Hellion was an understatement. He had little patience for courtiers, spoiled headstrong ones even less.
Despite her efforts to sit stiffly before him, the long night in the saddle had eventually worn her down. From the way her body sagged gently against him, and the calming evenness of her breath against his chest, he knew that she slept. Although she wore a cloak over her dress, he’d taken the opportunity to wrap his plaid around her, creating a cocoon of warmth against the cold night air.
She was so soft and sweet like this. Relaxed. Almost trusting. He felt an unexpected tug in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t had since his sisters were young. He shook off the uncharacteristic bout of sentiment. She shouldn’t trust him. He would do what he had to do for the good of his clan. And for his family. Even if it meant using her to do so.
But in repose, the wee hellion looked almost…vulnerable. Until the pain hit again and he brutally recalled her blade.
He’d never studied a woman so closely. But after the long night, he felt his gaze falling to her face again and again, until it seemed as if he’d memorized every inch of her. He no longer needed to look to see the long lashes fanned against the flawless ivory skin of her cheek, the soft red lips gently parted, and the long winding strands of pale blond hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders. Her features seemed permanently imprinted on his mind.
More than once while she slept, he’d been unable to resist bending down, sinking his face into her hair, and inhaling the soft scent—like fresh flowers warmed in the sun.
Everything about her was dainty and sweetly feminine. He found himself fascinated with the perfect arch of her brows and the delicate tilt of her nose. Knowing that it would wake her, he fought the powerful urge to sweep his finger down the curve of her cheek just to see if her skin was as baby soft as it looked.
He cursed and focused on the path ahead of him. The loss of blood from his wound must have addled him to be so engrossed with the lass.
As the first rays of sunshine fell across her pale cheek, she stirred. He wondered how long it would take her to realize…
Sure enough, in a matter of seconds she jerked up straight, putting as much distance between them on the saddle as she could manage.
Aye, the lass was stubborn and prideful. That would change. A firm hand was what she needed.
They rode a little while longer, and at the north end of Loch Nell, he ordered his men to stop. There were still many hours of riding ahead of them before they reached Oban. From Oban, they would trade their horses for abirlinnand navigate the oft treacherous Sound of Mull to his keep at Drimnin. Like most men from the Isles, Lachlan felt most at home on the water.
First, however, they needed to eat, water the horses, and do something about his wound. He knew of only one way to stop the bleeding.
Clenching his jaw, he slid from his mount and helped her down after him, trying to control the lightheadedness that threatened to yank his legs out from under him. He gripped his saddle, pretending to tend to his horse while he fought the pull of nausea.
It was worse than he’d feared. The lass had done some damage.
He hated any form of weakness. “Go tend to your needs,” he said roughly. “But stay where I can see you.”
She didn’t move. “Who are you? What do you want with me? Is it ransom?”
A fiery twist in his side threatened to buckle him. Was the damn woman deaf? “Not now, Flora,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Youdoknow who I am.”
He paused, giving the pain a chance to pass. The ground steadied a little, and taking a deep breath, he turned around to face her. He started to order her away, but the expression on her face stopped him. For the first time, she’d realized it was not a mistake. He looked for signs of fear, but she appeared more bemused than anything else. “Did you think I did not?”
“I wondered that any man could be fool enough to kidnap the sister of Rory Mor MacLeod and Hector Maclean.” She gave him a long look. “My brothers will kill you.”
He caught the unmistakable gleam in her eye, and his mouth curved in a half-smile. “I wouldn’t plan theceilidhyet, my bloodthirsty one. Hector has tried—repeatedly—and failed. Rory I consider a friend.” But she was partly correct. Rory would be furious if he ever discovered the truth. “In fact, I think he may have cause to thank me.”
She scoffed. “What for? For abducting his sister? You must be mad.”
His voice grew hard. If she were his sister, he’d take her across his knee for what she’d attempted to do. “For saving you from a foolish mistake.”
“Lord Murray is not—” She stopped. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He cupped her chin with a firm hand and looked deep into those wide, defiant eyes. Remarkable eyes that in the morning light were as blue as the stormy sea. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Do you deny that you were running off to marry your wee Lowlander?”
“How could you possibly…” She jerked her chin away. “It’s none of your damn business.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it, even though it hurt like perdition. The chit had spirit. Misplaced, perhaps, but she would learn her place. He did not tolerate disrespect, especially from a woman. But with her eyes blazing, hands on her hips, and stubborn little chin lifted toward him, he was glad she didn’t have another dirk.
“Such foul language for a proper ‘lady’ of court.”
She looked as though she’d like to rattle off a few others. Instead, she studied him with increasing scrutiny. “How did you know where I’d be?”
