Her prayers were not answered.
Candle smoke burned her eyes. Portia glanced about the church. Empty. Backing up, she bumped in to pews. She couldn’t escape.
Had the baron sent them?
Scottish or not, monies crossed borders.
She backed up two steps. Cold sweat broke over her, adding to her chills. Her lungs closed. Her mouth dried. Shaking, she dragged her heavy limbs backward. The men didn’t move. She looked right to the blond stalking her.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Her breath shortened. Portia spun around and raced down the nave. Her scream filled the arched abbey and chased after her. Glancing over her shoulder, she slammed in to the thick wall of a chest of another Highlander. Two strong hands gripped her by the arms and whipped her back. She clawed at his face.
“Lady Portia de Mowbray?”
Black spots danced before her eyes. The church swirled in a blend of reds, greens, blues and spreading blackness. She was going to faint. She didn’t like that.
Alec caught her before she hit the floor. “The lass made it easy. Wish all Sassenach were like this.” He swept her in to his arms.
Hidden beneath her English garb, her lush body pressed against him. Her body curved in the places men appreciated and flared at the right places. Wisps of blonde hair escaped from her braid and caressed her heart shaped face. A beautiful face…colorless from fright. Her bottom lip cradled her upper one. One to kiss for hours and lose himself in their plump texture. Her golden brows arched perfectly over her eyes, eyes he believed were blue.
“One obliging lass,” Hurley said.
Damn beautiful one too. Alec left the church, his men behind him. He got what he came for. Back to Cameron lands.
Chapter Two
Portia awoke in a vapor that slowly burned away as her mind’s eye focused. A band of muscles tightened around her and clasped her against a sword hard body. She was on a horse and in the arms of her captors. The musky scent of sweat and man surrounded her. The plaid’s wool scraped against her cheek in tempo with the horse’s gait until her skin felt raw. She couldn’t decide whether to remain quiet or to rent the air with her cries for help. She’d have to escape.
“Don’t cry out.” The order was given in the softest whisper. His Scottish burr caressed her with a warmth the situation didn’t call for. So, he had a sensual voice and sweet breath. He also stole her away from a church.
She gathered a scream deep in her belly and opened her mouth to free it. Suddenly, his lips landed on hers. His tongue delved in to her mouth. She clamped down. The Scottish devil yanked free his wicked piece of flesh and her teeth rattled from the strike.
“Feisty,” he mumbled against her mouth, sending a quiver through her cheeks and down her neck.
She struggled to break free, twisting her head right and left. His puckered lips brushed against her clenched ones. His chuckle rumbled over her lower face, shaking her cheeks. She opened her mouth and snapped at his bottom lip. Before she fainted from the lack of air, he broke off the firm, warm pressure of his lips.
“Whoa.” He reared back. His lips spread, revealing a full set of teeth that foot soldiers killed for.
Portia raised her hand to slap him, wishing to knock out each one. He caught it before she made contact with his rugged cheek. His hold was firm on her wrist. His roughened fingers scraped the fine flesh of her inner wrist. Her skipping pulse slammed against her thin flesh and against his calloused fingers. The skin warmed from the soothing caress and sent a flutter through her. Her hands began to curl.
She grunted. “How dare you? Never violate me in such a way.” She yanked her hand free and slapped his chest. Her hand bounced off the solid muscle. The poor piece of her flesh throbbed. She refused to soothe it. Nay, she wouldn’t cower before this man.
“Hurt your hand?”
The man had no care at the indignation she suffered. A flush of heat rushed out her pores. His straight brown hair hung, covering his ears and grazed his thick-muscled nape. The golden-lit strands were parted on the side. Aye, the man was a knave and knew it.
“I don’t take orders from you. Now close your mouth.” Maybe it was the cold bite of his voice or the smirks the men shot at her but she did as ordered.
The hooded shape of his eyes intensified the color, eyes that would have been beautiful if not for the hard look. A dark pine hue lined his iris with a burst of various greens blending together, broken by shoots of amber about the pupil. Sadly, they glared at her and promised her a harsh punishment if she disobeyed. Ha! She had survived worse.
Scotland stretched out before them. To her, this place always seemed as if God had forgotten to finish his creation. A harsh land of deep lochs and towering mountains as the deepest parts of the earth had broken free of the surface. Portia swore there was no other place that matched this land so different from the home she had known and her last refuge. Now, she would be lost in these lands and most likely never to be discovered.
The wilds of Scotland thickened, surrounding them and taking Portia further away from the safety of her sister. Portia had to escape and face the perils of the land. Baron de Mowbray must have hired them. In hours or days, she would be in his clutches until he twisted her neck with his hands. That he had failed before meant nothing. Her only hope was getting to her sister. She’d help her.
“My absence will be noticed. I am English.”
Silence. She looked at each man. Their somber expression never changed. In truth, they appeared unimpressed.
“I’m a guest of Laird MacKintosh. He is a powerful man in your lands. You do not wish his retribution.”
Not even a blink.
“Your king will not like this. He will punish you all, perhaps even take your life. You may start a war with England. My father will pay any ransom you wish.” He pushed her head against his chest, burying her nose in the folds of his plaid. She twisted to sit up and grabbed his bare thigh. Fine hairs tickled her palm. He flexed his muscle. She sat up. Twisting, her buttocks brushed his manhood. Her face heated so she kept her head down, not ready to see his face. Her back grazed across his chest. The plaid and shirt failed to conceal his honed muscles. His strength and power only made her feel like a woman. Not a weak and soft female but one keenly aware of him.
Her skirt rode up, revealing her leg. She flicked it back but not before, he glimpsed her stockings.
“You are willing to take monies from an English man yet not a woman,” she said, with the bite of an accusation. “I had believed Scots were braver and more honorable.”
“We are, lass. That’s why you’re not tied up.”
She fell quiet after that. Not wanting to touch the Highlander, she kept her back straight and her arms stiff at her side. One by one, her muscles began to cramp as her bones began to dig into the aching sinew. And still they rode on. Her chance to escape was moving further from her reach.
The sun lowered and the winds held a crisp chill. Goose pimples broke across her skin. She tucked her arms tight around her middle.
Portia squirmed to ease her stiff back and legs. His hard thighs provided no softness like the rest of the man. Body weary, her eyes closed against her wishes, lulled by the waves of heat wafting off her captor. She was an excellent captive. Once she could run, she’d dart away faster than a spooked fawn.
He halted his mount in a clearing of trees that somehow found root in this harsh country. Bramble blanketed the ground and like everywhere else in Scotland, rocks jutted from the earth in a haphazard design.
Wordlessly, he dismounted. His hands on her waist, he swung her from the saddle. Her muscles twisted, cramped, and pinched. Her back hunched and her bones creaked as she straightened. Every part of her cried out as feelings returned to flesh. She gasped, stiffening, cringing and hissing.
“Walk,” he ordered.
“I believe I shall stand here for a moment.” Portia swung her gaze from her feet to his face. His eyes were on her. They could have been kind even the type to woo a
woman if he hadn’t stolen her away. She gave him her nastiest glare, to no avail. He cocked his brow. In respect? Doubtful. She’d wager he believed her comical.
His secure hold kept her on her feet. No man besides her husband had held her so close. In her tired mind, she felt safe when she was in great danger. This man kidnapped her, after all.
“I will not let you go.”
She ordered her legs to withstand her weight and to move. Stepping away was not an option if she didn’t want to land on her face. He loosened his hold and she clasped his forearms. She jerked her hands back, leaving faint scratches on his forearm.
“Walk and you will be well.” He released her, taking away his steady support.
This was the perfect moment for her to act haughty, however, she focused on remaining standing. Gingerly, she put one foot forward then dragged the other useless limb along. She hissed and cringed.
The blame lain sorely on the thick head of this Highlander. Her journey to Scotland hadn’t been easy yet she hadn’t remembered such hardships. Fear must have given her the will to endure since she collapsed at her sister’s door upon her arrival.
Once soreness replaced the vanishing pain, she glanced about the clearing. Water scented the air and blended with the fragrance of these wild lands, peat and a smoky hint. The sun fell behind the sky-brushing mountains. This was so very different than England where soft rolling hills were broken by forest, a home she would be seeing soon but not for long.
Her kidnapper grabbed her by the upper arm. “Sit and a fire will be made.”
“I require a private moment.”
The knave pressed his lips, ready to deny her. The blond shook his head while the other two glared at her.
“My legs are shaking. I will not run away. I may not even have the power to return.”
“Go along before I escort you.” He waved her along. She might have taken affront to his command but she was too tired to quarrel with the man. Dragging herself to a hidden spot, she hurried to care for her needs. Taking a quick peek, she found a rock-strewn footpath. It must lead to a settlement otherwise the path wouldn’t have been here, cut through the ground by use.
For added protection, she picked up a particular pointy stone and tucked it among her pouch alongside her dice and dirk.
Portia returned to find a fire. The redhead stabbed an oatcake at her so she reluctantly accepted.
She plopped down on a blanket with the other redhead, who she noticed shared a resemblance to her captor, standing behind her. The blond one with the hard, square face stabbed at the fire. Though a wind blew through the clearing, his extra-wide shoulders shielded the flames from being blown into wisps of nothingness.
A wooden cup appeared in her face. She trailed her gaze up the arm to the face of her third kidnapper. His broken nose hardened the red-gold of his wavy strands. His pale blue eyes narrowed and he snarled at her, as if she pleaded with these men to snatch her.
Portia accepted the cup and gulped down the chilled water under the watchful eye of the three men. “Thank you.” She held it out. The blond one took it from her with no reply. She wasted time, straightening her skirts, while hoping inspiration came to her.
“I am Lady Portia de Mowbray.”
All three of them blinked at her then lowered their heads.
“What are your names?” More blinking. The one with the broken nose threw something into the fire and sent sparks flying.
“I shall regret this but I do miss my mother. I have been in Scotland for more than two fortnights. Tis a beautiful country.”
She continued as if the fire before her came from a hearth and not a pit in the ground. “You ought to release me. I’m a weak woman who may not survive the journey.”
“They won’t speak to you,” their leader said. He shadowed over her. His wide stance emphasized the power of his form from foot to slim hips beneath the drape of his plaid. Fine brown hairs covered his thick calves and disappeared into hide boots wrapped with leather string. The hem of his plaid reached his knees and did nothing to hide his brawn. Portia was a tall woman yet she was inches shorter than him. With Stephen, she lacked a feeling of delicacy, yet with him, she felt utterly feminine, even dainty.
“You will,” she questioned, the raise of her pitch betrayed her. “What is your name?”
He grinned, making him more handsome than she first believed. “I’m Laird Alec Cameron.” He bowed as courtly as the courtiers before the king.
She rose. “I’m—”
“Lady Portia de Mowbray, as you informed most of Scotland and its heavens,” he teased, mirth lightening his tone to an intimate sensation that sent a melting warmth through her. The fire might have added to her loosening.
“He is Ronan.” He pointed to the redhead. Ronan sat across the clearing. The flames deepened the hollows of his face.
“A relation. I noticed the filial features.” And the glare he shot across the fire.
“Nay, my cousin. He is Quinlain.” The blond remained stoic, watching her with a hard gaze. His craggy face seemed to be telling her that he wasn’t pleased for her company and might want to rid himself of it permanently.
“And the other is Hurley.” Hurley had a handsome face without an etch of tension cutting into his features. The corners of his eyes were relaxed in such a way Portia almost believed him kind. But she knew about the truth of handsome faces and the evil mask it could obscure.
“I must warn you my brother-in-law shall send many men after me. There are only four of you…” She shrugged, letting the implication hang.
Even Quinlan chuckled.
“Don’t fret, Portia.” The lyrical roll of his burr caressed each letter of her name. Months had passed since a man spoke her name with such tenderness. Alec’s held a sensual note that played in her mind like a prayer. “Rest, tomorrow is a long ride without halting.”
He threw a plaid over her. Truth was she was tired. Sleep had visited her for mere hours a night, only to have it snatched away and dangled before her as weariness had overtook her. Fear arrived again tonight, digging its chilled hands in to her.
This night was no different from the others. In the darkness time of the night, she laid wide-eyed. The thick blackness blared with cries and calls of night animals. The fire was dead and the smoke blown away hours ago. The plaid provided some warmth from the cold night. Beneath her, the hard ground grew colder and harder. Her body rattled from the chilly bite.
Ronan spread out in the ground as if he slept in a lush bed. Quinlan laid beside his sword and Hurley was underneath his plaid. The soft respirations of sleep added to the sounds around her. She couldn’t spot Alec. Last, she knew, he rested with his back against the tree. After a long moment of holding her breath, she shifted. She waited for one of them to snap an order to cease or shift in a sleepy haze, reacting to her. No movement. She did it again. Nothing.
Slowly, she rose to her feet and clutched the plaid to her chest. With one long glance, she ducked into the night.
* * * *
Alec watched her slip among the trees.
“The lass is a danger to herself,” Quinlan said, unmoving.
“This little ride and she’s a wet rag. She can’t survive alone in this land. There is a band of thieves just over that slope.” Hurley pointed to the west.
“She thinks she can survive alone here.”
“She won’t make it to Cameron lands.” Quinlan scratched his head. “What does a noble Sassenach know? Nothing.”
“Shall I go after her?” Ronan pushed up from the ground.
“Nay. I will.” For some reason, the thought of Ronan or any other man chasing after her stirred his annoyance. “Gather the horses and prepare to ride.”
Alec set off after her. Her footsteps were light and she made nary a noise but for her breathing. As he ate up the distance between them, her breathing grew shallow until Alec swore she’d faint.
Only one female he knew was capable of such foolishness, Ailsa, Lairdess MacL
ean. Ailsa usually fled to protect herself from punishment, willing to risk her life for moments of peace and safety with no care to man and animals. Like the time, the Highland cat attacked her and Connor found her, drenched in blood.
Did Portia suffer the same abuse heaped upon his sister? If one man dare to hurt her, he would kill him, slice him with his claymore then throw him from a cliff for scavengers to feast upon his corpse.
First, he must save her from herself. Silly female, vanishing in the night in an unfamiliar land. Alec possessed the know-how to travel about the night, having raided since his first chest hair. He knew the dangers too. He almost yelled out to her, heaping reprimands on her head, then stopped himself. No need to frighten her and endanger her more than she must be. Once he called out to her, she would run—run straight to her death.
A branch snapped and not from being stepped upon. Her hiss of pain travelled from his right. She must have slammed into an overhanging branch. Beside that one slip, she was quiet. Only the nocturnal creatures betrayed her path. The quarter moon provided scant light and the canopy of trees blocked moonlight from reaching the ground. It would be a time before the sun broke the sky. He stalked her, closing the distance between them.
On the edge of the tree line, he spotted her. Her English garb caught on the edge of a tree branch. She let out a curse. He smiled at her fight. She tugged at her sleeve, sending leaves down upon her. Her blonde hair slipped free from her braid and stuck out, shining as faintly as a rising sun.
Her full hips wiggled as she struggled to free herself. She wasn’t a small woman—almost as tall as him, her high-necked garb couldn’t conceal her lush bosom as it strained against the fine fabric with each wiggle, it bounced. She was a woman in every sense of the word.
The Laird's Right Page 2
