Riding astride allowed her to feel every fluid shift of the horse’s rolling gait between her thighs. She didn’t have to fret about tumbling off in front of a gaggle of giggling debutantes or accidentally spooking the horse with the gaudy plume of ostrich feathers glued to the oversized brim of her borrowed bonnet. While perched on his broad back like some conquering queen of old, it was almost possible to pretend the magnificent stallion was under her control.
Unfortunately, the stallion was suffering no such delusion. He knew exactly who his master was. The second they reached an open stretch of moor and Jamie drove his heels into the horse’s sleek flanks, the beast took off as if winged. Emma tightened her grip on Jamie’s waist and buried her face against his broad back, silently praying she wouldn’t go sailing off and be trampled into dust beneath the hooves of his men’s horses.
At least Jamie was wearing a shirt beneath his leather vest today. If not, she would have been forced to lace her hands over the smooth, warm contours of his naked abdomen. As it was, she could still feel the tantalizing shift of finely honed muscle beneath the worn cambric of the garment.
Only when their mount slowed to a walk did she dare to lift her head and open her eyes. She sucked in a panicked wheeze, almost wishing she’d kept them shut. The horse was picking its way along a narrow shelf of rock more suited to the nimble hooves of a goat. On their left was a sheer wall of stone stretching as high as the eye could see and on their right was… well… nothing.
Before she could slam her eyes shut again, her fear was eclipsed by wonder. Although the snow-capped crags of Ben Nevis still towered over them in majestic splendor, they had climbed to a dizzying height, which gave them a breathtaking view of the rambling foothills and rolling moors below. The highest towers of the earl’s stronghold were still visible at the base of the foothills like the spires from some ancient fairy tale castle. A single kestrel wheeled against a sky so bright and blue it hurt Emma’s eyes to look upon it. But it would have pained her even more to look away.
“What a glorious view!” she breathed, unable to contain her awe. “Why, it’s like stealing a peek at heaven itself!”
Jamie’s only response was a surly grunt.
“And just where are we headed on this fine spring day?”
“Up.”
She glared daggers at his back. “You know, I’ve always heard the Scots were a contentious lot, eager for any excuse to start a brawl or a war.”
Jamie grunted again, doing little to disabuse her of that notion.
“So just what did the Hepburns do to prompt this ridiculous feud of yours?” she asked. “Steal one of your sheep?”
“No,” he replied curtly. “Our castle.”
Chapter Ten
EMMA’S MOUTH FELL OPEN in astonishment. She twisted around on the horse to steal another wondering look at the soaring towers of the earl’s keep only to discover they had vanished beneath a stray wisp of cloud. “Do you mean to say Hepburn Castle was once…”
“Aye. Sinclair Castle,” Jamie finished for her.
As the narrow path widened and they left the edge of the cliff behind for a rock-strewn meadow, his words stirred her imagination in a manner she hadn’t expected. Had the winds of fate blown in a different direction, it might have been Jamie bringing a bride home to the imposing stone halls of the castle. She could almost see him standing tall and proud before the altar of the abbey, a ceremonial plaid draped over one broad shoulder, his eyes glowing with pride as he watched his bride walk down that long aisle toward his waiting arms.
She could see him sweeping her up in his powerful embrace and striding through the doorway of the tower bedchamber where generations of his ancestors had come to claim their brides. See him gently laying her back on the satin coverlet and lowering his lips to hers, kissing her tenderly, yet passionately, as his hands sifted through the silky softness of the copper-tinted curls spilling over the—
“Longshanks,” Jamie muttered, mercifully yanking her out of her alarming daydream. “Clan Hepburn made an alliance with Longshanks—your own Edward I—at the end of the thirteenth century when he tried to crown himself king of all Scotland. The Hepburns pledged homage to him but Clan Sinclair refused so the bastards were able to use English swords to drive us out of our own castle. If a handful of my ancestors hadn’t managed to escape through a secret tunnel in the dungeons and head for the highest reaches of the mountain, the name Sinclair would have been wiped from the history of the Highlands and long forgotten by now.
“Then during the Forty-five,” he said, referring to the conflict that had devastated Scotland and its Highlanders less than a century ago, “the Hepburns took the Crown’s side once again while Clan Sinclair fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie.” He snorted. “We Sinclairs never could resist a losing cause.”
“So you’ve been nursing a grudge for over five centuries now? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”
The sarcastic note in his voice ripened. “We might have been a wee bit more inclined to forgive them for booting us out of our own castle if they hadn’t tried to annihilate us at every turn since then. We were forced into raiding to put bread on our tables… and in the mouths of our babes.”
It had never occurred to Emma that Jamie might have a wife and perhaps even children waiting for his return in some humble crofter’s hut at the top of that mountain. The thought made her feel oddly hollow inside.
“Is that why you raid?” she asked, choosing her words with care. “To feed your family?”
“My men are my family. Their clans pledged their fealty to Clan Sinclair—and to its chieftain—long before they were born. They’ve had to spend most of their lives hiding in these hills and poaching off the earl’s lands while he and his ilk try to hunt them down like dogs. They don’t have wives or children to warm their hearths. For that matter, most of them don’t even have hearths because the Hepburn has made damn sure they’re never able to stay in one place long enough to settle down. They may lack the manners and polish of your bridegroom and the other gentlemen of your acquaintance but any one of them would gladly lay down his life for me should the need arise.”
His words gave Emma pause. She had never known that degree of loyalty. Not even from her own family.
“What about the grandfather the earl mentioned back at the abbey? Is he the chieftain of your clan—the one who sent you to abduct me?”
Jamie’s laugh had a rueful edge. “If my grandfather knew what I was doing at the moment, he’d probably try to tan my hide. He wasn’t very happy when I left St. Andrews and came back to the mountain to stay four years ago. He always wanted something different for me. Something more. He knew there would never be anything more for me here than trying to elude the noose the Hepburn was determined to slip over my neck.”
“Which might be easier to do if you’d stop committing crimes… like, oh… I don’t know… kidnapping the man’s bride.”
Jamie shook his head. “It wouldn’t make one whit of difference. I’ve had a price on my head since the day I was born. My life has never been worth anything more than what the Hepburn has been willing to pay for it.”
“Why does he despise you so much?”
Jamie hesitated a moment before replying. “I’m the last direct descendant of the Sinclair chieftains. If he can rid the world of me, the Hepburns will have won and he’ll be able to die a happy mon.”
Emma frowned, still unable to mesh his impressions of the earl with her own. “Just what did you study while you were away at university? Sheep rustling? Bride snatching?”
“I rather fancied Kitten Kicking,” he drawled. “But my most satisfying class by far was Ravishing Overinquisitive Maidens.”
Emma snapped her mouth shut, but curiosity quickly overcame her caution. “After getting a glimpse of what the enlightened world has to offer, wasn’t it difficult to come back to… this?” she asked, waving a hand at the wilderness surrounding them.
“No, lass, the hard part was stayin
g away.”
Emma studied the rugged vista, which in a single sweep of her gaze embraced rocky slopes, snow-capped peaks, open stretches of moorland and the distant pewter shimmer of a deep and ancient loch. It was a cruel and unforgiving land where a single careless mistake might kill you. But there was still no denying the echo of longing its wild and windswept beauty stirred in her own heart.
She sighed. Jamie’s words had only deepened her confusion. “Just who am I supposed to believe is the villain of this piece? The self-professed outlaw who stole me from my own wedding at gunpoint? Or the dear old man who has shown me and my family nothing but generosity and kindness?”
“Believe whatever you like, lass. ’Tis of no import to me.”
Somehow Jamie’s indifference cut deeper than any of his jibes. “Well, if you think the earl is going to hand over the castle his family has held for over five centuries in exchange for me, I’m afraid you’ve greatly overestimated both my charms and his devotion to them.”
Jamie was silent for so long she was afraid he was trying to figure out the kindest way to agree with her. When he finally spoke, his voice was even gruffer than before. “The castle was just the first thing the Hepburns stole from us, not the most valuable.”
With that, he kicked the horse into a brisk canter, making further conversation impossible.
IAN HEPBURN BURST THROUGH the door of his great-uncle’s study, then wheeled around to slam the door behind him. He gave the brass key in the lock a savage twist and backed away from the door, barely resisting the urge to shove a piece of furniture in front of it—a Hepplewhite chair perhaps or the massive twelve-drawer secretary his uncle had ordered from Madrid. If he had bricks, mortar and a trowel at his disposal, he would have considered sealing the door like the entrance to some ancient Egyptian tomb.
His ears were still ringing from the cacophony he had fled, but the study itself was blessedly quiet. If he was seeking a haven, he had chosen well. His uncle had spared no expense on his part and no effort on the part of others to create a chamber that could rival any Parisian salon or Mayfair mansion in its beautifully appointed elegance.
The earl might seek to impress the local populace by wearing a traditional kilt and plaid to his wedding but all traces of their unfashionable Scots heritage had been abolished from this room. There were no crossed claymores with tarnished blades hanging on the wall, no moth-eaten tartans draping the chairs, no ancient shields embellished with the Hepburn coat of arms on proud display.
From the plush Aubusson carpet beneath Ian’s feet to the cream-painted panels of the wainscoting to the modern arched windows that had replaced the mullioned ones, the room reflected the tastes of a man who valued the display of his own wealth and power above any sentimental attachment to heritage or history.
The three-tiered chandelier hanging from the center of the domed ceiling had only recently adorned the palatial ballroom of a French aristocrat who had followed his entire family to the guillotine. His uncle had chuckled when the enormous crate containing it had arrived, saying any fool not clever enough to outwit the peasants of Paris deserved to lose both his head and his chandelier.
His uncle had always treated the chamber more like a throne room than a study; a place where he could summon those beneath him—and that included just about everyone of his acquaintance, including Ian—into his exalted presence.
Since Ian hadn’t been summoned, he shouldn’t have been surprised his uncle chose to ignore his rather unconventional arrival. The earl was standing in front of the massive window framing the majestic crags of Ben Nevis, his hands locked at the small of his back and his feet splayed as if the study were the foredeck of some mighty ship and he its captain. He might play the role of kindly, doddering old man when it suited his purposes—such as when courting a new bride—but here in this sanctuary, he still ruled with an iron fist.
Ian had seen him in that exact posture innumerable times before: standing in front of that very window and gazing up at the mountain as if trying to understand why he could not bring it under his dominion when he had so easily conquered the rest of the world. Ian had long suspected his uncle would trade all of his influence and every priceless treasure he had accumulated over the years for one chance to rule those peaks and the men wild and arrogant enough to call them home.
One man in particular.
Ian cleared his throat. His uncle did not budge. Ian could feel resentment rising like bile at the back of his throat, its taste both bitter and familiar. Despite the man’s advanced age, Ian knew his uncle could still hear a footman drop a fork on the carpet from two rooms away.
He approached the window, barely managing to restrain his irritation at being treated like the lowliest of servants. “A word, my lord, if you please?”
“And what would that word be?” his uncle replied mildly, his gaze still fixed on the snow-capped peak of the mountain. “Disaster? Catastrophe? Calamity?”
“Marlowe!” Ian spat the name as if it were a mouthful of poison. “If I were you, I’d insist that Sinclair get back here immediately and take the entire family off your hands.”
“Surely you’re not talking about my bride’s charming relations?”
“Charming? Not at the moment, I fear. Her mother and sisters have been weeping and wailing at the top of their lungs ever since Miss Marlowe was taken. Of course young Ernestine did manage to stop sniveling and sobbing just long enough to corner me in the drawing room and suggest that you might not be the only Hepburn in need of a bride.” He shuddered. “In the meantime, her father has taken it upon himself to polish off nearly every decanter of brandy and port in the castle. It seems he believes it was somehow his fault his beloved daughter was abducted by some savage Scotsman. If he finds the casks of whisky in the dungeons,” Ian warned darkly, “I fear he’ll drown himself in the bottom of one.”
His uncle continued to contemplate the mountain as if pondering some scheme to wrest it from the hands of the Almighty Himself. “You’ve always possessed the charm and cunning of a diplomat,” he said without bothering to hide the note of scorn in his voice. “I’m sure I can trust you to soothe their ruffled feathers.”
Ian drew close enough to study his uncle’s implacable profile, his frustration growing. “I can’t very well reproach them for their concern. It’s not as if they’ve misplaced their favorite teakettle. Sinclair has had Miss Marlowe in his clutches for over twenty-four hours now and I don’t have to remind you how utterly ruthless the man can be. I pray you’ll forgive my impertinence, my lord, but her family doesn’t understand why you haven’t summoned the law. And if you must know, neither do I.”
“Because I am the law!” his uncle thundered, turning on Ian with the ferocity of a man half his age. His eyes in their drooping pockets of flesh were no longer bleary but glittering with fury. “And everyone between here and Edinburgh knows it, including that impudent bastard Sinclair. Nothing short of the murder of one of their own would entice the redcoats into getting involved in our feud. As far as they’re concerned, we’re all just a passel of unruly children fighting over a favorite toy. They’re perfectly content to pat us on the head and send us on our way in the hope we’ll eventually annihilate one another so they can step in and take all the toys.”
“Then just what do you intend to do?”
The earl went back to gazing up at the mountain as if the outburst had never occurred. “At the moment? Nothing. I refuse to give Sinclair the satisfaction of knowing he’s succeeded in his petty little plot to best me. If I hadn’t already paid her father that ridiculously extravagant settlement, half of which I suspect he’s already squandered at the gaming table, I’d be tempted to let Sinclair keep her. It’s not as if I have any great emotional attachment to the girl. I could probably find a new bride within the fortnight. All it would take is another trip to London and another desperate, cash-strapped father.”
The earl had been Ian’s guardian since his parents had perished in a carriage accident when h
e was nine. He’d had ample time to armor himself against his great-uncle’s callousness and had long ago stopped yearning for any sign of warmth or affection. But even he couldn’t quite hide his flinch at the man’s heartless words.
Knowing instinctively that the most effective appeal wouldn’t address the girl’s welfare but his uncle’s pride, Ian stepped closer and lowered his voice. “It will hardly reflect well on you if your bride is raped or killed by those savages. It won’t be Sinclair and his clan they blame, my lord, but you. And when the news reaches London—and mark my word, it eventually will—not even the most desperate papa will be persuaded to turn his daughter over to your care. Not when you can’t promise to keep her alive until the wedding night.”
After saying his piece, Ian held his breath, waiting for his uncle to once again lash out at him in rage.
But for once the old man actually seemed to be considering his counsel. He pursed his thin lips briefly before saying, “Then we wait for Sinclair’s next move, just as I had planned. Since you seem to have made such a dreadful bungle of it, I shall attend to her parents myself and tell them our hands are tied until we receive a ransom demand from the wretch. Only then can we determine how to proceed.”
Galvanized by a fresh sense of purpose, his uncle retrieved his walking stick from the brass can in the corner and marched from the room. Ian started to follow but before he could turn away from the window, his own gaze was caught and held by the magnificence of the view. Twilight was just beginning to descend from the heavens. The gathering shadows cast a gauzy lavender veil over the topmost peak of the mountain.
Unlike his uncle, Ian sought to avoid that view whenever possible. When he had first come to live at Hepburn Castle, he had been a pale, thin, bookish boy of ten who secretly dreamed of roaming the mountain’s crags and hollows, as wild and free as one of the eagles soaring over its majestic crest. But his uncle had quickly wearied of having a child underfoot and packed him off to school. Most of Ian’s holidays and summers had been spent at the earl’s town house in London in the indifferent care of one butler or another.
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