Highland Pull (Highland Destiny: 2)

by LAURA HARNER

  Lissa felt something hard beneath her bottom, and having watched him with the lass four years before, she knew just what that bulge was. She held very still. Her only hope of being allowed to stay was to convince him she did not care, that Agnes was wrong.

  “N-no, Alex, ‘tis nothing. We were friends growing up, but I know my proper place. I would prefer to stay here, I doona wish to go to Edinburgh, I doona wish to leave home.”

  He pulled gently on the hair wrapped around his hand until she was forced to look at him, and she knew all was lost. He probed her with his intense gaze, the one that had always been able to read her every thought. His black eyes flickered.

  “So I see how it is. You would lie to me, your oldest friend? You have come to care for me in the manner of a woman, no longer as you would care for a brother. You thought to hide this from me, thought mayhap I didna have a right to know?”

  Then he cupped his hand over the back of her head and lowered his lips to hers, lightly grazing her mouth, just a promise of a kiss, before he pulled back to look at her. Lissa thought her heart might just pound clear of her chest, tears welled in her eyes, and her tongue flicked her lips where he had touched them.

  With a groan, Alex lowered his head once more and pressed his kisses to her lips, and Lissa pressed back, unsure of what she was doing. She wrapped her arms around his neck and wove her fingers into his hair. Her lips melted against his, she let him mold her, teach her, unable to stop, even when she heard him moan.

  He pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth and her lips parted slightly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she pushed back with hers, aroused by the intimacy, hungry to have more of him. Without ever breaking their kiss, Alex lowered her to the ground and covered her with his big hard body, and Lissa had shivered with the promise of what was to come.

  They were both breathing hard, and Alex pressed his forehead to hers, and for the first time in her life, Lissa felt powerful. With a woman’s sure knowledge, she realized this big strong Laird wanted her beyond reason. She could tell he had decided to send her away for both of their sakes, but had found himself unable to keep from kissing her. She wanted more.

  “Alex,” she whispered, “Take me now. Doona send me away without giving me this night.”

  “Sweet Lissa, how can I do that to you? You will find a man to marry, even if you are a bit long in the tooth,” he teased. He continued more seriously, “He will love you as I canna.” He smiled wryly. “I will do my best not to kill him for knowing he touches you.”

  Although he was propped on his elbows, she could feel his heavy shaft as it pressed between her legs. Every bit of her womanly instincts told her he wanted her, told her he was near the point of no return, told her to arch her body and press her breasts to his bare chest. When she did, he groaned.

  “My little minx, are you deliberately trying to goad me?” he asked, using that deep look into her soul once again. His breathing became ragged. “By Danu, Lissa—” He lowered his mouth to hers once again. Then he was kissing her, and she thought she might be dying. This must surely be a gift from the angels and they would depart with her to heaven.

  He pulled back from their kiss and stroked her hair, then her face, as he gazed into her eyes. The he whispered something so quietly, she wondered if she had really heard him at all.

  “I love you, lass. I always have. Forgive me.”

  Although the memory was only seven years ago, she could recount every moment, every feeling, and every breath she had taken, until the moment Alex had said those words. Then she remembered nothing more about that night.

  ****

  Randi knocked on the door to Lissa’s chamber. As she entered, she was surprised by the size of the room and the quality of the furnishings. This was not how she’d pictured most fourteenth century lady’s maids lived. She added it as one more question that needed answered.

  “I received a letter from Gabhran today. He believes he and the men will be home soon.” Lissa looked pleased, but before she could ask questions, Randi continued, “He wishes me to raise his son to be laird should I be pregnant and trouble befall him.”

  Lissa puzzled for a moment. “Miranda, are you pregnant?” she asked, her eyes full of genuine hope.

  Randi looked at Lissa for a long moment, as all the little details clicked in to place in her head. Long ash-blonde hair, twenty-three or four, slender build, heart-shaped face, violet eyes. Lissa. Alysone. She would keep her speculations to herself for now, but one thing needed clearing.

  Miranda sat beside Lissa on the window seat and placed her hands on top of the young woman’s own hands as they covered her gently swollen abdomen. “Are you?” she asked tenderly.

  The room was quiet a very long time, except for the sounds of gentle tears.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The battle was all but won. His battle commander wisely recognizing certain defeat rushed the Comyn from the field, and most of his force had followed. A few men remained to cover their flanks and the Comyn retreated, determined to fight Robert another day. There were three separate camps surrounding the Comyn’s men, plus numerous smaller bands of warriors patrolling the area, leaving only one avenue of retreat.

  Robert had been unwilling to completely eliminate the Comyn, his own forces were not sufficiently large to defeat the King of England’s armies, and he held out hope that if he showed mercy, then a negotiated settlement between he and the Comyn could unite their forces against England. After all, they were of the same bloodline.

  The MacLachlan camp was on the northernmost border of the territory, and it was a ride of more than an hour to reach the Worthington Manor, but he needed to pay his respects to Ian’s father before he and his men departed for the Highlands. It had been nearly another fortnight since his last message home. Gabhran would remain a few more days, long enough to secure the area and make sure the Comyn’s men all left the area. Then he would return for his Miranda. He could feel a piece of her love within his heart, and it swelled with love at the thought of her, at seeing her face, holding her in his arms.

  The Worthington Clan proper consisted of the father, Thomas, Ian, his elder brother William and younger brother Stephan, and they all joined at dinner to thank Gabhran, for without his help they would have lost their land. Gabhran downplayed their thanks, and reminded them they would have done the same for him and his.

  Dinner was splendid, it was a delight to eat freshly prepared food and drink wine with his meal. After dinner the men drank port and sat about reliving the most dramatic parts of the last several weeks, each story topping the previous until the feats became absurd in the heroism displayed by the teller. Gabhran laughed often.

  As the hour grew late, Thomas offered to let the men stay in his keep, to wait until the morrow to return to their camp. Both were anxious to finish their duties, and return to the Highlands and so declined the offer of their gracious host. Gabhran wondered if Ian had taken a fancy to the maid, Lissa, for he seemed in quite the hurry to return home. He would ask him when they left his father’s lands.

  As the men stood outside the stables waiting for their horses, Thomas bid them safe travels and turned toward the keep. A metallic twang split the night, Thomas and William both fell where they stood.

  Quick as lightening, Gabhran threw himself where Ian and Stephan had been quietly talking moments before, knocking both men off their feet, and shielding them with his body. He heard the cries of the guards and the thrumming of bow strings as arrows were let fly, mixed with more of the metallic sounds made by crossbows. Bolts from the cross bows pierced his back, then a surge of energy near his chest nearly rent him in two.

  “Miranda,” he roared into the night, and then he heard and felt no more.

  ****

  Miranda woke with a start, heart hammering in her chest, unable to breath, terrified of the dream she’d just had. Gabhran had been killed, shot with arrows, his arms out flung as if he were protecting something. She tried to shake off the
dream but it wouldn’t leave her. She drew a shaky breath and rose from the bed. From her window, she saw streaks of the palest pink touching the sky, sunrise was near.

  She sat in the window seat and tried to reach for the connection she shared with Gav. When he had ridden away from her that afternoon nearly six-weeks ago, there was a part of her heart that could feel his love for her, a little piece of warmth, of joy that she had never before known. When she tried to reach that part now, it felt wrong, not exactly gone, but not there either. It terrified her.

  Since he’d been gone, there were times, especially late at night, when she thought she heard him calling her on the wind. She realized that was what had awakened her, she’d heard him calling her name.

  ****

  Ian and Stephan had both survived the assassination attempt, William and Thomas had not. The guards had rushed in as soon as the crossbows had been fired, and started aiming their arrows toward the assassins’ perches. The assassins had gotten off one more round before they’d been killed themselves. The crossbows they fired bore the Comyn’s mark, one final, desperate attempt to salvage the battle.

  Gabhran had been gravely injured when the assassins fired the second round. It took three guards to lift the unconscious highlander from Ian and Stephan and another minute to ascertain that all the blood was his. Ian frantically examined Gav, trying to determine how badly he was hurt. He yelled at the guards to send for the doctor, knowing it might well be too late by the time he arrived from the nearby village. The first bolt pierced the fleshy muscle above his shoulder blade and came out the other side, just beneath his collarbone. This was the wound that was bleeding profusely, someone stuffed a piece of cloth around the opening. Someone else removed the small pouch around his neck and tucked it into his sporran for safekeeping.

  The other bolt pierced one of the leather straps crossing his torso, nicked a rib and might have pierced his lung. If this was bleeding, then the fluid was staying inside his body. The men placed two blankets on the ground and moved Gabhran on top of them. Six large men grabbed handfuls of the blankets and carried him to the keep, where they took him into the study and laid him on a pallet the maids had hurried to place on the floor. His color was not good, and he’d not regained consciousness.

  By the time the doctor had arrived, Gav was a pale shade of gray, he’d lost a lot of blood, and the healer examined him quickly. The doctor sent Ian to the Smithy for metal shears and directed Stephan to build up the fire. When Ian returned he brought the shears requested by the doctor, plus a flat brand and a small satchel.

  “Are you sure want to proceed? His injuries are too severe and he has lost so much blood, I fear any action may hasten his already certain death.”

  Ian didn’t hesitate. “Aye, he is Druid. You do your work and I will do mine,” he replied tersely.

  Stephan’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “Brother, the man is a true warrior and he saved our lives, but consider whether ‘tis more cruel to make him face this before he crosses the veil.”

  “I said, aye, now do your work, man,” he thundered at the doctor. “Stephan, heat the blade of my knife, then put the head of the flat brand in the fire.”

  “You should be making your peace with this man,” the doctor warned before beginning. The healer pushed the first bolt all the way through so it cleared his collarbone then Ian cut the tip off with the shears and used his strong hands to remove the shaft. He recited some words then sprinkled powder from a vial in the satchel into the wound, both front and back, before he allowed the doctor to bind it securely.

  There was nothing to do for the second bolt but to pull it back out and hope the tip was not notched. A notched tip would ensure Gabhran’s death, for those blades were designed to enter cleanly and cause maximum damage if someone tried to pull it back out.

  Again, Ian took the initiative, stopping the doctor from trying to pull it straight out. He took his knife from Stephan, the blade glowing from the heat of the fire, and made an incision on either side of the entrance of the tip, widening the opening, at the same time he cauterized the fresh cut. Working quickly now, he saw that the tip of the arrowhead was lodged in a rib, but looked to have stopped before it pierced his lung. Thanks be to all the gods for small mercies.

  The other two men needed to hold Gabhran to the floor while Ian worked the razor-sharp tip lose. As soon as he pulled it free of Gav’s body, he again said the strange words and sprinkled powder into the wound. The doctor probed it once more, making sure there were no lose pieces of bone, then nodded at Ian. With a choked apology to his friend, he laid the red hot flat brand against Gabhran’s back and sealed the wound. Stephan gagged at the stench of the burning flesh, and the doctor turned away, shakily pouring each of them a glass of scotch.

  The men stayed together for the first hour before Ian sent them off, saying he would care for Gabhran through the night. Ian couldn’t bear the thought of losing Gav. They had been best friends since he’d been sent to foster at the MacLachlan’s before Gabhran’s parents died. They were closer than brothers.

  The memories washed over him as he sat on the couch and watched his friend in the firelight. When he’d arrived at the MacLachlan’s, the two boys discovered they were of an age, only ten days separating them; best friends from the start. The two of them, along with Alex, had escaped their lessons whenever possible and roamed the estate, often finding trouble together. Gav was always bigger and stronger, but never sought to make his friend feel less for their differences.

  When they were thirteen and Gav’s parents had died from influenza, Ian had returned home for a while, but the call to return to the Highlands was strong within him. It was arranged he would finish his schooling with the MacLachlan’s for the next few years, before he began his training as a Druid apprentice.

  It was the only secret he ever kept from Gav; that he was going to train with Druids on his sixteenth birthday. He was the first in his family to be accepted as an apprentice, and he could not tell anyone or risk being dismissed. Two years later when Gav had been sent to train with the Gailtry’s, all was made right in Ian’s soul when he was able to reveal he would also be trained with the Druid Master.

  The time leading up to their Druid training was filled with stupid things that young cocks do. They’d each snuck a bottle of scotch one night and taken it to the stables. They’d gotten so drunk they'd passed out in the hay, and had been violently sick the next morn. Another time they had made secret plans with a pair of sisters, maids from the village and most definitely experienced lasses. The women had enjoyed initiating the young men, and they’d lost their virginity in the woods behind the Smithy’s shop.

  Ian was startled from his reverie when Gabhran moaned, and tried to move, and Ian was on the floor beside him in an instant.

  “Miranda,” Gav managed, although it came out with a groan.

  Ian poured water between Gav’s parched lips, and told him to lie still, a completely unnecessary comment as Gabhran was already unconscious again.

  Ian resumed his place on the couch and in his memories. When Gabhran had gotten caught tupping in the courtyard, with his ladies in waiting, as he called them, they’d been sent to train with the Gailtry a few months early, both boys eager as morning jays to begin.

  As in everything else they’d ever tried, Gav was a much stronger and more talented Druid. And as always, he was gracious enough to never allow it mentioned.

  Each Druid apprentice learned universal skills before finding his or her own special gift. Ian’s strength lay in forecasting seasons and blessing crops. Gabhran had been much more skilled at healing. Tonight, Ian had drawn on his own Druid knowledge to help heal Gabhran’s wounds, administering the most basic of healing spells, using the element of fire, applying the medicinal blends before the bandages. Now, there was naught left to do but wait.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Liam looked up at the ceiling, as if expecting to find some answers there. He’d been restless, out of sorts since
he’d returned from New Orleans. It was time to focus. His father had big plans, and he needed to be sharp if he was to carry them out. Before his trip to America, he’d spent nearly every waking hour and many of his dreaming ones consumed with thoughts of Elena MacGailtry. Stupid bitch. He still couldn’t believe she’d shot him. No matter, he would have her soon, of that he was certain. Even now, he was convinced she must be his destiny. Weeks earlier, while he’d been recovering, from the buckshot, Liam had told his father about the hold Elena had over him, an obsession that started with a kiss at Beltane. Worthington senior had realized at once that she was something more than one of the scattered Druid descendants. Elena must also be part Fae. As diluted as the line must be after thousands of years, it still left Elena with a powerful ability to draw men to her. This went a long way toward explaining Liam’s obsession with her. Worthington wanted to see if he could channel Elena’s power for his own dark uses. Liam knew what his father wanted and he didn’t care, he simply felt he must possess her.

  It was time to plan her capture and seduction. She wouldn’t have gone far, he would find her at the farm. Once she was his, the Worthington’s would not only once again possess the Gailtry farm, they would discover the truth of the secrets hidden there.

  ****

  Elena was shown into the doctor’s office and sat on the examination table. The paper crackled beneath her, and her feet dangled loosely because the nurse forgot to pull out the little stepping shelf. Dr. Gabhran MacLachlan entered the room, filling the space with far more than size alone.

  “Elena, good to see you again,” he said gravely, as he said every week.

  “Doctor, why am I here?” she asked, as she asked every week.

  He stared at her, disappointment etched his familiar face.

  She stared, filled with an awful sense of déjà vu, of impending disaster.