He placed his foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over and mounted behind her. His nostrils were at once assailed by her scent, immediately taking him back to the feel of her rolling under him in the kitchen in that ridiculous escapade several nights ago.
Hell.
Was it so long past that he’d been with a lass that now he was turning into a callow youth, all agog at the mystery and beauty of a woman for the first time?
He hauled in a series of deep breaths, doing his best to ignore that way her breasts pressed his arm and her sweetly-scented hair – escaping from under her hat – strayed across his face every time his horse stumbled over a bump in the rutted pathway.
At first, she pulled herself up tightly, doing her level best to keep some distance between them. Yet, as they plodded on, she gradually loosened until she was almost curled into his chest, her head close to resting on his shoulder. Her hands which had clutched the pommel so determinedly slid back, so that now one rested sedately on his thigh.
The movement across his thigh at times moved dangerously close to his groin, causing him no end of anguish. Thank the Lord he had donned his britches today instead of his kilt, as one touch on his bare thigh would have brought him into a state of severe embarrassment.
As it was, he was forced to grit his teeth and remind himself of mud and slush and the stench of it in order to keep his thoughts from wandering to the touch of her hand, the smooth whiteness of her leg and how it might be to kiss those soft red lips…
There was one sweet moment when she was pressed against him and he moved his hand to clutch her to him as they mounted a steep path. Ashisheart lurched, he could have sworn he heard her gasp.
Mayhap he was not the only fool.
After cresting the short rise, they rode into the glen and, from there, the problem became very clear.
“Hang on tight lass,” he muttered as he pushed his horse into a gallop.
At the bottom of the slope there was a scattering of sturdy, whitewashed-stone crofters’ cottages. Below, where the burn flowed through – usually a harmless, meandering stream – was a widening expanse of rushing water. The storm had caused the burn to burst its banks and the ensuing torrent was now covering what had once been a grassy field where cattle and sheep roamed freely.
Now all that remained above water was a tiny scrap of land and a narrow strip leading to higher ground.
A small herd of cattle and a scattering of sheep were trapped there.
In a matter of minutes, the rising water would cover the one narrow strip of dry land affording the huddled cattle an escape route to higher ground and out of danger.
A grey-hair and three boys aged around twelve or thirteen along with one old black and white dog, were attempting to steer the cattle toward what was now little more than a fast-disappearing causeway.
As they rode into view a small group of women who were watching in dismay began waving. He gritted his teeth as a frightened voice called, “’Tis the laird. He’s come tae our rescue.”
The situation looked dire and he prayed their good faith in him was not misplaced.
Kenneth pulled up his horse and swung out of the saddle keeping hold of the reins. He turned and lent a hand for Selene as she quickly dismounted from the enormous horse with as much dignity as she could muster. Still, she had exposed far too much of her legs as she slid to the ground.
But this was not a time to be concerned about modesty.
Wasting no time, Kenneth handed his reins to a small boy, telling him to tether Arvak. Then he divested himself of his cloak and boots, rolled up his britches and ran, barefoot, to join the men who were frantically trying to force their frightened beasts to cross the narrow strip. Callum was not far behind.
Feeling decidedly awkward, Selene took a few steps toward the gaggle of women who were all regarding her with suspicious eyes.
That was hardly surprising. After all, she was certain the local gossip trees were buzzing with the story of her rescue and then her remaining at the castle. No doubt there would be even more whispers and rumors following her arrival at the crofts,sharing Laird Kenneth’s saddle.And, added to all that, she was English. A despised foreigner, into the bargain. That would surely set the tongues wagging.
Ignoring the curious, disapproving stares and swallowing what remained of her pride, she joined the women, hand outstretched.
One woman who had a small boy at her skirts and a babe in her arms stepped forward and grasped Selene’s hand. “Good day tae ye, milady,” she said softly.
Then one or two of the others came forward and in a short time she had merged with the group and, like every one, her attention was focused down the hill to the place where the men were struggling to guide the cattle to safety.
Those rugged Highland beasts were strange indeed with their straggly hair and long, long horns. Nothing like the cows she was used to. Yet, somehow, they were strangely similar to the Highlanders themselves. Rugged and strong, lacking altogether the superficial refinement she was used to.She glanced at the men who, with Callum and Kenneth, were concentrating on leading their flock to safety oblivious to any danger.
She drew in a sharp breath as she caught sight of one old bull that had broken away from the rest and now stood at the edge of the grass staring into the rushing flow of water. Clearly, he was gauging whether or not he could walk, or swim to safety from there. Behind him trotted two cows and two tiny calves.
She pointed, drawing the women’s attention to the errant bull.
One of the older women followed Selene’s pointing finger. “Oh, dear Lord,” the woman exclaimed. “’Tis auld Fergus. The herd will follow him intae the burn.”
