and stared up at the sky. If only he could feel some sense of peace again, or even hope to feel it one day in the future. Not long ago, he thought he would achieve it when Bennett was dead. all he felt now, however, was a heavy yoke of doubt and a deep, unfathomable emptiness.

  He thought of his real mother then—the whore he never knew because she’d died giving birth to him—and the bishop who’d been slaughtered for his opinions on the matter of Duncan’s existence in the world as a bastard child.

  That bishop should have known better than to pay insult to Duncan’s father. He’d ended up without a head.

  Perhaps this was Duncan’s father’s legacy and a continued punishment for his sins—a life of war and wretchedness for his doomed son who had inherited his wrath. all good deeds were rewarded, Duncan supposed, and all sinners were eventual y escorted to hell .

  * * *

  Hours later, the sound of footsteps swishing through the grass startled Duncan awake. He had fall en asleep, sitting up against the stone. His gaze darted to Amelia. She was resting quietly, wrapped in the fur.

  Shaking off the heavy haze of slumber, he sat up.

  Everything was as it should be. The bags were untouched.

  Turner was nearby. But then Duncan heard the faint whisper of footsteps again.

  Slowly, with careful, hushed movements, he reached for his axe and closed his grip around the well -worn handle. If the wolf had returned to make a meal of them, he would not think twice. He would kill her. He would do what was necessary to protect Amelia.

  He rose to his feet and moved without a sound around the ashes in the fire pit. The stars were all gone now, the sky a deathly black. Even the air was thick with the suffocating aroma of blood and doom.

  The footsteps grew closer, and he moved forward like a cat stalking its prey. His gaze traveled from east to west, searching the landscape. He’d never felt more attuned to danger. He would protect Amelia, even at the cost of his own life.

  The visitor appeared then, illuminated suddenly by the moon, which emerged from behind a wispy cloud.

  “Elliott,” Duncan said, lowering the axe to his side. “What are you doing back here? Where’s your father?”

  “He stayed with the flock,” the boy said. “But I ran away. I followed you. I stalked you.”

  Duncan frowned. “What do you mean, you stalked me?

  Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because I know who you are. You’re the Butcher, and you’re a vicious killer.”

  A hot, burning star from the sky dropped into the pit of Duncan’s stomach. He wanted to disagree, to say he was no such thing, but he could not speak. At least not those words.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Elliott said, drawing his sword. “Then I’ll be a hero, just like you are.”

  Duncan shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Elliott. Put down the sword. Go back to your father and drive your flock to market.”

  “Nay, I want to take your head to London.” He raised the sword and shouted a wild cry for justice, then dashed forward.

  Duncan reacted on instinct. The boy came at him, and he swung his axe.

  To defend myself. To protect my identity. To save Amelia.

  Elliott’s head flew threw the air, spinning like a ball kicked by a boy in a stable yard.…

  The wolf watched with indifference from the crest of the hill , her tongue hanging out while she panted.

  “Fook!”

  Duncan startled awake and crawled away from the stone as fast as he could. He couldn’t breathe! His stomach was churning with a sickening fire that was burning his guts. He crawled through the grass, needing to expel the contents of his stomach, but his body only heaved violently with a dry and pointless purge of emptiness.

  “Duncan, what is it?”

  He felt Amelia’s hands on his back and tried to tell himself it was not real. It had not happened. It was only a dream.

  Elliott was not dead. The boy had not followed him here.

  He put a hand on his forehead and collapsed onto his back. “Ah, Jesus.”

  “What happened?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It was a dream.” He said the words aloud, compellingly, to convince himself.

  He was sweating,
gasping for air.

  It was a dream. It did not happen.

  Amelia cradled his head on her lap and pushed his hair away from his face. “It’s all right now. It’s over.”

  It took a long time for his heart to stop pounding, and when it final y did, he stared up at the sky but quickly closed his eyes and struggled against the unbearable memory of the dream.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following morning, Duncan said very little. Amelia looked across the fire at him and felt as if she were looking at a stranger. He was exactly that, she supposed, regardless of the fact that he’d held her and kissed her and almost made love to her the night before. She wished she could push it from her mind, but the desire still lingered in her blood this morning like a treacherous fever, which made no sense.

  How could she feel such pleasure with this man, who had kidnapped her and refused to restore her freedom by delivering her to safety? Despite her protestations, he still had every intention of killing Richard, and she could not understand such a hunger for violence and bloodshed. That was why the civilized world had courts of law—to decide whether a man was guilty of a crime, and to assign the proper punishment. This hunting and stalking approach—ending in the bloody slaughter of another human being—was barbaric. It was outside the realm of her understanding.

  Nevertheless, her insides still burned with something. An eager, aching lust that shamed her. She swore to herself that she would do her best to conquer it.

  * * *

  That night, Duncan decided it would be best to keep his distance from Amelia. As a result, they ate in silence around the fire and when she tried to make conversation, he told her he had no interest in pointless talk. The truth was, it was simply too difficult to listen to the cadence of her voice, nor did it do him any good to watch the enticing movement of her lips when she spoke.