Highland Promise (3 page)

        "I am not going down that trail!" she wailed. "They are waiting, I tell you!"

        "I cannot believe the laird intends to keep the ugly lass," Michael said in disbelief. "How much do you think we'll be getting for her?"

        She glared up at the brutes and noticed Roland scratching his head as if he couldn't believe Laird intended to keep her either. "I'm doubting a cow, but mayhap a goat."

        "Nothing!" Faith resumed hammering the massive back. "You will get nothing because we shall all be dead."

        The warrior holding her grunted. "We will cut through this Rothley's land. You will ride with me."

        She soared through the air only to land seated sideways on the back of a giant black stallion. Terror gripped her like a coiling serpent. Trembling set into every limb. Perspiration poured from her flesh. Her heart bombarded her ribs in a wild rhythm. Shallow breaths came so fast she felt like she was smothering. Faith detested her fear of horses, but had never been able to master it.

        "Are you ill, lass?"

        She wanted to answer and plead with the domineering stranger to remove her from the beast, but a lump in her throat blocked the words.

        Just when she thought fear would surely kill her, she was off the beast and on the ground. Her knees buckled. She clutched at the warrior's tunic and leaned against him.

        Large hands held her, stroking in soothing patterns over her back, and her panic subsided. A strange sense of security that she didn't understand enveloped her. She eased away, averting her gaze. "My thanks. I am a coward around horses. I will accompany you through Baron Rothley's land, but may I please walk?"

         "Look at me when you make a request," he ordered.

         "I still think the lass is lying, laird," Michael warned.

        The insult was too much for Faith. She spun around and glared at Michael. "Ride down the trail alone. If I lie, we shall meet you on the other side. If I do not, I shall have a Mass said for your stupid male soul." She turned her glower on Roland. "And for your information, I am worth much more than a cow."

        She scurried around the horses, keeping a wary gaze on the beasts, and headed toward the forest trail that led to Baron Rothley's land. A large hand grasped her wrist. She looked up and her steps faltered as she found herself once again caught in the snare of cobalt eyes.

        "Show me your hands."

        Faith's cheeks burned. She hid her fists behind her and backed away not wanting to show her weakness.

        He caught her by her shoulders and released a weary sigh. "It wasn't a request, Faith."

        When she didn't move, he pulled her arms from behind her back and held her wrists. She bowed her head as shame washed over her. They may only be passing strangers, but she didn't want him to think her a puny coward.

        "Open your hands."

        She slowly extended her fingers, revealing cuts in her callused palms. He lightly traced his fingers over the injuries. His salt mixed with her blood, and she winced, feeling the sting into her wrists.

        "How did you get these wounds?"

        Snatching her hands back, she glowered, taking refuge in anger. "They are marks of my own cowardice. I make them when I am afraid. Are you happy to know that you and your horses scare me, or do you wish to further humiliate me before your men so the lot of you can laugh at the cowardly English lass?"

        He looked at her with an inscrutable expression, then turned away and walked to his horse. His men stared at her with solemn faces.

        "Do you truly fear us, Lady Faith?" Roland asked.

        She thought the question ludicrous, considering they had all gotten a good view of her hands. She looked away, refusing to answer.

        "Despite your fear, you came to warn us anyway," Michael said, and she wondered at the inflection in his voice. He almost sounded like he admired her.

        Laird took a wineskin and pouch from his saddle, then returned to her. Without uttering a word, he motioned for her to hold out her hands.

        She followed the command. He poured fresh water over her flesh, cleansing the wounds of dirt and blood. Then he took a handful of a driedherb mixture from the pouch and combined it with water, making a thick paste. Clasping one of her wrists, he slapped the concoction onto her palm and held onto her so she couldn't pull away.

        The paste had all the pain-relieving benefits of salt. She hissed in a breath as tears brimmed her eyes, but she wouldn't let the tears overflow.

        "You could have warned me." She glared at the brute, though she noticed the fiery pain was leaving and a blessed numbness was taking its place.

        "You will keep the paste on your hands until the morrow." Releasing her wrist, he leaned down and tore a strip from the hem of her underskirt before she realized his intent. Then he stood and wrapped her hand.

        Nothing further was spoken between them as he repeated the process with her other hand. She looked at his fierce visage and found it at odds with the gentleness he showed her. She wasn't used to anyone other than Noreen giving her such tender regard these days and couldn't fathom why this man bothered with an ugly stranger with a wart. What would he look like if he smiled? As he tied off the second bandage, she chided herself for such a fanciful notion. Her only business with this man was to keep him safe so he could help her reach Saint Bride.

        "My thanks," she whispered.

        He grunted, returned his gear to his saddle, then turned to his men. "We walk."

        The warriors groaned and cast accusing glances her way, but they all dismounted.

        Faith studied the ground, her cheeks ablaze. She didn't know if she could survive an afternoon with these men, considering the emotional turmoil they wreaked within her. Especially the biggest one who liked to issue orders and thought it his right to manhandle her.

~ * ~

        Laird Brendan Sutherland called on all his self-control to maintain a neutral expression. He whistled a command to his horse to follow and approached the lass. When he promised his brother's wife, Lady Ranald, he would marry Lady Faith of Hawkhurst, he didn't expect to find such an unusual woman.

        As he neared the lass, she raised an apologetic aquamarine gaze. The changing beauty in her eyes struck him. He had noticed their color shifted with her moods, which seemed a too frequent occurrence. They saved her from being homely. When she was fearful, they appeared cloudy blue, but when her temper flared, they turned a turbulent sea green.

        Her disguise intrigued him. He felt the padding under her gown with their first contact, and she didn't weigh much more than a lamb. He also noticed the sprinkling of flour across her face and tightly braided dark hair. The warty mole above her upper lip had to be fake and was a genius touch. It was also all he could do not to flick the hideous thing off her face. He detected faint evidence of a darkening stain on her neck, chin, and jaw, which gave her face the illusion of plumpness. Upon closer inspection, he determined her features would be quite delicate without the alterations.

        He knew the deception wasn't meant to fool only him. Lady Ranald said not to believe his eyes when he met the lass. In fact, Lady Ranald said Faith's beauty went beyond her own, which was a considerable feat in his estimation. He shoved the puzzle to the back of his mind and halted before the lass.

        "You will never call yourself a coward again," he ordered. As her chin dropped, he seized her arm and strode along the upward trail that Faith had entered earlier. She tugged on her arm a few times. He held fast, and she quit struggling.

        "I am not a complainer by nature," she snapped. "But it has obviously missed your notice that God erred at your birth and your legs grew too long."

        So, she was a sassy bit of baggage, was she? Brendan slowed his pace and continued their hike. Her scent was light and feminine, a clear distraction to his way of thinking. He even detected the faintest hint of lavender in the air about her. It was damn arousing, which was irritating because she didn't look like the type of woman to bring a man pleasure.

        They approached a fallen tree blocking the trail. Faith grasped her hem, preparing to jump. Shaking his head, he slipped one arm around her back and the other behind her knees, then lifted her against his chest.

        She gasped and clasped his shoulders as he stepped over the tree. Then he set her on her feet. She didn't thank him. She punched his belly. "You may not touch me in such a familiar fashion again. I shall not have it." She smoothed her ugly kirtle as if she were dressed in the finest court gown and walked ahead of him. "I am going to be a nun, for heaven's sake. I would think even a heathen Highlander could respect that."

        Brendan caught hold of her arm, forcing her to walk at his side. She would know her future as a nun was in jeopardy soon enough. She had a fire inside her that he hadn't expected in an Englishwoman. He would enjoy her unmasking. For the first time in ages, he felt like smiling.

        "Well?" she demanded.

        He raised an inquiring brow.

        "Are you going to release my arm?"

        "Nay."

        "'Tis not proper for you to touch me. I do not even know who you are, except that your name is Laird. And that must surely be some kind of heathen name, for I have never heard of a good Christian bearing such."

        "My name is not laird. Laird is my title."

        "Well, I knew you were a leader of some kind, since your men all defer to you."

        As they walked on, she glowered at him and prodded, "Well?"

        He'd never had a woman show him this much temper and rather enjoyed the verbal sparring. "Well what?"

        "Are you going to tell me your name?"

        "Laird is what you may call me." He grunted in appreciation when she gritted her teeth and grumbled the word arrogant under her breath.

        "You are rude."

        "'Tis good of you to notice."

        "'Twas not a compliment." She dug in her heels and jerked her arm from his grasp. "I refuse to take another step with someone who will not tell me his name. Are you a criminal of some sort that you are afraid to tell me?"

        Sparring was one thing, but no one taunted him in such a manner. He intended to set this little termagant back on her ears. He placed his fists on his hips, knowing how intimidating he appeared in such a pose. The lass had the nerve to mimic him, settling her fists on her hips. She met his gaze. She was no coward. He would give her that much. Foolish, but no coward.

        "My name is Brendan Sutherland, but you may call me Laird."

        The change in her was instantaneous and her smile, bedazzling as the aquamarine of her eyes, danced with iridescent sparkles. Pure joy radiated about her as she clasped one of his fists into both of her hands. "Do you truly mean it? You are truly Brendan Sutherland? Do you swear?"

        "Every damn day."

        Her smile did not falter and delight glowed from her expression. "Do not jest. You know that is not what I meant. Are you the Brendan Sutherland from near a place called Dornoch Firth?"

        The excitement in her dusky tone heated him to his very core. Her touch was purposeful and friendly, and those twinkling eyes with that elated smile made his heart kick like a mule. Frowning over the feelings she aroused and wondering where she could have heard of him, he nodded abruptly.

        His nod made the sparkles in her eyes brighten. "I have wanted to meet you for ever so long and—"

        A horse snorted farther up the trail. Brendan shoved her behind him and drew his sword. His men joined him, weapons in hands and surrounded her.

        A lean warrior riding a roan mare broke through the trees, accompanied by ten soldiers. He drew rein, halting in front of them.

        Brendan assessed the man in a flash and judged him to be a leader of advanced years—at least his mid-forties, judging by his graying hair. This Englishman and his soldiers were no match for Highland warriors.

        "Why do you trespass on my land and draw arms?" the elder demanded.

        "They are with me, milord," Faith called and pushed on Brendan's back.

        The intruder dropped his hand to his sword. "Is that you, Lady Faith?"

        "Aye, 'tis I." She stuck her arm between Brendan and Roland's waists

and waved. Brendan shoved her hand behind his back.

        "Are these men giving you trouble, milady?" the old warrior asked with genuine concern.

        "Nay, milord. I believe they think to protect me from you. They do not know you are a friend." She poked at Brendan's back again. "Would you move?"

        Brendan sheathed his sword. His men followed suit, but held their positions. He allowed Faith to leave the circle, but kept her beside him. She grumbled under her breath and rammed her puny elbow into his side, all the while flashing a smile at the intruder.

        "Baron Rothley, this is Laird Brendan Sutherland. His...ah...father was a good friend of...my mother's sister...my aunt. He is passing through on his way to King Henry's court."

        "Are you sure, milady?"

        She nodded. From the way her eyes darted about, Brendan knew she was trying to think of more to add to her story. She needed to keep her mouth shut. The lass had no notion how to lie.

        Baron Rothley turned, assessing his eyes on Brendan. "I mean no offense, Laird Sutherland. We have trouble with ruffians stealing our women, so I had to ensure the lady was safe. While Faith may not please the eyes, I know not another woman with her ability to—"

        "'Tis the truth, Laird Sutherland is a friend," Faith blurted out. "He told me ah...the Almighty made no finer lake than the Spey. He has not seen the grandeur of our English countryside though. So I told him that he must see your beautiful lake."