Betrayed (2 page)

Adam shut him up with a kick to the shin.

“Throughout Scotland, from the highest crag to the lowest glen, from the Cheviot Hills to the MacDonald’s islands, my word will rule,” finished the king. “I will reward obedience and eradicate those who ignore my laws.”

“Jamie is nae all bad,” Adam said much later as they trotted through the town of Stirling to join the ancient Roman Road.

“Tell that ta Murdoch and Lennox.” Krayne spurred his horse faster as they left the cobbled streets behind.

“Treason flows through their veins instead of blood. Jamie’s dungeon be exactly what the pair of them deserve.”

“They’re still kin to the king,” noted Krayne dryly.

Adam gave him a searching look. “’Twill serve a sharp reminder ta the rest of us.”

“Ye have my word,” Krayne reassured his cousin. “I gave the order before I left Wamphray. No more moonlight riding fer my lads.”

They rode hard for Annandale with their dozen moss-troopers at their back, stopping only once to rest the horses and then again at Moffat just as dawn was breaking. The parish of Johnstone bordered Wamphray, and the riders stayed together until the juncture of Wamphray Water with the Annan, where Adam rode west for Lochwood Tower and Krayne followed Wamphray Water home.

On his approach, Old Giles raised the portcullis with a wary wave and Krayne galloped straight into the bailey…to find that all hell had broken loose.

The thick mist slid along the forest floor, creeping up moss-draped trunks to swirl through boughs and leaves like silvery fey ghosts. Disorientated in the fog, Amber finally made it to the water’s edge.

She’d lost time, too much time.

Enticing the guard into her chamber and feeding him that special brew of wine had taken more time than she had. And then she’d been cornered in a shadowed alcove, awaiting her chance to slip past the night watch and through the postern gate, only to find that night had come and gone, and with that her chance to forewarn Stivin.

Amber followed the burn westward for just over a mile, running until her breath gave out and then walking until she could run again. She was running from Spedlin as much as she was running toward Stivin. He would not be there yet, but he would come. He always did, at around midday, and last night’s raid would not keep him away.

At last she saw the familiar ruin of the forester’s hut peeking through the wafting mist that had begun to burn off.

She glanced up as she covered the small distance to the hut, but could not judge the hour accurately from the obscured sun. Digging fingers into the sharp stitch at her side, Amber rested against a crumbling wall.

He
was
safe.

And he would come.

She had but to wait to be assured of his safety, and to say goodbye.

“Take her!” came a rumbling baritone directly at her left.

Pulse racing, Amber shot to her feet.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
If Mary had been forced to reveal the details of the Johnstone raid, no doubt William had extorted everything else from the timid woman, as well. He’d know exactly where and when she met with Stivin.

Without stopping to put a face to her fear, she ran toward the resistant pockets of mist by the stream. Her feet hit the shallow waters with small splashes. All at once, hands reached for her—large, powerful, clumsy—tossing her over a broad shoulder and clamping her ankles when she kicked out.

“Put me down.” Her fists hammered the wide, muscular back as effectively as they would a stone wall. “Let go of me.”

Her assailant paid scant notice, continuing the long strides that took them from the water and onto land. She tried to kick again, but the iron grip at her ankles rendered her legs completely useless. She flexed her wrists, slowly uncurling her palms, in doing so spreading them over that invincible back. Instead of stone and mortar, she found the soft silk of the man’s hair where it hung loose.

Amber didn’t hesitate. She grabbed at the long strands and yanked with all her strength.

“Bitch!” A hand came down on her buttocks, delivering a hard wallop that forced the air from her lungs in a shocked gasp.

“Bastard,” she spluttered, incredulous that one of her uncle’s men would dare strike her.

He whacked again. “Behave yerself, wench.”

Amber seldom cursed. That didn’t mean she wasn’t capable, and the last three months at Spedlin had stocked her repertoire until it was bursting at the seams. Something had to spill, and she couldn’t think of a better slosh bucket.

“Whoreson,” she spat out. “Swine pig.”

She was flung from his shoulder, her landing padded by a lush tuft of moss fern. Amber immediately scrambled to her feet. The mist was almost gone, the sky rapidly sharpening to pristine blue in the warm sun. She could see quite clearly now and didn’t like what she saw. They were on the Johnstone side of the burn. No Jardin moss-trooper would make a mistake like that. At least not without rectifying it at once. Expecting to be tossed over that shoulder any moment and hauled back across the burn, Amber spun around to confront her captor with a stern rebuke and instead confronted the truth.

His chest was wide, muscled and level with her eyes. A linen shirt hung open halfway down his chest, revealing a deep tan beneath a sprinkling of black curls. She lowered her gaze over a flat abdomen, solid waist and hips that showed not a hint of slack. His plaid was an unfamiliar green, crossed through with a thin blue-and-yellow line.

Dear Lord, the Jardin men-at-arms all wore leather britches. They were mercenaries and outcasts with no plaid to call their own.

Her eyes shot up, and up. Taut muscles pulled from his neck to shoulders. His jaw was severe and square, clamped down menacingly and darkly shadowed. His mouth was wide and firmly drawn in determination.
To do what?

Her eyes continued on to the straight, aristocratic nose, to the hooded grey eyes meeting hers with a dire warning of their own. He was dark and large and fierce. His gaze penetrated to her bones. She’d be a fool to look at him funny, let alone attempt to lay down some ground rules.

Wild, black brows arrowed down as he studied her with fierce intent. Finally, he took a few steps back and turned around. “Is this the one?” he called.

There were more?

Amber spun on her heels and fled. Long, flying leaps toward the embankment. She’d rather face a hundred Jardin men, as loathsome as they were. At least they feared loss of coin for acting without William’s authority, and her uncle wouldn’t dare order her harmed for fear of the repercussive curses. No, he’d leave that up to whichever nephew-in-law he decided on.

This man, however, this barbarian, feared nothing.

She’d seen it in his eyes.

The world went black as her legs buckled and a mountain came crushing down on top her, grinding the full length of her body into slippery grass and damp soil. Her hips felt razed to the bone, her elbows near shattered, and dirt filled her mouth. The weight lifted, but only long enough for him to flip her. Now she was lying on her back, free to gulp down deep breaths and stare into those dangerous grey eyes. He crouched over her, thighs as sturdy as ancient tree trunks straddling her legs, iron-like grips shackling her arms at her sides. He came forward, over her, bringing that intense gaze lower and closer.

“Try that again,” he growled, “and ye’ll soon find out just what a bad day I’m having.”

He
was having a bad day? “Who are you?” she hissed. “What do you want with me?”

“Ah, a little wildcat.” He released her arms and straightened, his knees taking most of his weight as he sat astride her as if she were his mount.

Having little experience, but hardly ignorant, Amber’s mouth went dry as she drew the parallel. Beneath that plaid, smack in the middle of his thighs, his manhood rested hard and long upon her belly.

He folded his arms while his eyes did a slow journey down to the bodice of her thin woollen gown and lingered. A half-formed grin eased some of the tension in his jaw. Silver speckles danced on grey fields in his eyes.

Amber shut her eyes, but the image of an arrogant, lithe, powerful beast savouring his prey wouldn’t go away.

She opened her eyes, knowing her imagination had to be worse than reality. It wasn’t. That hungry gaze still lingered on her chest. She knew her breasts were rising and falling rapidly, and no doubt this—amused? intrigued?—him, but the more she tried to slow her breathing, the more her instincts took over and she fought to grab air. She was intensely aware of the weight on her belly. Fear must have claimed her mind, for she felt that weight shifting, growing even longer, warming her skin…no, heating all the way through to some inner spot lower down.

What is he doing to me?

What does he want?

Amber shook off her fear and made herself look at him.

He was just a man.

Not a beast.

She looked harder. Beyond her preconceptions. His face was put together by the same rustic hand that had carved Scotland’s terrain. Wild, compulsive, dominating…attractive. A soft flutter stirred low in her abdomen. From the rugged planes of his cheekbones to the bristled dales sweeping to a stony, square jaw, those harsh features enticed and warned.

What does any barbaric Scotsman want?

Rape, plunder and carnage.

The spark of dark attraction was immediately extinguished. Instead, a firestorm rose up within her. This was an outrage. She was no serving wench to be tumbled in the hay.

As if detecting the change in her, the plundering Scotsman opened his mouth to speak. Amber balled her hand to punch his crude words before he could spew them.

“Pull in yer claws, wild—”

Her fist struck his upper lip.

He drew the back of his hand across his mouth and stared at the blood in disbelief. Then he grabbed both her wrists and held them prisoner across her breast. “Have ye no more sense than ta strike a man of my size?”

Amber glared at him, her chin jutting indignantly at the rhetorical question. He waited. He seemed to be expecting an answer.

Then she’d give him one that might just awake some dormant seed of gallantry. “A man of
your
size would never harm a lady. I am sure this is all a huge misunderstanding. If you’d remove yourself from my person, I assure you I can be most forgiving and might even be inclined to not mention this incident to my uncle, who is, I might add, the laird of—”

“Enough.” His hand tightened on her wrists.

“You have the blundering finesse of an ox and if you don’t remove yourself from me this instant, I’ll bloody your other lip.”

“Ye have a charming way with words, my lady,” he drawled in that thick burr. “Yet, as much as I’d love ta stay and listen, we must leave.”

“I’m not stopping you,” she shot back.

His grin was hard as he lifted himself from her. Amber jerked her knee up high between his thighs. She was too slow. Her knee struck nothing, but her intentions did not go unnoticed.

He hauled her to her feet. Or rather, her slippers dangled uselessly above the ground as his arm went around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest. “Put me down.”

Another hand bunched a rope of hair at her nape, forcing her head so far back she wondered her neck didn’t snap in two. She met his gaze with a flash of green defiance, wholly unprepared for the smouldering heat she came up against. His breath quickened, touching her cheeks like a wispy breeze with the heat of an intimate caress. Amber imagined she could feel his heart beating at her breast. Could taste the mead ale that sweetened his breath.

Dear Lord, she needed to look away, break the spell consuming her. She struggled in his arms, wiggling her body this way and that.

“Be still, lass.”

The voice sounded so close to a wounded animal, she instantly obeyed. A moment later he crushed her face to his shoulder and bound her even closer, as if he feared the slightest movement. Cloaking her with the heady scent of leather, horse and ash. There was a blend of stale sweat as well, but the parts of her that were being ground into the simmering power of his body didn’t seem to mind. To her shame, her nipples hardened against his muscular chest and her breathing became slow and shallow. She did not need experience to name the fire threading her veins. She did not want this desire, but for the life of her could do nothing to naysay it.

And then she sensed a firm control come over him, in the tempo of his heart against her ribs, in the tension of the muscles that bound her, but it was as if he’d sapped her strength for his own. When he pushed her head back again, she could not withdraw her eyes from the savage beauty of deeply hollowed, bristled cheeks and rigid bone carved by his severe jaw. His lips were hard and unyielding, yet full with sensual promises.

Her own lips parted on a soft sigh.

“Yer in no position ta demand anything, wildcat.” The growl was low and encased in steel. “Ye’ll come with me, and so it will be.” With a slow and deliberate hand, he slid her down his length, forcing her to feel every sinewy muscle of chest and thigh along the way, until she was standing free on shaky legs.

“Who are you?” Amber asked hoarsely, then cleared her throat and said a little louder, “What do you want?”

“Krayne Johnstone, lass.” His harsh grin was back. “And that alone should tell ye what I want.”

The mighty Laird of Wamphray? Stivin had spoken much of this cousin he fostered with. The Grey Wolf, he was called, and now Amber knew why. He was a natural predator, but she would not be his prey.

Her hand came up sharply.

“Strike me again,” he said, his tone bordering on boredom, “and I’ll drag ye over my knee and warm that snug backside.”

Amber raised her chin and looked him in the eye.
Krayne Johnstone.
She’d always known he’d be a rude, arrogant bastard. The type of man to persuade a gentle lad to drop his study books and go a-reiving. “You forget I’ve already suffered the brute force of your hand.”

“
That
was a friendly warning ta behave yerself.” He ran his fingers through the silky black hair that hung to his shoulders. “The next time will be a lesson in manners befitting a lady.”