The Highlander Page 7

  He could not deny that she’d held up better than he’d expected. She was, after all, a delicate, sheltered English lady, unaccustomed to such rough treatment. Instead of a weeping, wailing, hysterical female, he had glimpsed an iron will and a defiant nature. And when she’d found herself in the clutches of that ragged band of soldiers, she’d fought back. He would long carry an image of the lady facing her tormentor with a knife in her bloody hands. He glanced down at the torn, muddy gown, the dark hair spilling wild and tangled around a face serene in repose. Her lips parted slightly, and he felt the warmth of her breath across his cheek. God in heaven, she was magnificent. At once he berated himself for such thoughts. He cared not for anything English, even a beauty such as this. He cared only that she was precious enough to her father to guarantee the safe return of his brothers. The thought that his brothers were being held in an English dungeon brought the flame of anger back to his eyes. Damn the English. And damn this female for making him forget, even for a moment, how much he hated them all.

  He took his bearings from the stars and turned the horse away from the well-worn trail. Soon he would be on Scottish soil.

  Chapter Six

  A t the sound of a twig snapping nearby, Dillon reined in his mount and took shelter in a stand of trees.

  The jarring motion awakened Leonora, who stared around in confusion. Why were her arms around the Highlander’s waist? How long had her lips been pressed to his throat?

  She pushed herself away. This man filled her with disgust. How could she have behaved so wickedly in sleep?

  Before she could make a sound, he clamped a hand over her mouth. She saw his eyes narrow at the same moment she heard the sound of many hoofbeats. Praise heaven. Her father’s soldiers, come to fetch her safely home. She began to struggle. She had to shout, to let them know that she was here. But the more she fought, the stronger was his grasp upon her.

  The hand clamped over her mouth was too strong to pry away. But the more she struggled, the harder it became to breathe. In desperation, she stopped struggling as stars danced before her eyes. Finally, just as she thought she would surely suffocate, the hoofbeats faded and he removed his hand from her mouth.

  Gasping, she filled her lungs with precious air and turned on him with blazing fury. “You could have caused my death by keeping your hand upon me.”

  “And it would have been my death if you had called out to the soldiers.”

  She tossed her head in a gesture of defiance. “Think you that I care whether you live or die, Highlander?”

  Catching her chin in his hands, he forced her to meet his angry gaze. “You had better care. For if I die at the hands of your father’s soldiers, I vow that you will die with me. With my last breath I will see to it.”

  She tried to pull away but he tightened his grasp. “Beware, my lady. There is one thing more to consider. You have no way of knowing if the horses we heard belong to your father’s soldiers, or the soldiers you found in the forest.”

  He saw her blanch and realized that he’d hit a nerve. Though she was desperate to escape, she would not risk falling into the hands of such depraved creatures a second time.

  He turned his mount away from the path. Across a raging stream, they plunged deep into the woods, where nothing could be heard above the sound of swiftly flowing water.

  In that still hour between darkness and dawn, an eerie mist had settled over the land. The horse’s breath plumed as they crested a hill. In the pearl light, the thatched roof of the crofter’s cottage in the distance seemed dusted with diamonds.

  This time, instead of taking refuge in the woods, Dillon urged his horse straight toward the cottage. Leonora was stunned when he called out a greeting.

  The door to the cottage opened. A bearded face peered out. The door was thrown open, and a man, wearing the crude dress of a peasant, stepped outside.

  Dillon lifted his hand in greeting. “I am Dillon Campbell of Argyll.”

  “A long way from home.” The man’s glance swept Leonora, then returned to Dillon. “I am Brodie of Morayshire. Are ye in need of shelter?”

  “Aye. And a bit of food for strength.”

  “Ye have it. Come.” The man turned away and Dillon slid from the saddle before helping Leonora to the ground.

  After so long in the saddle, she felt a wave of dizziness and was forced to cling to him for a moment before regaining her composure. With a firm grasp on her arm, he led her inside the cottage.

  “Sit.” The man indicated a rough-hewn table and chairs.

  As Leonora took her seat, a young woman close to her own age turned from the fireplace and studied them in silence. Despite the blood and dirt that marred Leonora’s appearance, it was obvious that she was a woman of noble birth. The cut of her gown, the jewelry at her throat, made a marked distinction between Leonora and the young woman who faced her.

  Peeking from behind the young wife’s skirts were two little boys of about three and four. From a crudely constructed cradle came the sudden cry of an infant. Ignoring the cries, the woman filled two bowls with a thick gruel and handed them to her guests, then filled a platter with slices of freshly baked bread and slabs of cold mutton.

  Only after the food was served did the young woman cross the room and pick up the squalling infant. She settled into a chair in front of the fire and lifted the babe to her breast. At once the crying ceased.

  Leonora was struck by the look of serenity on the young wife’s face.

  The two little boys leaned across their mother’s lap and continued to study the strangers in their midst.

  “Have you been visited by English soldiers?” Dillon asked between mouthfuls.

  “Aye.” The crofter’s gaze continued to dart between Leonora and Dillon.

  “How long ago?”

  The man shrugged. “They would be all the way to Glen Nemis by now.”

  Dillon visibly relaxed. Being careful to eat only one small bowl of gruel and one piece of bread, he pushed away from the table. “I must rest a while before I go on.”

  The man stared pointedly at Dillon’s blood-soaked clothing. “My woman, Anthea, knows a bit about healing.”

  “I would be grateful.”

  Leonora glanced down and realized that she’d eaten everything put in front of her, yet she couldn’t remember what anything tasted like. She knew only that she had never known food to be so satisfying, or a fire to feel so wonderfully warm. Her clothes had been thoroughly soaked by the mist, and she had felt chilled to the bone.

  These peasants had asked no questions. Dillon had offered no explanations. And yet, they had been taken in and treated like honored guests. What strange people, Leonora thought.

  When the crofter stood and led the way, Dillon caught her by the arm and forced her to accompany him to a second room. On the floor were several straw pallets. The young woman entered and handed Leonora a sheepskin pouch. Then the man and woman walked away, leaving them alone.

  Opening the pouch, Leonora caught a whiff of foul-smelling ointment and made a face. “What is this?”

  “The woman uses it to heal. You will apply it to my wounds.”

  She tossed him the pouch and turned away. “See to it yourself. I will not touch you or your filthy wounds.”

  She was shocked by the bruising hands that caught her and spun her around. His voice had grown dangerously soft. Taking the knife from his waistband, he turned it so that a stray beam of morning light glinted off the fine, thin blade. “You shall make this easy, my lady, or you shall make it difficult for yourself. I care not. But this I know. You will apply the ointment. And then I will have the rest my body craves.”

  She swallowed and said crossly, “You will have to remove those rags you call clothes.”

  He dropped his cloak on the straw, then removed the tattered shirt, all the while staring down into her eyes. He saw the flicker of discomfort there, before she blinked it away and lifted her chin in that haughty way he’d come to expect.

  “You are
too tall. You will have to kneel,” she commanded.

  He did as he was bid, and watched as she dipped a hand into the pouch. Tentatively she touched his flesh.

  She had never before ministered to a man. Nor had she touched a man so intimately. How broad his shoulders are, she mused as she ran her hand across the wide expanse. Hard muscles rippled beneath her fingertips. For a moment, she lifted her hand, unsure if she could go on. It was the most purely sensual feeling she’d ever known. Chiding herself for permitting such feelings toward a man like Dillon Campbell, she swallowed and forced herself to continue.

  The ointment was indeed foul and burned like the fire of hell when she began to rub it across his bloodied flesh. Dillon gave a hiss of pain and clenched his teeth to keep from muttering every rich, ripe oath he’d ever learned.

  She smiled at his reaction. This was the perfect way to keep her strange, unexpected feelings at bay. “Does it burn, sir?”

  “Nay.” He clenched his teeth harder. “’Tis but a prick of my skin.”

  She dipped her hand into the pouch and came up with a handful, which she proceeded to smear across his shoulders and down his chest.

  Despite the burning, Dillon was achingly aware of the press of her fingers on his flesh. To keep from dwelling on the intimacy of her actions, he concentrated on the pain.

  Hearing his sharp intake of breath, she rubbed harder, clearly enjoying her small measure of vengeance. “And that? Is that also a mere prick?”

  His fingers closed around her wrist and she let out a yelp. “Forgive me, my lady. Since you were rubbing so vigorously, I forgot my own strength.”

  “Have you had enough?” she asked, meeting his narrowed eyes.

  “Aye. And you, my lady? Have you had enough?” He tightened his grip until she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out.

  “Quite enough.”

  He snatched the pouch from her hand and tossed it aside. Tearing his bloody shirt into strips, he said abruptly, “Lie down.”

  Her eyes widened in sudden terror. Just how far would this brute go in his quest for revenge? “What are you planning to do?”

  “I am planning to get some rest. And the only way I can be assured of that is to see that you are subdued.”

  “Subdued?” She backed away but his hands snaked out. After tossing her to the straw pallet, he quickly bound her hands and feet.

  When she began to struggle against her bonds, he said, “You waste your strength, woman. ’Twould be better if you would rest. For if you think the journey thus far was difficult, the journey that lies ahead will be far more taxing.”

  Without another word, he lay down beside her and pulled the edges of his cloak around them both. Almost at once his breathing became slow and steady as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Beside him Leonora lay, deeply troubled. At first she had hoped that these peasants would realize her plight and help her escape this tyrant. But seeing how quickly they had accepted him, she was convinced that she must already be on Scottish soil. With each passing mile, her hopes for freedom were fading. Soon she would be in the Campbell stronghold, a prisoner among savages.

  The man beside her shifted. In sleep, his arm slipped around her, his hand resting at the small of her back. With her hands and feet bound, she was unable to escape his touch, or even to roll away. Closing her eyes, she swallowed back the hysteria that bubbled in her throat, threatening to unravel her strength of will. She must not think of him as a man. He was a Highland savage. Her captor. She must endure. Survive. And above all else, escape. And one day she would triumph over Dillon Campbell.

  Dillon awoke to the softness of feminine curves snuggled dangerously close to him. In sleep, he had tossed one leg over hers, and had drawn her into the circle of his arms. He lay very still, breathing in the womanly scent of her. Despite all that she had been through, Leonora was still every bit the proper English lady.

  Had he not wondered how her hair would look unbound? Now free of the netting, it fell in silken tangles across one breast. He took a moment to enjoy the vision. Spiky lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. Her skin was pale and unblemished. Her lips, pursed in sleep, begged to be kissed. All the graceful curves and contours of her young body were clearly visible beneath a gown which, though torn and mud-spattered, was still elegant. His gaze trailed to the dark cleft between her breasts and he felt a rush of heat.

  Tearing his gaze away, he glimpsed the sun through the narrow window in the cottage, and determined that it was nearly midday. Though he was eager to reach the safety of his Highland fortress, he could not begrudge the hours they’d spent sleeping. He was not certain that either of them could have traveled much farther before they would have collapsed.

  He saw Leonora’s lids flicker, a sure sign that she would soon awaken. He rolled aside and dressed quickly. By the time she was fully awake, he was standing by the window, surveying the green hills for any sign of soldiers.

  She lay still a moment, studying his proud profile. She was grateful that he was no longer lying here beside her. She had awakened with the prickly sense of being watched, a most unsettling feeling.

  “Will you unbind me now? Or will I be forced to endure this for the rest of the journey?”

  Without a word, he turned from the window and touched his knife to her bonds. As soon as she was free, she rubbed her wrists. Instantly, he caught one of them in his hand and lifted it for his inspection. At the sight of the bruises that ringed her flesh, Dillon experienced a moment of regret.

  “Forgive me, my lady. I had not meant to inflict pain.”

  “Oh, aye. That is why you bound me so tightly.”

  His guilt faded, to be replaced with a sudden surge of anger. “Do not forget that you brought it on yourself.” He released her hand and strode to the door. “You are not my guest. You are my captive. I will take whatever measures necessary to see that you do not escape.”

  “Perhaps you will have to kill me,” she taunted, scrambling to her feet.

  He paused at the door and turned to face her. “If that is what is necessary, rest assured, my lady, I will do so without hesitation.”

  He strode through the doorway, leaving her to follow.

  The crofter, having just returned from the fields for his midday meal, looked up from the table. His wife, standing beside him, was portioning out what remained from their morning meal. The two little boys watched hungrily.

  Leonora felt a wave of shame. She had eaten everything offered to her, without thought to the cost to these poor people. They would probably have to go hungry on the morrow because of their kindness to her.

  “I thank you for the meal and the pallet,” Dillon said to the crofter and his wife. “And I thank you for the ointment. Its healing powers are already evident.”

  The woman gave him a shy smile, then looked away.

  From his pocket, Dillon removed several gold coins and handed them to the man.

  “I do not want y’er gold,” the man protested.

  “Then take it for the lads.”

  The little boys looked at the stranger with wide eyes, and their mother cast a pleading glance at her husband, but apparently his pride would not allow him to accept.

  “Nay. ’Twas what I would do for any of my countrymen.”

  “Then,” Dillon said, “if you will not accept my gold, accept my hand.”

  The two men grasped hands as a seal of friendship. Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon saw Leonora remove from her neck the rope of gold from which dangled the egg-sized amethyst. For a brief moment, the priceless jewel caught and reflected the light of the fire. When she thought no one was looking, she dropped a hand to the infant asleep in the cradle.

  Seeing the young mother’s inquiring glance, she murmured, “It is a beautiful babe, Anthea. A girl?”

  The woman nodded, pleased that this Englishwoman would notice.

  When Leonora’s hand lifted away from the cradle, it was empty. The gold and jewel nestled in the babe’s buntin
g.

  “Come,” Dillon called.

  Leonora followed him from the cottage.

  The crofter darted to the edge of a woods and returned leading their horse.

  “He has been fed and rested,” the crofter said. “In a place where no English soldier could find him.”

  “Again, I give you my thanks, Brodie of Morayshire.”

  “Safe journey,” the crofter returned.

  Dillon pulled himself into the saddle and settled Leonora in front of him.

  As they rode away, Dillon said, “I saw what you did, my lady. ’Twas a kind and generous thing.”

  “I was merely paying my debt. I knew they would never willingly accept such a thing. Especially from an Englishwoman.” She struggled to keep her tone impersonal, but Dillon could see beneath the facade. She could not keep the passion from her tone as she added, “It is but one of many beautiful things my father has given me. But to these people, a jewel such as that is a treasure that can assure their family food and shelter for many years to come.”

  Dillon fell silent as he turned his mount toward the hills of home. Who would have expected a woman of noble birth to care about the fate of a Scots peasant? There was much more to the woman than he had first thought.

  He admonished himself that he must not allow her single act of kindness to soften his heart or dissuade him from his mission. This woman must remain his prisoner if he would ever see his brothers alive again.

  The land soon became more challenging. The gently rolling hills and meadows were left behind, replaced by deeply wooded mountains and plunging ravines. Their steed slowed as it adapted to the steep climb. Snowcapped mountain peaks soared in grandeur, competing with the clouds. Tumbling rivers cascaded down wooded glens.

  “Look,” Leonora called suddenly.

  Following her direction, Dillon watched the flight of a golden eagle soaring high above.

  “Oh! What is that?” Again she pointed, this time to a sleek creature leaping from rock to rock high above them.