Judith E French (6 page)

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly, “I can see where that would be a problem. Some dirty-minded creatures might think that you and I—”

“Exactly. Who wouldn’t think that? A day, a night, perhaps, but weeks alone with a madman? Even reasonable people would have cause to gossip. I’ll never be able to appear in public without my ordeal being mentioned.”

“You must take part of the blame, lass. ’Twas you who told me that you were an heiress.”

“You knew that I was a marchioness. What did you think? Did you suppose I was a butcher’s daughter?”

“I thought you were Sutherland’s woman.”

“But you were wrong, weren’t you?”

“Must ye harp on the one thing I’ve done wrong?”

“One thing? One thing? I can—”

“Hist, hist, mistress. Ye chatter on like an angry jay. You might have a little compassion for me, stuck with such a harridan for all these weeks. There are women who would have been kinder to me.”

“Of certain,” she cried. “Common strumpets—jades.”

“Your constant talking makes my ears ache.”

“Liar! I’ve not spoken to you for hours.”

“It didn’t seem that long to me.”

“Very well, I shall be quiet . . . if you tell me where you are taking me.”

Ross rolled his eyes heavenward. “For peace, I will do anything. I’m taking you to Castle Strathmar.”

“Why? What’s there? Will you send to my family for ransom from there? I don’t—”

He lifted one wide palm in front of her mouth. “Silence I was promised, and silence I will have, one way or the other,” he threatened.

Infuriated, Anne halted in midsentence and gritted her teeth to keep from saying something no lady should say. The arrogance of the man! Her breath came in strangled gulps and her head pounded as she tried to hold her temper.

Her earlier concern for his safety was wasted pity, she decided. Ross Campbell was a common outlaw and a kidnapper, and when Murrane’s mercenaries caught up with him, he’d get no more than he deserved.

The horse’s long legs covered mile after mile, and Anne rode in silence mile after mile, her resentment growing with each step. Images of castle dungeons formed in her mind. She had heard tales of women locked away for years in total darkness. The Highlands were known for cold and damp. What if she took ill? What if she wasted away in some rat-infested cell?

By the time Ross stopped to water the horse and give her time to tend to her personal needs, Anne was half in shock with fear. He swung down off the saddle and put his hands around her waist to lift her down, then paused when he saw her pale features.

“What’s wrong, hinney?” he asked. “Ye look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Anne opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. To her shame, two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Her lower lip trembled, and she sniffed, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “
I . . . I
spent . . . five months,” she managed, “five months locked in a tower room. I don’t want to go in a dungeon. I hate rats.”

Ross looked stunned. “What?”

She sniffed loudly. “Rats, I hate them.”

“I can’t promise you the castle doesn’t have rats, but no one’s going to lock you up,” he promised. He helped her dismount and led her to a rock. “Sit,” he ordered. “Now, what’s all this about a tower?”

She looked up into his dark eyes. They seemed opaque, giving no hint of what he was thinking. She straightened her shoulders. “My stepfather wanted me to agree to marry Murrane and I wouldn’t, so they held me prisoner for five months in one room.”

“Bastard.” Ross pulled her against him and kissed the top of her head. “Have I given ye reason to think I’d be so cruel?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I . . .” He was holding her so tightly she could hear his heart beating. The anger drained away to be replaced with a warm feeling of security. Anne’s heart began to pound faster. It felt so good to have him hold her like this. She tried to remember how much she hated him, how arrogant he was, how rotten, but her bones felt as though they were melting.

“Sweeting,” he murmured. He rubbed her jawline with his thumb, then tilted her face up to his. “I’d never lock you in a cell, lass, and I’d kill any man who did.” He brought his head down to within inches of her face. “Woman,” he uttered softly, “woman, you—”

She silenced him in the only way she could, and his lips were as warm and sweet as she’d remembered. Her stomach felt as though she’d swallowed a handful of butterflies, and her mind swirled. God, but he tasted good. She slipped her arms around his neck. He groaned, and the sound sent chills down her back.

This time there was no hesitation. Her body molded to his as easily as if she’d kissed this man a thousand times. Their tongues touched in a caress so tender that it brought tears to her eyes. And when at last they broke apart for air, Anne was trembling from her head to the soles of her feet.

Ross removed his plaid and spread it on the ground beside the rock. To Anne’s relief, she saw that he was wearing a vest and short kilt underneath. He held out his arms to her. “I mean ye no harm, hinney. I swear it.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to sit beside him, to cuddle her head against his shoulder, to raise her mouth to his to be kissed and kissed again. It seemed the sweetest thing in the world to hear his words of endearment, to touch his face, to run her fingers through his hair.

“Oh, Anne, what have I done,” he said softly. “I was wrong to take ye from your wedding, but as God is my witness, I am not sorry.”

“You’re a good man,” she whispered back. “I know you are . . . in spite of everything.”

“Nay, not good . . . but not bad either.”

“No, you are good.” She moistened her lips and looked full into his face. “And a good man could never hold a helpless woman for ransom.”

“Aye, you’re right about that, lass. It’s not a thing a decent man could be proud of.”

“Then . . .” Her eyes misted over with moisture. “Then I judged you wrongly. You don’t mean to hold me for a reward.”

“Nay, hinney, I never meant to do that. When I thought you were Sutherland’s sweetheart, that was different. I thought you wanted to be stolen. I did it for money, but I’d not take advantage of a woman.”

A radiant smile broke across her face. “Then you’re going to let me loose after all.”

“Hell, no. I’m not going to let you loose. What ever gave ye that idea?”

Anne jumped to her feet and backed away. “You’re not? Then what do you mean to do with me, you common ruffian?”

“Why, hinney, I thought you’d guessed. I mean to marry you myself.”

“Y
ou son of a bitch!” Anne scooped up a fist-sized rock and hurled it at Ross’s head.

He threw up his arm to protect his face. “Ouch! Stop that, woman!” Her second rock drew blood as it bounced off his ear. “Damn it! Don’t do that!” Ross dove for cover behind a boulder. “Stop I say!”

“Marry me? Not bloody likely, you—you lying cur!” She threw another missile with skill born of hours of practice. “You rotten bastard!” she shrieked as anger boiled up within her. She’d let him kiss her again—no, worse than that, she’d kissed him, over and over. She’d actually begun to trust him, and now he’d shown his true colors. He cared no more for her than her family or any of the other men who flocked around her. All he wanted was her money.

Ross yelped as she scored another hit and his Scots bonnet went flying. “Not if my flesh were pulled off with hot pincers,” she shouted. “I’d not marry you to save my immortal soul!”

“Lady! Anne! Hinney! For the love of God, be careful! You’ll hurt yourself!”

“You loathsome toad! Barbarian! I’d sooner marry a heathen Turk!”

He crouched low and covered his head with his hands. “Think of your reputation,” he shouted. “I’m saving ye from a life of shame.”

“You’re after my fortune, you depraved scum!”

Cautiously, he peered over the boulder at her. “Hinney,” he called, “we must talk.”

Anne dropped her last stone and ran toward the stallion. If she could just get up in the saddle. She had a chance to get away. “Whoa, whoa,” she said to the horse. She’d never ridden Tusca alone—she wasn’t even certain she could stay on the horse if she could mount, but she was too angry to worry about that. The stirrup was higher than she’d thought, but she managed to get one foot into it. Holding the reins in her hand, she tried to pull herself up, using the stirrup leather as a rope.

The stallion danced nervously and tossed his head. “Easy, easy, boy,” she murmured. She heaved herself upward and clung to the saddle as the horse began to walk.

“Damn it, woman, what do ye think you’re doing?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, saw him running toward her, and gave a final heave that brought her up over the animal’s withers. Heart pounding, she yanked on the reins and kicked the horse. “Gittup!” she yelled.

The stallion started trotting back the way they had come. “Woman!” Ross shouted.

Anne slapped the reins against the horse’s neck. “Go! Go!” she begged.

Ross brought two fingers to his lips and gave a loud whistle. Tusca stopped short, and Anne slid forward on his neck. Ross whistled again, and the stallion turned back.

“No!” Anne screamed. “Stay away from me.” Tusca snorted and began to paw the ground. He reared up, and Anne lost her precarious grip and tumbled off. She hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind out of her. When she opened her eyes, the Scot was leaning over her, glaring at her with those merciless black eyes.

“Are ye hurt?” he demanded, running his hands freely over her arms and legs. “That was a fool trick to try.”

“Take your hands off me,” she cried, rolling away from him and drawing her legs under her skirt. She pulled her knees up and hugged them against her. She was badly shaken, and fear was fast replacing her anger, but she wasn’t about to have him pawing her.

“Ye didn’t find my touch so loathsome a little while ago,” he said gruffly. “A man would have to be a fool to believe you didn’t enjoy it.”

“You tricked me,” she flung hack. “I thought you cared for me.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do ye want me to say? That I find ye desirable? You know that already. That I love ye?” He shook his head. “I’ve too much respect for you to whisper false words of love.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “At Strathmar, we’ll be wed. That will save your honor and protect my neck from the hangman’s noose or from the axe. My father tells me that half the brides in the Highlands were carried away by force in the old days. We’d not—”

“I don’t want to marry you,” she insisted. How could she ever have felt drawn to this man? Her own body had betrayed her, made her say and do things she’d never done before. “Nothing you can do to me will make me agree.”

The image of Murrane’s scarred face formed in her mind. Butcher of Sheriffmuir or not, at least he was a baron, a man of breeding. He’d had estates to take her to. Ross Campbell was nothing but an outlaw. “You’re a common thief,” she accused, “and mad as a bedlamite if you think you can save your skin by offering me marriage.”

“If stealing a woman makes a man a thief, then I suppose ye can call me that. I’ve taken horses from the Seneca, and stolen back Delaware captives from the Onondaga. I’ve even lifted rifles and powder from the Frenchies up near Lake Ontario, but I’m not common—not by a far shot. For what it may mean to you, I’ve never deserted a friend in trouble, or lied to one, for that matter. At home in the Colonies, my father and I lay claim to enough land to put a dozen Londons in and still have room for Paris. I’ve killed men that needed killing, but I’ve never harmed a woman—not even the Iroquois women who deserved to be killed for their vicious torture of captives.”

Anne put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “You’re talking nonsense. All your tall tales won’t convince me. I’ll have no part of you or your offer of marriage.”

Ross retrieved his bonnet and put it on his head. “Ye have it all wrong, hinney,” he said coldly. “I’m sorry for us both that it must come to this. I’ve no more wish to wed than you, and if I did choose a bride, it would be no dainty piece of English fluff.” He folded his big, muscular arms across his chest. “I’ve made you no offer. I’ve only done you the courtesy of telling you what I intend to do.”

Anne caught her lower lip in her teeth and blinked back the tears. “No,” she repeated softly.

He motioned toward the horse. “Save your weeping, woman. Will ye, nill ye, by this time tomorrow, you shall be my wedded wife. And all the tears and all the rocks in Scotland won’t alter that.”

 

Strathmar was worse than Anne had imagined. The castle sat on a stony outcropping in the middle of a lake, or loch as Ross called it.

For hours before they reached Strathmar, they had seen smoke from scattered crofts and an occasional herd of sheep or shaggy Highland cattle. The land looked poor to Anne; it was obvious to her that the rocky soil was ill-suited to crops. Trees were scarce and stunted. The few people she glimpsed seemed even wilder than the land.

A stone and wooden causeway led from the shore to Strathmar Castle, but the logs were rotting, and the stones slipping into the loch. Holes in the bridge were so wide and deep that Ross forced her to dismount and walk across. Wooden sections creaked and groaned under the weight of the stallion. Anne found herself clinging to Ross’s hand, in spite of her reluctance to have anything to do with him.

Halfway down the span, at a spot where dirt had been dumped to fill in a sinkhole, the road had turned into a giant mud puddle. A skinny black sow and her six half-grown piglets wallowed in the foul-smelling slime.

Anne wrinkled her nose in disgust as she edged her way around the mud hole. “Who owns this castle, the Prince of Darkness?”

Ross grinned wryly. “’Tis the ancestral home of the Earls of Strathmar of the clan Campbell. My father’s cousin Robert Bruce held the title until he drowned three years past. First he spent all the silver, then he drank all the whiskey. When that was gone, he turned to ale in desperation. He tumbled into a barrel and drowned trying to scoop out the dregs.”

“Your father’s cousin? You’re trying to tell me you’re related to the new earl?”

“In a way of speaking. He’s my daddy, Angus Campbell. Lord Strathmar—the twelfth Earl of Strathmar.” Ross’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “And that makes me the Master of Strathmar, the ancient and honorable title of the heir to this great estate.”

She snorted in derision. “Master of Pigs, more likely. Need I say I’m not particularly impressed?”

He grinned at her. “Me either. I’ve no need for such trumpery. At home, the Delaware call me Kuinishkuun Uipiitil—Tooth of the Panther. It’s a title I earned, and one I wear proudly.”

Anne grimaced and scuffed her shoe to scrape pig dung off the sole. “If your wilderness is such a paradise, why are you here? Why didn’t you stay there with your Indians and your bears?”

“A question, lass, I’ve asked myself more than once since I set foot on this cursed island.” The stallion kicked at a spotted shoat trotting down the causeway toward the mud puddle. Ross patted the horse’s neck and whispered soothingly to him, “Damned pigs,” he muttered. In two strides, Ross caught up with Anne again. “When my daddy left Strathmar, it was a thriving place. We thought there’d be a fortune connected to the title. I came over the water to fetch it home for him.”

“The title?”

“To the devil with the title. We had need of money, a lot of it. But instead of gold in the castle strongbox, I found unpaid bills. The sheriff wanted to throw me in debtors’ prison. I met Sutherland in a tavern in Edinburgh. We’d both been taking a wee kiss of firewater . . . and you know the rest.”

She tilted her head and glared at him, “So my life was ruined because two drunks met across a whiskey keg?”

“Harsh words, hinney. Harsh indeed for a lass about to be tossed to the likes of Murrane for his pleasure.”

“Fitzhugh Murrane never lied to me. He never pretended to want me for anything more than what I could bring him.”

“And you were so eager to share his marriage bed that you let them lock you in a tower for five months before you agreed to have him.”

“What I wanted, and what passed between me and my family, are none of your affair. You stole me like I was a spare shift hanging on a clothesline. You’re a thief, nothing more. I won’t marry a thief. You can’t make me.”

“We’ll see, said the crow.”

Her gray eyes took on a pale glow of desperation. “You’ve got to listen to reason. If you let me go, I’ll beg Murrane to drop the charges. I’ll swear you never touched me. If you want, I’ll lie and say you aren’t the man who kidnapped me at all. I’ll claim I never saw you before.”

Ross frowned. “Nay, hinney. That’s all well and good, but we know what your family thinks of your wishes. I never studied for the law, but this much I ken—if we are wed, you canna testify against me in a court of law. A wife canna bear witness against her lawful husband. That will prevent Murrane or anyone else from putting me to death on the kidnapping charge. Your fortune will get me back to the Maryland Colony.”

“But I—”

Anne’s argument was drowned out by an earsplitting cacophony. Without warning a huge pack of fierce-looking hounds spilled out onto the castle side of the causeway and ran toward them in full cry. Anne gasped and shrank back against Ross.

Without hesitation, he seized her around the waist and swung her up onto the stallion’s back. Before she could protest, he yanked the horse’s bridle off over his head, leaving her helpless to control the animal.

She suppressed a scream as three snarling dogs broke from the pack. The leader, an Irish wolfhound, was as big as a pony. Teeth bared, the wolfhound bore down upon Ross. The stallion reared and pawed the air. Anne clung to the mane and watched in horror as Ross cracked the bridle reins like a whip and lunged toward the dogs. Uttering a cry as savage as that of the wolfhound, Ross snapped the leather over the dog’s head.

The shaggy red beast dropped to a crouch and growled menacingly. “Down!” Ross ordered. He snaked the leather rein through the air to snap within inches of the wolfhound’s nose. Another dog, hot on the leader’s heels, thudded into the wolfhound and rolled aside with a strangled yelp. The third dog, a black and white mongrel missing one ear, circled left with raised hackles.

Ross snarled at him and lifted the bridle in warning. By the time the rest of the pack reached them, the wolfhound was whining and thumping its tail in submission. Ross dropped to one knee and called the red dog forward. The huge canine thrust its head against Ross’s hand and panted good-naturedly. Anne let out her breath slowly in relief as Ross lowered his face to be thoroughly licked. When he stood up, the rest of the pack crowded around, eager for attention.

“They’re your dogs, aren’t they?” Anne cried.

“Nay, hinney, but dogs are dogs. They need only to be shown who’s master.”

Arrogant bastard, she thought hotly. With great effort, she resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him like an angry child. He was infuriating. When she’d first seen the dogs running at them and thought they were in danger, she’d been afraid . . . for herself and for him. “Damn you to hell,” she whispered.

“Atch! Mind that tongue, woman. You’ve an evil temper, certain.” She ground her teeth together in frustration. No one had ever accused her of being ill-tempered. She’d always been known for her sweet, gentle nature. Whatever she did, whatever she said when she was with Ross Campbell was his fault and none other. She glanced hopefully at the black and white cur. With luck, maybe the beast would take a bite out of the seat of Ross’s kilt.

A man wearing the Campbell plaid hobbled down the causeway from the castle. “Who the hell do ye—” He broke off as he came near enough for his white-filmed eyes to focus on the intruders. “Master, ’tis ye. Welcome, sir.” He began to shoo the yipping dogs away with his staff, and they scattered. One tumbled off the bridge, bobbed up in the water, and began to swim toward shore.

Anne stared at the graybeard. He was thin as a rail, with a rough, red complexion. His nose was wide and crooked, and his mouth boasted a single tooth in the front. Long snarled locks sprouted from under a Scots bonnet and fell to his shoulders. His exposed neck was as wrinkled as a turkey-cock’s and as unwashed, she decided. The lines of gray showing above the folds of his plaid were undoubtedly dirt.

“Hurley.” Ross nodded to the old man as he slipped the stallion’s bridle back over his head. “Hurley is the steward here at Strathmar,” he said to Anne.