by Eliza Knight
In disgust, she whirled around and marched toward the bushes she’d indicated to before he could change his mind and come after her. What was wrong with her? This man was a killer. Not a beau. Apparently, her baser side couldn’t tell the difference.
With a harrumph, she rounded the bushes.
Once there, she lifted her skirts and took care of business efficiently. In her ducked position, she realized he couldn’t possibly see the top of her head. And the gown she wore was a dulled enough shade of blue that it wouldn’t be a beacon of color through the bushes. Which meant this moment might be her chance to escape. But as she tried walking forward two steps, she understood how very awkward it was. If she continued, her legs would give out on her in protest.
Lowering herself to all fours, Eva crawled forward one step, then two. This was a lot easier. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself not to breathe so she could hear if her captor was coming after her. So far, nothing. She made it perhaps fifteen feet forward when her skirt snagged on an uprooted tree root. She tugged it lightly, but it wouldn’t budge, and so she tugged harder and the sound of the fabric ripping rent the night air.
“What was that?” the warrior called over the bushes.
Eva sucked in air, cursing herself for not paying more attention. “I tore my skirt.”
“Careful. Come on now. Ye’ve wasted enough time back there.”
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to crawl away, then get up and run. All the way back to England. All the way to Jacqueline. How she’d get there was not entirely certain, but she would, by God.
His boots crunched on the opposite side of the bush. He was coming closer. If she was going to make good with her escape plan, there was no time to think. She had to just go.
With that thought in mind, she went back to crawling but stopped short when something furry ran over her hand and took a good nibble on her pointer finger.
Eva let out a shout, jerked her hand up, and shot back on her heels, scrambling toward the bush. A squirrel scurried around and then headed toward her, arms outstretched as though possessed by a demon, making her scream all the more.
Next thing she knew, the warrior had her up in his arms, and the animal had completely disappeared.
“What the devil?”
“Something…bit me.”
“What?”
Eva held up her finger with the tiny drop of blood on the tip. “An animal bit me.”
“How in blazes did it get to your finger?”
“I was crawling,” she admitted before realizing it.
“Crawling?”
“I…dropped something.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. Eva’s heart thumped against her ribs hard enough to crack them, and she felt dizzy from the rush of nerves and exhaustion.
“That’ll teach ye to try and escape.” He swept her up into his arms, carrying her like a lover—or a child.
“I wasn’t trying to escape,” she said petulantly.
He grunted. “Whatever ye say, Princess.”
Chapter Four
Though she was light as a feather in his arms, the woman weighed heavily on his mind.
Her soft curves pressed to his were in contrast to her biting tongue. He could hold on to her for days. If they weren’t in flight back to the Highlands, he might have laid her down in the meadow, teased her skin with his fingertips, finding a way to calm the intensity in her that seemed ready to fight at every second.
What had she been through before he’d arrived?
And why the bloody hell did he care? He shouldn’t. It wasn’t his place. The lass was his prisoner and needed to remain just that. When they arrived in Dornoch, he would toss her in a cell and walk away, only to see her again when the king arrived.
Even as he thought it, he gritted his teeth against the idea. It wasn’t her fault she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or was it? She had been about to marry the bastard. Whatever the king had wanted to know about her, he had to know that she’d been in league with their enemies. Then again, what choice did a woman have in who she married?
Enough to say aye or nay.
His mind was immediately brought back to the woman he’d been supposed to marry months before, and an indignant sense of hurt gripped him again. Women, unless blood related to him, couldn’t be trusted.
And Lady Eva was a woman.
A woman who was clinging to his shirt and likely staining the fabric with the drop of blood from her finger. But he didn’t care at all about the shirt, and that made him want to put her down, to not feel the warmth of her body curled into his.
Not for the first time since he’d impulsively grabbed her up in the chapel, Strath regretted his choice. She was quickly becoming more trouble than she was worth. And what in the world had happened in the woods? Attacked by a small animal?
He doubted it. More likely, she’d been pricked on something as she tried to crawl away. He’d been watching the entire time, seen her go from a crouched position to all fours. And he knew no one, not even a strange woman, pissed like that. Besides, who got bloody attacked by a small rodent in the middle of the forest?
He’d never heard of such a thing. Larger animals, aye. But rodents? They weren’t predatory animals.
As they reached his horse, she started to shove against him, seeming to have finally woken up and realized she was clinging to him. “Put me down, heathen.” Her tiny hands pushed against his chest. He could tell by the veins straining in her neck she was putting a lot of effort into it, and it made him smile. Adorable.
Rolling his eyes, he said, “I have a name, wench.”
“I don’t care! Let me go, heathen.”
Strath did as she bid and let go, mayhap a little too gleefully.
The lass screeched as she promptly fell into a soft patch of grass he wished were a tub of mud.
With his arms crossed over his chest, he stared down at her with an arrogant raise of his brow. “Ye can call me Laird Dornoch or Laird.”
Teeth bared, she growled up at him, “That is not a name, but a title.” She glared up at him, yanking on the grass in a show of temper.
He shrugged, finding it a challenge not to laugh at her exasperation and ire. “Doesna matter, that is what ye’ll call me. Not heathen, or beast, or whatever other nasty name ye come up with.
“I won’t. I swear I won’t.”
Again, he shrugged. “Suit yourself, my lady.” He added that last part to show that even he had better manners than she did.
Surprising, really, because he’d always been under the impression that Sassenach lassies were uppity wenches concerned overly with propriety and rules. This lass was giving his impression quite a run for his coin. She was bossy, and mouthy, and had quite a temper.
“Up now,” he demanded. “We ride.”
The look she tossed him would have set a lesser man on fire, but he refused to be unnerved. The lass could show her temper all she liked. He’d grown up with three sisters, and whatever she tossed at him, he’d likely had before threefold.
When she didn’t make a move to budge, he took a step toward her. “I’ve no qualms about lifting ye back onto the horse, lass, but I think ye’d much rather be in charge of your own faculties.”
“I would,” she grumbled as she shoved herself to standing, and he realized perhaps for the first time, just how tiny she was. She was perhaps only slightly taller than his youngest sister, but shorter than the elder two by far. Standing before him, he measured her to come up to about the middle of his chest. A wee thing comparatively.
But despite her wee stature, the lass was full of curves. Breasts pushed the limit of her worn and now torn gown. He was certain his hands could span her waist, and her hips flared in a way suggestive of how he could hold them when he—
Ballocks! Nay! This was exactly the opposite string of thoughts he should be having. Prisoner. English. Involved with evil bastards.
“Can ye climb up?” he asked wh
en she stood where she was, her gaze on Beast and her expression contemplative.
“You think I’ve never mounted a horse before?” She rolled her eyes toward him and marched toward his warhorse with a huff.
Hands on the pommel, she lifted her foot, not getting anywhere near the stirrup. She swiped her skirts out of the way, revealing a delicate, curvy calf partially hidden by woolen hose.
Mo chreach… Was she trying to mount the horse or drive Strath to distraction?
Again, she lifted her foot and wiggled it up and around, trying to get it in the stirrup that was swaying with his horse’s good effort to thwart her. Strath stood stock still, admiring the sight of her flesh and thinking how he’d like to run his hand up the length of that curvy leg.
But then she let out an annoyed sound, drawing him away from his wicked thoughts. The lass let go of one hand on the pommel to steady the stirrup for her foot. Firmly in place, she then hoisted herself up onto the horse, giving him a healthy flash of her tempting thigh as she did so, before settling in the saddle and straightening her skirts.
Strath could have dropped to his knees and begged her to lift that skirt back up just so he could memorize every inch. He raked his gaze over her, stilling when he caught sight of her haughty stare.
“Where is your mount?” she asked with a smirk.
“Funny.” He gave a half smile, stroked his hand over his horse’s mane, and then gripped the saddle and swung up behind her.
He groaned as his already awakening groin slid against her plump bottom. This was going to be another long ride. A torturous one where all he could think of was roaming his hands all over her lush body, kissing her neck, and enticing her into a private clearing where he could show her all the ways in which a man could pleasure a woman.
Strath shifted in his seat, attempting to ease the strain. But it didn’t work. So he suggested the one way he thought might entice him less.
“Would ye rather sit behind me, lass?”
“Whatever for?”
He should have guessed she would argue. “Might be more comfortable for us both. We’ve got a few hours left before we stop for the night.”
She thought about it for a few torturous moments. “All right.”
“Good.”
“How should I get back there? Climb over you?”
Strath bit down hard on his tongue as he imagined her climbing over him, and him gripping her hips and bringing her down exactly where he wanted her with her legs wrapped around him.
“Nay. I will help ye down and lift ye back up.” He nearly breathed a sigh of relief when she agreed. The task was easy.
But once she was behind him with her thighs pressed to his… His arse right between her legs. Her arms wrapped around his middle, breasts crushed to his back… Strath did groan then. Perhaps it would have been safer to have her still in front of him where at least she sat rigid enough he could almost pretend her sweet bottom wasn’t teasing his cock.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Strath cleared his throat, forcing himself to recall exactly why she was with him, and that it had nothing to do with sweaty, sated bodies. “Aye,” he said a little too sharply.
He signaled for his men to move out, and they continued on their journey. Within a couple hours, the sun was starting to rise on the edge of the landscape, and the lass’s arms were starting to become less tight around his middle. She was growing just as exhausted as the rest of them. They all needed to rest, and they needed to rest the horses for a good stint before they continued on their hard journey north through the mountains.
If he were not in a hurry, they would take a much less grueling pace. At this rate, his horse would need a week of rest to recover.
They’d reached the Scottish border some hours before but still were not within the range of any of the holdings he was familiar with. They’d have to make camp in the woods. Not something he and his men were unused to. The only difference between the woods and a roof over their heads was added protection. At least they were back on Scots land, where the threat was a little less.
With that in mind, he steered his men off the road and into the lush foliage until he found a spot near a small burn for the horses to drink their fill and for them to replenish their waterskins. The grass was plush enough for sleeping, and the surrounding trees would provide enough coverage for anyone just passing by to perhaps not notice them.
“We’ll take shifts,” he informed his men, who readily agreed.
Strath dismounted and turned to assist the lady when he saw her falling backward, eyes closed. How long had she been asleep? Reflexes sharp, he caught her as she fell off the horse and startled herself awake. Bleary, reddened eyes stared up at him from where he cradled her against his chest.
“Did I fall?” She rubbed her eyes.
“Aye. But I caught ye. We’ve stopped to camp,” he told her, and she nodded. Strath set her on her feet, holding her elbow as she steadied her wobbly legs. “Have ye a need to crawl through the woods?”
She narrowed her eyes and let out a soft laugh when she grasped that he was teasing her about her earlier exploit.
“Aye, I do.”
“Come down by the water. Ye can get a drink as well.”
He took her hand in his, realizing after the fact what he’d just done, and then let go as he led her to the water’s edge. It wouldn’t do to hold her hand. That would only lead to him doing the other things he’d been fantasizing about…
At the water’s edge, she knelt down to splash water on her face. Rivulets ran down her long slender neck, and droplets caught in her light hair. She took a long sip, and all Strath could do was stare, wishing he were the water sliding over her tongue and dripping in long, teasing lines down her neck.
Clearing his throat once more, he said, “There’s a crop of bushes just there, go ahead and make use of them.”
“Are you catching something?” she asked. “You’ve been doing a lot of throat clearing.”
Strath frowned and didn’t answer. The lady shrugged, and without a word, she went toward the bushes he’d indicated. He turned away from her to take care of his own business. When he finished, he watched her head duck down and then rise back up shortly thereafter. For a split second, he was certain she was going to try to crawl away again, but she reemerged, holding a cluster of wildflowers.
“Aren’t they pretty?” To be able to appreciate something as simple as a flower in the midst of what had to be a terrifying situation for her spoke of a kind heart.
“Beautiful,” he answered, but he wasn’t talking about the flowers. He meant her, not just her face or her body, but the essence of her. He hadn’t known her that long, and he realized she didn’t even know his name, but there was an aura of goodness about her that made him question everything he’d thought up until this point.
“How old are ye?” he asked as he led her back toward the makeshift camp.
She glanced up at him, her blue eyes having taken on some of the purple of the flowers. “Twenty-two summers.”
“And not yet wed? Or a widow?”
“Not yet wed.”
“Your name, Eva, ’tis pretty.” Why was he complimenting her? Those eyes were making him muddle-headed.
She blushed and looked back toward the flowers, a small smile on her face. “Thank you, my laird.”
Strath tried not to react to her using his title after she’d sworn not to. The men had already split up shifts when they reached them. Tomaidh nodded and then disappeared into the wood where he’d scout to make sure they were the only ones in the vicinity.
“We’ll sleep for a little while. Allow the horses to rest. Are ye hungry?” Strath asked.
Lady Eva shook her head, looking ready to collapse. “Just tired.”
“All right, but ye should eat when ye wake to keep up your strength.”
“All right.”
Strath untied the blanket on the back of his horse and laid it out for her, surprised she hadn’t argue
d with him.
“Thank you,” she murmured, kneeling on the blanket and then rolling onto her side, the flowers still clutched in her hands.
Strath watched her for a moment and then sat beside her, his back to a tree while she curled up on the ground beside him. In a trice, she was asleep, her even breaths causing her ribs to rise and fall. She slept sweetly, all the consternation gone from her face, her hands pressed beneath her cheek, knees tucked up toward her middle.
Not being on first shift and his appetite gone, he closed his eyes. But instead of drifting into sleep, his mind wandered and contemplated all the reasons why he should imprison her and stop…courting her. For that was what he was doing by admiring her beauty, by telling her that her name was pretty, and lusting after her.
She was English. Her father and her betrothed were enemies of Scotland. The man she was supposed to marry had just murdered and set fire to an entire Scottish town, not for the first time. And she’d tried to pretend as though she didn’t know.
Her lies were another reason he should imprison her. The flowers could have been a tactic to deceive him. Hadn’t his last betrothed deceived him, using her feminine wiles to blind him?
Lady Eva was good. Very good.
Maybe he should take what rightfully belonged to her husband, get her with child, and when the men eventually came to pay the price to get her back, Strath would send her back to England with his Scottish blood in her womb.
But that notion made his stomach churn with distaste, reminding him only of Jean and her treachery. He frowned. He would never do that. For one thing, he wasn’t a rapist, and for another, he’d never willingly send his own child into enemy territory where it would only be tortured. Lastly, Eva had yet to prove she had a dark soul. Quite the opposite. Although he was inclined to believe she was pretending at being good, there were the flashes of temper and her opinionated mouth mixed in with appreciation of nature and genuine smiles.
