To Avenge Her Highland Warrior

by Samantha Holt

  “Go away,” she grumbled. She slumped back onto her front and covered her face.

  He had the strangest urge to smile. His lips twitched and he fought to control them. Her mood could be attributed to her illness or her status as his prisoner, but he knew with worrisome certainty that the woman did not rise easily in the morning. How he knew that, he knew not. Her farfetched claims could not be believed.

  “Ye need to eat,” he said again, prompting another groan.

  “Not hungry.”

  “If ye dinnae get up and eat, I shall force it down yer throat.”

  She jerked upright at this and glared at him. He failed to quash a triumphant smile. He was beginning to understand what drove this woman and a challenge always got a rise from her.

  “Ye wouldnae.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Shall we see about that?”

  She mimicked him, folding her arms and lifting her nose. “Ye couldnae.”

  Jaw tight, he eyed her for several moments. Did he really wish to manhandle her into eating?

  “Ye shall ail further if ye dinnae eat.”

  “Why should ye care? Ye dinnae know me remember. Ye dinnae even care for me. Leave me be, Logan.”

  “So ye can plot yer escape? I think not. Eat or I shall force ye.”

  He gestured to the tray of fish, bread and sliced meat. Anger made his skin hot. How she thought he would believe he loved her once was beyond him. She was the most aggravating woman he had ever met. Not that he had met many—or at least he did not remember meeting many. The women in the keep were docile, obedient creatures. Some had taken a liking to him and while he occasionally enjoyed their company, he did not find any of them summoned more than indifference.

  Unlike this woman. He could not deny her pursed lips and fiery expression held great appeal.

  Lorna made a show of clamping her mouth shut and glared at him. He had his doubts that he could physically force the food down her throat but... He smirked to himself. He could humiliate her into eating.

  Her eyes widened, big blue pools that struck him in the chest again as he stepped over. He brushed aside any doubt and grabbed her arm. “If ye shallnae eat here, mayhap ye shall do better in company.”

  “What?”

  She let out a cry of protest as he dragged her to her feet. Grip firm, he tugged her out of the room and onto the balcony.

  “Ye cannae do this,” she hissed, trying to pry his fingers from her arm. “Yer hurting me. Logan, let me go.”

  “’Tis for yer own good,” he muttered and, undaunted, he dragged her down the stairs and into the busy hall.

  Servants and household members alike turned to stare. Lorna’s cries of protest had silenced and even her struggles ceased. Her soft flesh giving way under his fingers sent a mild stab of remorse through him, but he shoved the sensation away. This was for her own good—and his. He did not wish to be known as the man who let this noblewoman die.

  Cheeks filled with colour, she sank meekly onto the carved oak chair at the top of the table. He propped himself against the table and motioned to one of the servants to bring some food over. He poured her an ale and pushed it toward her.

  Eyes narrow, she wrapped an arm around herself—a feeble attempt to cover her scandalous state—and reached for the goblet. Lorna drained it in several gulps and Logan let a victorious smirk play on his lips.

  A young lad brought over a platter of food and an eating knife, which Logan promptly snatched away. He picked up a discarded spoon and handed her that instead.

  She eyed the platter as if it were a writhing mass of maggots rather than heavily salted pork and thick, white bread slathered in butter.

  “Once ye have eaten, ye may return to yer room.”

  “Ye mean for me to sit here—in this state—and eat?” she hissed. “Ye have lost more than yer memory. Ye’ve lost yer honour too.”

  He snorted. As far he knew he had none. Did she not realise that he was not a nobleman? He had not been tutored in honour and chivalry. A man like himself had to do what he must to survive. And at the moment, all he needed to do was ensure she lived long enough to face the laird when he returned.

  “If ye dinnae like sitting here” —he leaned in and let his gaze travel from the curves of her breasts, down to where the linen pooled in her lap— “I suggest ye eat with haste.”

  With a huff, she snatched up the bread and tore a vicious bite from it. It made him grateful she had not decided to turn her teeth upon him when he had snatched her arm. Logan observed her movements and tried not to be too pleased at the return of colour into her cheeks. Mayhap they were still heated from humiliation but he felt certain she had only needed some sustenance and a good sleep to make her well again.

  She prodded the pork with her spoon and raised a brow in his direction. “How am I meant to eat this without a knife?”

  “Use yer fingers.”

  Outrage froze her features and she bunched her hands. He braced himself for a rash movement, but she surprised him by plucking the meat up and tearing it apart with her fingers before nibbling daintily. Amusement tickled his insides and he struggled to remain stony faced. How the lass managed to look elegant while tearing apart meat with her fingers and sitting in a chemise, he knew not.

  He had to admit, however, a begrudging sense of admiration had slipped in. That sort of spirit and drive, he understood. It was one of the few things he did comprehend. Having few memories hindered a man in so many ways, every day brought new frustrations, but determination kept him from falling into despair.

  When she finished her food, she wiped her fingers primly on a napkin and stood as though she were wearing a fine gown. Something about her countenance—the proud shoulders, lifted chin, struck him as familiar, but the sensation left as quickly as it came upon him. Even though she was a small woman, her bearing certainly made her appear stronger and more powerful than she really was.

  A weaker man, he suspected, would have crumbled and released her by now.

  “If ye dinnae mind, I shall dress now.”

  He nodded slowly and motioned to Anne who had been watching wide-eyed from one corner. She scurried forwards and even took Lorna’s hand. He noted Lorna seemed to appreciate the touch, and piercing guilt sliced through him. While she might appear strong and had shown little fear, she no doubt worried about what Gillean would do to her. The laird was ruthless but would he kill a harmless lass?

  Well, almost harmless.

  The tightness in his groin as he followed the women up the stairs reminded him of the effect she had on him. Seeing that small bottom nestled against linen as she ascended did nothing to quell an increasing desire for her.

  Still, it had to be in Gillean’s best interests to ransom her rather than harm her surely?

  He paused outside the entrance to her chamber and rested against the arched stone frame of the door. Grinding his teeth, he considered her as she stopped in front of the wash bowl and turned to peer at him over her shoulder.

  “Is it not enough that ye have humiliated me? Do ye wish to watch me wash and dress too?”

  He raised a brow. “Apparently I have seen it all already.”

  “Ye have,” she answered emphatically. “But that man doesnae stand before me now.”

  Anne skipped a puzzled glance between them and stepped forward to leave. “Shall I—”

  “Nay, stay,” Lorna commanded as if she was the lady of the keep.

  Anne dropped back and Logan suppressed a smile.

  “Well?” Lorna asked. “If ye wish for a better view, mayhap ye should come closer.”

  She had no idea how tempted he was. The top of a creamy shoulder enticed him, called to him to move near and slip the rest of the linen from her. He already knew there would be a fine figure beneath that chemise. He had seen enough of her these past two days and yet, he wanted more.

  “Anne is likely more adept at helping lasses dress and bathe. I fear ye would find me too rough. So, I shall leave ye. Though
... I did a fine job when I brought ye up from the donjon, did I not, Anne?”

  Lorna gasped. “Ye bathed me?”

  “Aye.”

  She gaped for a moment before clamping her mouth shut. He spotted one small, clenched fist at her side and she turned completely from him to stare out of the window.

  The triumph felt hollow. He had taken most of her dignity from her and yet she still appeared every bit the proud, refined woman. Why did he feel the need to rile her at every turn? Something about her exasperated him.

  “Well, I shall leave ye to dress. There will be two guards outside yer door again so dinnae try anything rash. And, pray, no more attempts at burning down the keep. The laird shall not be happy with what ye have done.”

  “I have little intention of burning down the keep.” She did not face him but he heard the words were uttered through clenched teeth. “But...” Lorna twisted and eyed him demurely, “I would ask that ye allow me some fresh air. I am still unwell.”

  How true was that statement? Was she toying with him again? Her increasingly rosy cheeks and the way she held herself tall contradicted any claims of illness but could she have recovered so quickly? He had seen how sick she had been.

  “Nay,” he said sharply. Ill or not, he did not trust her one whit.

  “Pray, Logan, I cannae go far. Ye have guards everywhere. What could I possibly do?”

  Much, he suspected, but nevertheless a fraction of his stony exterior softened and he sighed.

  “She could accompany me to the gardens,” Anne added helpfully, garnering a glare from him.

  “Very well, but I shall have a guard come with ye. Try anything,” he warned, “and I shall throw ye back in the donjon.”

  Lorna nodded meekly but as he shut the door, he caught a glimmer of victory in her eyes. He groaned inwardly. Hell fire, he had just allowed himself to be manipulated. The sooner the laird returned and dealt with the woman, the better.

  Chapter Six

  Heat still burned Lorna’s cheeks when she glided through the Great Hall. The tables had been cleared away and it was not full of people like it had been at the morning meal, but several men-at-arms lingered and all eyed her as she went past. In spite of now being dressed—in one of her old gowns no less—and a borrowed mantle, it felt as though she might as well be naked. Everyone had seen enough of her in that thin chemise to have a fine idea of what she might look like undressed.

  Not that they would imagine her scar-riddled back.

  Had Logan seen it when he had bathed her? It hadn’t occurred to her why she had woken up clean and free of the stench of the donjon. Being bathed by a maid did not bother her greatly though only her personal maid had ever seen her scars, but Logan... Did he think her repulsive? Even when they had made love he had never seen them.

  Still, she would not be cowed. Head held high, she swept out of the hall, followed by Anne and a guard by the name of Ronan. He was a young lad—around her age mayhap—with a strong, smooth jaw and a fine build. When he flashed her a grin, she rolled her eyes. She imagined he courted many lasses.

  Lorna did not need directions to the gardens. She used to spend much time tending to them. Her husband had neglected the castle and even the herb garden, preferring to drink and feast. It had never occurred to him that without the gardens, they could not feast so well. But he left her alone while she busied herself with tending to the plants so much of her married life had been spent digging around in the dirt.

  An ache formed in her throat as she recalled how Logan watched her sometimes, longing in his expression. While she had been married, he said nothing of his attachment to her and even after Walter’s death he did not admit to loving her until they had spent that one night together. Frozen in a prison of fear, she had never admitted anything. And then it had been too late.

  Perhaps it still was. Logan had only ever been chivalrous toward her. She barely comprehended his earlier behaviour. His memory loss had changed him so drastically her thoughts of saving him in some way seemed foolish now. If she could only see something of the old Logan in him, she would know there was hope.

  At the present, hope had almost deserted her. She saw no way of escaping. Even the old route through the back of the castle was now guarded and once Gillean returned, the best outcome would be a quick and painless death. The worst would be months of torture and imprisonment. That was the kind of man her brother by marriage was.

  Offering a grateful smile to Anne, whose outrage at her treatment had forced the maid to stand up for her, she knelt by the small lemon balm plant and fingered its bright green leaves. She had planted it herself and it was growing well. If she stayed here much longer, her son would be grown too. Every day the babe looked more and more like his father, with a soft tuft of hair and a surprisingly serious expression for an infant.

  A sob threatened to burst free, and she drew in a deep breath. Tears were futile. They never helped. They had not lessened her husband’s anger nor saved her from the grief of losing Logan. And they would not return his memory either.

  If she pushed hard enough, could she make him remember her?

  Mentally shaking herself, she straightened and offered a cautious smile to Ronan, who stood by the castle wall, and found he smiled back. Had he been one of the men who had fought her own? He certainly didn’t look the vicious warrior she thought all of Gillean’s men must be.

  “Have ye worked for Gillean for long?” she asked.

  “Aye, some ten summers.”

  “And how long have ye been at Kilcree?”

  His smile expanded. “Logan warned me ye were a canny lass but he didnae say ye were inquisitive too.”

  “If I am to stay here, I should like to know all that is happening. This was once my keep, ye know?”

  “I do indeed. Many have heard of Lady Lorna who brought her men up against Gillean’s. Ye must inspire men greatly for them to offer themselves up so easily. I hear ‘twas quite the bloodbath.”

  So he had not been at the battle. That comforted her somewhat. The thought of him shedding her men-at-arms’ blood repulsed her.

  “It was an unwarranted attack. Gillean threatened to kill myself and my brother. And Logan too.” She watched for a reaction.

  His brows rose. “The laird trusts Logan more than any man here. Why would he try to kill him?”

  “Because Logan used to work for me. He tried to protect me.”

  “He was always under Gillean’s command, was he not?”

  “By default, but all the men were loyal to me. Logan would never willingly work for that man.”

  One dark eyebrow rose. “But I would? Ye have me marked as a son of the devil, do ye not, lass?”

  Lorna let her brow furrow. She had not intended to insult the man, yet he took it lightly. Did he not realise the character of the man he worked for? “Men must work, I understand that, but for such a man?”

  “Ach, he pays well and what else would ye have me do? Dig around in the dirt like a farmer?”

  Lorna pondered this. She understood many simply worked where they could. She had never worried about her livelihood. Her parents had owned much and Walter was wealthy. Her own dowry had been sizeable, but Gillean now held that. Still, her cousin had a fine keep and she and her son had been well looked after. What would she do if she was pushed? Would she work for such a man? Was that what drove Logan? She supposed he felt he had no other choice and even the old Logan had been ambitious, determined to rise above his status as peasant.

  It had been so long since she had thought of him as a peasant, it did not occur to her some segment of his past might still drive him. Mayhap some of the old Logan still existed.

  Lorna fingered the plant once more and came to standing. Her slipper caught on a root and she tumbled into Ronan’s waiting arms. The man’s quick reaction startled her and she straightened hurriedly, smoothing down her skirt.

  “I thank ye.”

  “I am here to protect ye, after all.”

  Lorna peer
ed up at him. “I thought ye were here to ensure I didnae cause any trouble or try to escape.”

  “I dinnae see what sort of trouble a fine lass like ye could cause.”

  She smiled dryly. “Ye’d be surprised. And Logan seems to think me capable of much deception.”

  He shook his head. “Logan trusts no one, not even pretty lasses.”

  Lorna felt her cheeks heat. Why she responded to his compliments, she knew not, though few men bothered to flatter her. Even Logan had seldom talked of her looks and now he appeared indifferent to her. Aye, she thought herself fair enough but there were plenty of younger, more beautiful women around. Mayhap she relished his reaction because, with the exception of Anne, Ronan was the first to treat her as anything other than a prisoner.

  The notion she could use his admiration to her advantage struck but she swiftly swiped it away. Logan might think her capable of such wickedness, but even she would not stoop so low as to use her body to bargain for her freedom.

  Or would she? Never returning to her son was unacceptable, yet until she had lost all hope, she refused to turn herself into nothing better than a whore and prove Logan right.

  “Ye need not waste yer words, Ronan. I am no young maiden seeking flattery.”

  “I only speak the truth, my lady.”

  “I am a prisoner here, if ye remember. It doesnae matter if ye lie or mistreat me.”

  “I cannae claim to be a well bred gentleman, Lady Lorna, but I shall do my best not to mistreat ye. I cannae speak for the other men though.”

  He peered around as if those very men might pounce on her at any moment and she shuddered. Cursing her stupidity for the hundredth time, she questioned how she’d let herself get into this situation. Grief and anger had blinded her. Her need for revenge had burned a hole in her heart. Now Logan was alive she did not know what she should do. She still hungered for Gillean’s death. He had turned the one man who had accepted her for all she was against her.

  “Do ye mind if I take a turn around the gardens?” she asked, keen to walk off her frustration.

  “I am but yer humble servant,” Ronan said with a twinkle in his eye.