Page 301 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Lord Keeper

Tarah Scott

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands 1508

Iain might have been standing on the edge of a dream when the abbey door opened and she stepped out into the morning light. Though separated by a small earthly measure of holy ground, he sensed her mind to be as far from him as heaven was from hell. His heart stilled with the sudden blaze of auburn hair against the Highland sun, and he determined to learn what color eyes matched such fire.

With a nod in response to Father Brennan’s statement that the Menzies clan was rumored to be raiding land to the north, Iain slid a hand along his horse’s neck. The beast nickered and shifted beneath him. Behind him, one of his men’s horses whinnied in answer. Careful not to give away his intention, Iain slid his gaze across the heather covered hills beyond the abbey and covertly monitored the woman’s progress as she strolled along the grounds, a book in hand. Another moment and she would be off Montrose Abbey.

She slowed.

Annoyance flared. Curse the archaic law that kept her safe on holy ground. What if he ignored the civilized directives instilled by his education and simply took her? He dropped his attention to the intricately carved leather wristband that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. A deep scratch spanned the leather, a reminder of the battle that almost took his arm, had taken the lives of many good men, a battle fought in the name of justice.

Iain looked up in response to Father Brennan’s report that four Menzies clansmen had passed the abbey yesterday afternoon. He was in no mood to encounter marauding Menzies on his return home, particularly considering his change in plans. He breathed deep of the Scots pine scent carried on the keening wind. The law forbade him taking the woman while on holy ground, but sanctioned the kidnapping once she entered the outside world. No law would be broken, no war begun when he claimed her.

Ticking off the seconds in his mind, he gauged her progress away from the grassy expanse that marked the distance needed to intercept her race back to the monastery. Any resistance would be hampered by the heavy skirts of her expensive brocade dress.

She took the last fateful step. Iain flashed Father Brennan a grin as he grasped the hook on his claymore’s scabbard and unhooked latch from hook. Sword and scabbard dropped to the ground. The priest’s eyes registered surprise, then understanding.

He whirled as Iain dug his heels into the horse’s belly and broke ranks with his men.

“Run!” the priest shouted.

She looked up from her book. In seconds, Iain drew close enough to discern the expression of a doe catching first sight of the bowman. His heart surged. Mayhap the wide-eyed stare wasn’t fear, but fascination? Understanding lit her features and Iain laughed at his folly. The doe realized the bowman meant to have her after all.

She dropped the book and yanked up her skirts to run. Iain veered right and leaned from the saddle as she darted left. He seized her waist. She gave a muffled “oof” and kicked when he dragged her against the side of the galloping beast, her legs tangled in her skirts. She screamed. The horse snorted, his gait faltering with the uneven burden. He steadied and Iain hauled her across his thighs.

His groin pulsed with the weight of her derriere across his lap. He laughed to himself. If she understood the pleasure her struggles afforded him, she would cease. His horse snorted and Iain threw a leg over the lass’ shins, hugging them close to the belly of the beast. She grunted with the effort of trying to slide from the saddle, then stiffened with his firm grip on her thigh.

“Iain,” Father Brennan said in a loud voice.

Iain forced his attention from the disheveled mass of velvet hair that cascaded down slim shoulders and looked to where the priest had retreated onto holy ground. Father Brennan motioned him forward. Iain smiled and gave a shake of his head. The hand at Father Brennan’s side fisted.

Good. The priest understood no MacPherson would set foot on holy ground today.

The woman’s muscles tightened in another attempt to throw off his leg, and Iain gave the flesh a warning squeeze without breaking eye contact with Father Brennan. The priest ran the back of a forefinger in a slow line along each side of his mustache. Iain understood his shrewd look, but the curiosity in his eyes was a surprise. He strode toward them, and the warriors who had ridden in with Iain drew up alongside as the priest neared.

“It doesn’t seem she is taken with your charm, Iain,” Father Brennan said.

“Charm?” his captive snapped. “What madness is this?”

“Patience, lass. It is a simple mistake.” The priest looked pointedly at Iain.

“Aye,” she blurted, “and this barbarian would do well to release me before he discovers just how grave a mistake.”

Iain glanced at his companions when someone unsuccessfully stifled mirth.

Father Brennan clicked his tongue with impatience. “Iain, you cannot take her.”

Iain responded with a raise of his brows.

“Aye, then,” Father Brennan muttered, “you can take her, but ’tis not fair play. I had not informed her of this tradition. A tradition long dead,” he added with asperity.

“I believe it was you who said ignorance of the law is no excuse,” Iain reminded him with a low laugh.

Father Brennan hesitated. “You must know she is