“To my keep.”
“And where is that?”
He paused for a moment, obviously debating whether to tell her. “Drimnin. In Morvern.”
Her mother had lands in Morvern, which wasn’t unusual since her mother had held lands all over the Highlands, so Flora knew that the keep belonged to Lachlan Maclean, the Maclean of Coll. The embittered enemy of her half-brother Hector Maclean of Duart. Her eyes narrowed. “Does your laird know what you have done?”
“You might say that.” His mouth curved, the first sign of lightness in his stony expression. The transformation was stunning, turning his fierce visage into something far more dangerous. Her gaze fixed on the charming twinkle in his eyes and the sensual curve of his wide mouth. Her stomach fluttered.
It was only because she was watching him so closely that she saw him flinch. He was in more pain than he was letting on, but he quickly masked it.
A few of the brigands were staring at her with strange expressions.
The Viking ventured the question that was apparently on everyone’s minds. “Are you sure you’ve got the right lass? This one doesn’t look like the bonniest heiress in Scotland. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Flora bristled. She didn’t care much for her nickname, but no woman liked to be told she was not pleasing to the eye. Vanity stung, she opened her mouth to offer a torrid rebuke when she suddenly realized how she must look. Blond hair a tangled nest, dirt streaked across her face, blood on her gown…Ah yes, she’d forgotten about her shapeless gray wool maidservant’s gown.
“It’s her,” her captor replied flatly.
He couldn’t know who I am. What could he possibly want with me?
Her heart crashed to the floor.Why did women of fortune usually get abducted? Good God, this barbarian couldn’t intend to marry her?
There had to be some mistake.
Chapter 2
The stubborn lass hadn’t said a word all night, not since he’d ignored her protests and set her atop his horse. She would ride with him. Where he could keep his eye on her.
Lachlan Maclean, Chief of Coll, had no doubt that it was Flora MacLeod. The bonniest heiress in Scotland. The Holyrood hellion. Take your pick. No matter the nickname, she was the most gossiped-about woman at court. A renowned beauty who left a path of broken hearts in her troublemaking wake.
Well, she’d definitely lived up to her reputation in temperament—he had the marks on his face and a gaping hole in his side to prove it. She was aptly named. Flora. The ancient Roman goddess of flowers and spring. She was a flower all right. A beautiful rose with the thorns to match.
Aye, she was a beauty. With a strong family resemblance to the MacLeods, thankfully, and not to the Maclean of Duart. Delicate oval face, wide blue eyes, tiny pert nose, lush red lips, and long silky golden hair. With a body…
Hell, with a body built for a man’s pleasure.
His men might not have seen through the dirt and sackcloth, but he’d had a better perspective. Amuchbetter perspective. He hadn’t meant to land on top of her, but he’d lunged, she’d lost her footing, and momentum had carried them both forward.
Focused on the task at hand, namely making sure she was not hiding another dirk, he hadn’t realized he was frightening her until she’d raked her fingers across his face. Ravishment had been the furthest thing from his mind. Had been. Until all of a sudden he’d become very aware of every well-curved inch of her. For a moment, with that sweet red mouth merely inches away and those luscious breasts straining against him, he’d been tempted to taste the spoils. Hell, he would have had to be a bloody eunuch not to be at least tempted.
And the memory of that incredible body writhing underneath him was brought back full force every time her soft bottom nudged against his groin when the movement of the horse caused her to slide against him. It had been one of the longest nights of his life. His side hurt like hell, and he was as hard as a damn rock. You’d think he hadn’t had a woman in weeks, though it had been only a few days.
That he wanted her didn’t bother him. A pretty—nay, a lovely—face and lush body would not endear him to his task, although it might make it more palatable. Abducting a lass, no matter how fair, was not his way. But he had no choice; too much was depending on the wee termagant. And Lachlan would do whatever it took to protect his clan and family, even if he had to kidnap a stubborn, headstrong lass to do so.
A burst of white hot pain fired in his side. He gritted his teeth and waited for it to pass. But each time it seemed to take longer for the flare of pain to ebb. The hard ride had only made it worse. Though he’d bound the wound as best he could with a strip of linen, he was still losing blood. Too much blood. He’d be lucky if he could stand when they arrived at Drimnin.
She’d stabbed him. It was a rare lapse. But he’d never known a woman to handle a blade with such proficiency. Never hesitating. He shook his head, unable to believe that a lass had succeeded where many formidable men before her had failed. Including her damn half-brother Hector Maclean, Chief of Duart. His fiercest enemy and the source of his current troubles.
Still, in spite of his pain, he had to admit that her spirit impressed him. She knew how to defend herself. Which was more than he could say for the cowardly popinjay she’d been with. What kind of man would leave his woman to kidnappers?
Lowlanders,he thought with disgust, glad that the wretched place was behind him.
From Falkirk they’d headed west, crossing the Lomond Hills, skirting the higher peaks, entering into the rugged, mountainous terrain of the Highlands. As dawn broke across the majestic landscape, a layer of dew sparkled across the green glens and heather-filled moors. The land rose in gentle, rounded hills as far as the eye could see.
No matter how many times he left, returning home to the Highlands never ceased to move him.
It baffled him how the lass could choose to live in the Lowlands, forsaking her kin in the Highlands. He knew little about Flora MacLeod, except that since the death of her father when just a child, she’d lived with her mother in the Lowlands—shifting between Edinburgh and Castle Campbell—and only occasionally traveling into the Highlands to Inveraray. Her half-brother Rory had spoken of her a few times—usually in tones of frustration with some sort of mischief she’d gotten herself in. Apparently, whenever he asked her to do something, she unfailingly did the opposite. Her visits to Dunvegan had been infrequent. Everything else he’d heard had to do with her reputation at court. For once, in that respect, the rumors seemed to be true.
