Highland Storm (3 page)

“Sorry,” Alexander said shortly as he swung into the saddle, holding Briar’s reins in one hand and gathering his horse’s in the other.

He didn’t sound especially sorry, but Isla let it go, wrapping her arms reluctantly around his waist. His soaked shirt counteracted any drying that had occurred in her own clothing, but his body was still warm beneath his wet garments. He heeled his horse—miraculously managing not to jostle her foot—while towing Briar by the reins, at the sorrel’s side.

“Stop here,” Isla said, about ten minutes later.

“What? Here?” Alexander asked. He eyed the surrounding wilderness incredulously. “There’s nothin’ but pines and heather here.”

“Aye, here,” she repeated firmly.

“Dinnae play games with me, Isla.”

“I have some business in the forest. Leave me at its edge.”

“What business could a lass like you have in the forest?”

“It isnae any of
your
business, Alexander Gordon.”

“Ye’ll make it my business if ye want me to let ye off this horse.”

She straightened as best she could, leaning away from Alexander’s back and regretting the absence of his body heat at once. She shivered, but refused to let her teeth chatter as she spoke.

“You’ve no right to keep me on this horse.”

“I’ve no right to abandon a crippled lass to her doom,” he countered.

“I amnae
crippled
!”

“Aye, ye are, at least for now—and so is your horse. And a sorry pair ye’d make sopping at the edge of the forest alone together!”

Isla scowled at Alexander’s muscular back, narrowing her eyes as if her gaze could sear a hole through his shirt and burn the skin between his shoulder blades. An awkward silence ensued.

“Are ye meetin’ a lover?” he finally asked, breaking the quiet spell.

“What?” Her cheeks burnt as if they’d been set aflame. “Of course not!”

His voice was steady, but the tips of his ears went distinctly pink. “I couldnae think of many other things a lass would be doin’ out in that Godforsaken forest. I only thought that if there were another man here to care for ye, I could go and leave ye be.”

She couldn’t bring herself to lie. “There isnae another man.”

“Well, then, I mustnae leave ye to yourself.” He swung out of the saddle and offered her a hand. “I’ll accompany ye into the woods.”

She gazed down at his supine palm and outstretched fingers, ashamed to find herself tempted to accept his offer. “I—I must go alone,” she stammered.

“Why?” he asked, his vivid blue eyes narrowing in suspicion. The small change seemed to intensify his gaze, and Isla feared again that he’d see straight through her, past her stalwart refusal to explain herself and right into the fear that had driven her to this ‘Godforsaken’ place. The idea was irrational, but it still made her stomach flip-flop unsettlingly.

She eyed the tree line warily. “It’s personal.”

“I willnae interfere with ye, so long as ye dinnae do anythin’ to endanger yourself.”

“It isnae dangerous.”

“Then let me come with ye.” His blue gaze locked with hers, imploring, stubborn…maybe even more stubborn than she was. That particular realisation was just as disconcerting as it was surprising.

Her resolve wavered beneath his gaze. The throbbing pain in her foot and the driving rain didn’t help, either. She couldn’t wait to get out of the open and take advantage of what shelter the forest canopy offered. “Do ye promise ye willnae interfere, or…or think me a fool?”

“I already think ye the most foolish lass I’ve ever met.”

She scowled and withdrew the hand she’d been about to place in his. Damn it all, why hadn’t she lied and told him she was meeting a lover?

 
“Och, come on!” he said. “Do ye really care what a stinking Gordon thinks of ye?” He cocked a dark eyebrow and flashed her a mischievous half-smile.

She relaxed her scowl. “As a matter of fact, I dinnae give a damn,” she said, tempted to return his smile. Alexander opened his mouth to reply—or worse, Isla thought, maybe to try to kiss her again—but she slapped her hand into his and began to manoeuvre awkwardly out of the saddle before he could speak, her skirts swinging damply around her ankles.

Before she could manage to dismount on her own, he seized her by the waist and plucked her from atop the horse as if she were no heavier than a child. He then carried her several yards to the edge of the forest, where he deposited her beneath the sturdiest nearby boughs. A few moments later, he’d returned with the horses and tethered them to trees. Then he turned his blue eyes on her, giving her a look that seemed to say ‘where to now?’

“It’s just a wee bit further, I think.”

“Ye
think
? Ye havnae been wherever it is you’re goin’ before?”

Sudden heat warmed Isla’s face as Alexander helped her up, his callused fingertips sending a slight shiver down her spine as they met hers. “Well, not exactly,” she admitted, her will to spit out a nastier reply dispelled by his touch.

“And I dinnae suppose you’re gonnae tell me where we’re goin’?”

Isla considered it. “Well, it’s a spring I’ve heard of. The spring of Saint Himelin, it’s called.”

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, I’ve heard tell of it.”

He lifted her suddenly from the ground and she gave a small gasp of surprise.

“Ye might as well not protest,” he said. “Ye cannae walk through the forest with a broken foot, and it isnae much trouble for me to carry ye to the spring.” His tone was all practicality, but he tightened his hand ever so slightly around hers as he spoke. He didn’t ease the pressure as he met her eyes.

Isla contemplated arguing, but thought better of it. She really
couldn’t
walk through the forest on her own, and there was no way she was about to crawl in front of him. And she
had
to get to the spring. “Aye,” she said simply, letting the sides of her cloak fall away from her and brush Alexander’s knees as he started forward. His body warmed her better than the damp wool could.

“I think we’re close,” Isla said a short while later. “I’ve heard it’s nae a mile from the roadside.”

Alexander nodded, giving a small grunt of assent. He’d been carrying her the entire way without complaint, though she thought a few of the beads of moisture on his brow might be sweat, not rainwater. His body was like a hot stove, warming her thoroughly against the air’s bitter chill. Alexander noticed. “Ye dinnae have a fever, do ye?”

She blushed more deeply and puller her hood tightly around her face. “Nae, it’s only that your body is so warm.”

He paused. “Too warm? I could—”

“No.” She answered quickly, before he could finish. There had been a slight shift in his hold that had indicated he had been about to put her down. She didn’t want that…because she didn’t want to catch a chill and a real fever, of course.

He tightened his hold on her and wordlessly started forward again. Isla was gently buffeted by the subtle contractions and relaxations of his arm and stomach muscles as he moved.

He really is verra strong…

Not that his impressive strength made up for him being a Gordon. Nobody had ever said the Gordons weren’t strong—their faults lay in other areas.

“Is this it, then?” Alexander asked, finally pausing.

Isla snapped her head to the left, scanning the forest landscape for some sign of the spring, embarrassed to have so easily forgotten what she was supposed to be looking for. A silvery gleam caught her eye and she turned, relieved, to see a pool of clear water beneath several large rocks, from which the water flowed.

“Aye, it must be.”

Alexander carried her several more steps to the spring’s edge, then lowered her carefully onto the ground. His heat lingered on her for a few moments, though not strongly enough to chase away the chill that hung in the air. Caught up in the excitement of finally reaching the spring, Isla hardly cared. There, on the bank, rested a bunch of wildflowers secured with a ribbon. The blossoms had withered and the wide strip of pink satin was grubby and had faded almost to whiteness—a token left at the spring by some past visitor. Had that person felt the same fierce hope clawing at himself or herself that Isla now felt rising up from her own belly, clenching her heart in its fist and causing it to beat faster? She pressed a hand to her breast, as if to still it, and caught her reflection in the pool’s surface.

She was somewhat dishevelled after the day’s events—a few rebellious locks of her hair poked out from beneath her hood like tiny, fiery snakes. She reached up to smooth them just as she noticed Alexander’s image peering over her shoulder, his blue gaze just as intense in reflection as it was face-to-face. She blushed and her likeness’ face went red as she lowered her hand.

“Thank ye Alexander,” she said, “for bringing me here.”

 
His reflection stared back at her, intense and silent.

“I…” She didn’t know what to say. She had thanked him—would he not leave now that she’d done so? She could hardly do what she had come here for with him staring at her like that! “Are ye…”

He dropped
suddenly to his knees beside her, his kilt making the softest of sounds as it flared briefly in a rush of air, then fluttered down to meet the earth. “They say it’s so quiet
and peaceful here that God hears ye a little better. Some say a prayer given on the banks of this spring cannae but come true,” he said, finally lowering his gaze to the muddy bank and the water’s edge.

“Aye,” Isla said, “I’ve heard the same thing.”

“Well,” he replied, “since I’m here, it would seem a waste not to pray.” His tone was pure practicality, but there was an air of reverence about him as he bowed his head slightly and tucked a hand into his sporran, searching. When it re-emerged he held a rosary—a simple thing strung with carved wooden beads and a small stone cross. Isla eyed it with disdain.

A papist!

But then, had she really expected him to be anything else, being the Gordon he was? And here she was, too, papist or no, kneeling at a saint’s spring. She looked away and closed her eyes, intent on beginning her own prayer. Her lips began to move almost silently. Beside her, Alexander was crossing himself, beginning a truly soundless imploration.

 
What could he be praying so fervently for? Isla shot a quick sideways glance at Alexander and noted how he clutched the rosary as his mouth moved silently, his dark brows plunging between eyes that were shut tight.

Never mind.

Anger surged anew in her breast, though at herself this time, not Alexander. She should be focusing on her own prayer, not stealing glances at him! She closed her eyes firmly and resumed the most heart-felt prayer she’d ever made.

“So,” Alexander said several minutes later, when they’d both opened their eyes, “is that why ye came here, Isla? To pray?”

She nodded.

“What did ye pray for, then?” He spoke casually, but a curious gleam lit his beautiful eyes.

Isla shook her head. “I cannae say.” He wouldn’t loosen her tongue with his piercing blue gaze this time. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, prepared to resist any inquisition.

“Och, no?” His tone was surprisingly casual, and he glanced to the side, apparently examining the ribboned bundle of wilted flowers instead of her.

Isla shook her head again, feeling relieved as well as…disappointed? Her emotion surprised her, and she tried not to care that, for once, he wasn’t looking at her. “Truly, I cannae say a word. It shames me even to think it.”

She frowned down at her knotted hands, which were strikingly white in her grey homespun lap. Why was she blabbering so much, and to a Gordon at that? She wished he would return his gaze to her. Somehow, the absence of it seemed to be unravelling her resolve more effectively than its presence.

She was surprised when he slipped a hand beneath her chin, guiding her eyes, forcing them to meet his. His face was serious now, stormy—a look enhanced by his eyes, the colour of a sky that was slightly too dark for the sun to be out for much longer.

“Your comin’ here…it didnae have anythin’ to do with those bruises, did it?”

Isla’s eyes suddenly went wide, and she struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “I dinnae ken what you’re talkin’ about,” she said coolly. Her adamancy had sprung up suddenly again, and her hands trembled slightly under its force, knotted together more fiercely than ever.

Alexander frowned silently down at her as he ran a finger under her chin, tracing the curve of her jawbone. The feel of his touch against her tender skin made goose flesh rise up all over her body, and her nipples did the same beneath her layers of sodden clothing. She found herself unable to break eye contact with him, and settled instead for compressing her mouth into a thin line of resolve. Her jaw twinged slightly as his touch skimmed a bruise she knew darkened her skin there.

“Och, that…” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as unsteady to him as it did to her. “Ye cannae know that I didnae get the bruise when Briar knocked me down today.”

“I was there. The horse didnae strike your jaw.”