Highlander Unchained (20 page)

He stopped and reached for his goblet. But even the whisky suddenly tasted bitter. Thinking he was done, the lass tried to crawl away, but he gave her a sharp slap on her bottom and pulled her hips angrily against him, letting her know otherwise. He jabbed her harder, showing his displeasure, and she made a pathetic little yelping sound.

A hot surge of lust filled his groin. That was more like it. Normally he wasn’t so rough, but the anger inside him had festered like an open wound. Violence was its only release. If not against Coll, then…He slapped her again, leaving a flat angry handprint on her pale skin.

He slammed into her harder and harder, his frenzy only increasing with her muffled sounds of distress.
Oh yes.
That was it. He felt the pressure building and slapped her again. She cried out, and with a few rough pumps, he spewed his seed deep inside her.

He pulled out, and she collapsed on the bed, curling into a tiny ball, whimpering. The sound infuriated him. He pushed her roughly from the bed and tossed her a coin. Which was more than she deserved. Even coming had left him strangely unsatisfied. It was probably the chit’s fault. These people of Coll were a surly bunch.

They blamed him for their circumstances when it was their laird who should feel their wrath. It was
his
defiance that had put them in this position.

The girl reached for her gown, but he wrenched it from her hands and used it to wipe himself before handing it back to her. After gathering the rest of her clothing, she left, never once raising her eyes. At least she knew her place.

Which was more than could be said of her former laird. Anger and resentment returned in full force, not softened by his release one whit. Coll’s continued refusal to bow to him as chief ate at him like acid. It was a blow to Hector’s pride that could be satisfied only by Coll’s death.

He needed a plan. A way to get his sister back and destroy Coll at the same time. Poor little Flora. He had fond enough memories of the girl to regret that she’d become involved. But the willful lass had brought it on herself.

If Coll had touched her, Hector swore that he would not live long enough to regret it.

Chapter 9

Flora fought to control the panic rising in her chest. But it was dark and cold, and danger seemed to permeate the night like a heavy wet plaid. The knowledge that it was likely all in her mind drew little comfort. She knew well what she risked.

A sharp wind blew across the rocky crags, peppering her face with droplets of sea spray and filling her nose with the sharp salty tang of the ocean, though the blustery wind wasn’t strong enough to keep the mist at bay. As gray and soupy as gruel, it was a double-edged sword. The mist would help cloak her escape from the watchful eye of the guards, but it would also make navigating the treacherous sound even more perilous.

I can do this,
she told herself. The Isle of Mull was close enough to see the heather and bluebells carpeting the hillsides; the boat—really more of a skiff—was small enough for her to manage on her own.

She had no choice. She had to leave this place. After what had happened today in the laird’s solar, she could not stay another day. Disappointment still burned in her throat. He was just like everyone else, wanting to use her for his own ends. Her chest tightened, leaving her amazed by how much it still hurt.

She was a fool. No man would ever be able to see beyond the prize.

She took another step down the path and felt the rocks give way beneath her foot. Her arms reached out wildly in the night air for something to hold on to. For a long, hair-raising moment, she thought she might slide off the cliff. Somehow she managed to regain her balance, but she couldn’t prevent the small landslide of rocks from tumbling down the hill.

A dog barked. And then another.

She stood stone still, ears cocked, heart pounding in her chest as she waited to see whether the noise would draw the attention of the guards. Not for the first time, she cursed the flimsy satin slippers that would have been perfect for a wedding but had little traction on the slick pathway. With few women at the castle, more appropriate shoes had not been available. For the second time, those once beautiful shoes could ruin everything.

A minute passed, and finally, hearing no voices, she exhaled.

Although it was well past midnight, a castle never slept. Guards were always stationed around the
barmkin
wall, ready for an attack. It was her luck that they hadn’t anticipated an escape. Hiding in the shadows of the keep, she’d lain in wait for her opportunity. It had taken some time, but finally, with the changing of the guard, she was able to slip across the courtyard and through the gate before the porter had made his rounds, locking it for the night.

Now with even greater care after her near disastrous tumble, she worked her way slowly down the steep path to the small inlet where she’d noticed the skiff. Every detail of that day was forever branded on her consciousness. It was the day he’d kissed her with such passion and awakened her desire from its innocent slumber. The day she’d allowed herself to hope.

She shook off the memory. That was before she’d learned the truth.

Her feet sank deep into sand as she stepped onto the beach. The mist had dissipated enough to make out the shadow of a large object a short way down the beach. Exactly where she remembered it. She sighed with relief.

Her pulse quickened as she drew nearer. Tentatively. Every nerve ending set on edge. Wishing there were another way. But the sea was her only hope of success. The laird stabled a small number of horses within the
barmkin
in a small enclosure built against the north side of the wall, but she’d never be able to steal a horse without being seen. On foot, she would never be able to outrun them. Not across the rugged open terrain of Morvern. A place of endless vistas of barren moorland and dangerous peat bogs, without the cover of trees in which to hide.

It had to be the boat.

She swallowed the well of panic rising in her throat as, unbidden, the memories assailed her. It was a long time ago, but the memory of her near drowning was as strong as if it had happened only yesterday.

She’d been seven, staying at Inveraray for the summer with her aunt and uncle, the former Earl of Argyll. The occasion had been a wedding feast for her cousin Archie, the present earl, and the first time all of her brothers—and even a few of her sisters—had all been in the same place at the same time. She’d wanted desperately to impress them, so when she saw them going to the loch for a swim one morning, she’d traipsed along after them. When Rory had asked her whether she knew how to swim, knowing they wouldn’t let her go if she said no, she’d nodded confidently.

Everything had been fine. She’d taken off her stockings and slippers and plunged her toes in the cool water. The rest of the group was in the middle of the loch, splashing and diving and laughing. Curious to hear what they were saying, she’d taken a few more steps toward them. And then a few more. And then…promptly dropped into a black void.

She’d never forget the feeling of the dark, suffocating water closing over her, filling her nose, her mouth, her lungs. There was a moment where the world stilled—where what was happening didn’t seem real. Where every second extended for a minute. She paddled her arms and for a moment bobbed near the surface, before the weight of her body dragged her down like a rock.

She remembered thinking how dark and murky it was and how she couldn’t even see her hands in front of her face. She remembered thinking how angry her mother would be that Flora had lied. But most of all, Flora remembered not being able to breathe.

She was lucky. Her struggle, the single splash that she’d managed above the surface, had been witnessed by her brother Alex. Her brothers, all four of them—for William had still been alive then—reached her just in time. The water had been over ten feet deep, and Rory said later that she’d been lying on the bottom, curled up like a mermaid—or the
Maighdean na Tuinne,
as he called them.

She’d never forget her mother’s tears or her brothers’ collective anger. She’d never seen them so unified. To a one, they’d been furious that she’d lied to them. Even Alex had yelled at her. Her excuse that they wouldn’t have allowed her to come if they knew the truth had been met by deaf ears.

The next time the group went to the loch, she stayed at the castle.

A pattern, it seemed, that was repeated ever after.

Her gaze fell to the skiff, resting peacefully on its side a few feet up from the water’s edge.

She steeled herself against the sudden flash of panic.
I can do this
.

Her fear of the water wasn’t usually an issue, since she’d been raised mostly in the Lowlands. Not the way it would be in the Isles, where Highlanders ruled the vast seaways on their
birlinns
like their Norse ancestors before them. Their prowess on the water was part of their way of life. Yet another reason she didn’t belong here.

Indeed, the journey a few weeks ago was the first time she’d been in a boat in years. She’d been fine. She’d hoped that maybe her fear had lessened, but now she knew better. It was
Lachlan
who’d abated her fear. His presence had made the difference. Even then, she’d intuitively trusted his strength.

But not any longer.

Now she trusted only herself.

God, how she missed her mother.

Her fingers were stiff and awkward with the cold as she worked the knot of the rope, but eventually she managed to untie the mooring. After checking to make sure the oars were inside, she pushed the boat as quietly as possible to the water. The scrape of the hull against the sand and stones sounded unnaturally loud, but in a few minutes the water caught it with its natural buoy.

This was it. After sliding on the pattens she’d brought for this purpose, she took her first tentative step into the water. A black wave of nausea gave her a moment of dizziness, but she fought it back. She forced her feet forward until the water lapped around her knees. Taking a deep breath for courage, she climbed in. The skiff rolled sharply to the side, and she bit back a scream. Lying prone across the bottom, she gripped the sides until her knuckles turned white as the small craft rocked back and forth with her weight. Eventually, it steadied. Only then did she carefully adjust her position to sitting. Not giving herself time to think, she took one of the oars in her hand and began to paddle—her confidence increasing with each stroke.

It was slow, difficult work. Though the sea appeared calm, the current was surprisingly strong. After a few minutes, she paused and turned around to check her progress, dismayed to see that she’d traveled only fifty feet or so beyond the beach.

It was going to be a long night. But she could do it.

God, she was cold. She tried to adjust her cloak, but her wet fingers were like ice. Her feet were completely soaked, not just from dragging in the skiff, but also from the few inches of standing water in the bottom of the hull. She should have been more careful when she paddled not to splash water in the boat.

Not giving herself time to think, she plunged the oar in again and pulled hard, wanting to put as much distance between her and the beach as possible. Fighting the current that seemed intent on pulling her back.

Something called to her.

A voice hovering on the edge of the wind. A longing deep in her soul. An invisible force that compelled her to turn around. She gazed up to the keep looming in the darkness, barely able to make it out through the shadowy haze. An overwhelming sense of sadness hit her. She thought of how much she’d miss Mary, Gilly, Murdoch, Alasdair, and even the crotchety old Morag. She regretted not being able to say good-bye to the girls but swore that as soon as she was able, she would send for them. No matter what
he
said.

Lachlan Maclean. She hoped she never saw him again. Even now the memory of him tormented her. He’d confused her, evoking a maelstrom of emotions that she didn’t begin to understand. Except that it hurt.

A single tear slid out of the corner of her eye. Furious, she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

She’d waited too long. She should have tried to escape as soon as he’d allowed her freedom to move about the castle. Before she’d grown attached. Perhaps then she could have prevented the burning ache located precariously close to her heart.

With one last look behind her, she faced forward, a determined set to her shoulders, and resumed paddling.

The thought that he might have been wrong about Flora’s reaction haunted Lachlan throughout the day. After what had happened, he wasn’t surprised when she begged off from the evening meal. He’d thought about searching her out but decided to leave her in peace. For now.

Unable to sleep, he sat sprawled out in a chair beside the fire, gazing at the bright orange flames until his eyes hurt.

Hell.

He slammed the goblet he’d been holding onto the table beside him with a curse. The strange disquiet prickling inside him could not be washed away with
cuirm
. He stood up, paced around his chamber for a few minutes, and decided he’d had enough. Before he could think better of it, he left his room and climbed the two levels to the top of the tower. Standing outside her door, he braced himself, knocked—and heard only silence in response.