Much Ado About Highlanders (The Scottish Relic Trilogy) (8 page)

“You are the devil, Alexander Macpherson.”

His eyes were closed, but a smile tugged at his lips.

“That’s where you need to be healing me next.”

May I be so converted and see with these eyes?

I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn,

but Love may transform me to an oyster;

but I’ll take my oath on it,

till he have made an oyster of me.

Emily was no hunter or tracker, but she knew many men had come through the place they’d camped. When they arrived at the riverside clearing at dusk, she felt the claws of panic scratching at her normally calm façade.

The rawhide that bound Kenna was still attached to the tree. Scraps of the food she and James left for the two were scattered on the ground by the cold ashes of the fire. Everything else was gone. For the first time the full danger Kenna might be in hit her hard.

The Macpherson and MacDougall warriors spread out into the woods and along the river, searching.

The harmless hoax had turned sour. But angry as Emily was with James before for keeping her ignorant of the affairs, she couldn’t be angry with him now. She could see he felt a hundred times worse. His plan had put them all in this predicament. She knew the last thing he wanted was to put his brother and Kenna in danger. Emily saw him stride out of the trees and speak with Kester for a moment before heading toward the river. He was all concentration and didn’t even seem to notice her as he brushed past.

She stayed out of the men’s way as they used what daylight remained to check footprints and whatever else might help them decide what happened to Alexander and Kenna.

There were no bodies, dead or wounded, and no blood that she could see. Emily told herself that had to be good news. Her hope was confirmed sometime later when Kester joined her.

“The raiding party, if that’s who came through here, went down both sides. But there’s no sign of any woman’s footprint below this point. No one went upriver,” the MacDougall leader told her. “They went in the river.”

“Kenna is a good swimmer, but the current is strong. Do you think they got away unharmed?”

“That’s my hope. James says Alexander could swim from here to Oban, if need be. But as you say, m’lady, the current is strong. Still, I don’t see anyone else jumping in after them.”

Emily watched as James Macpherson came back into the circle of his men. He was impressive even in times of distress. On the way here, she’d ridden recklessly to keep up after he and Kester caught up to them and James galloped ahead. Chasing after him had been exhilarating. Still, she felt a twinge of guilt, knowing the excitement wasn’t about the ride but the rider she was pursuing.

“And you knew about all of this, too, about Kenna and Alexander. About trying to trick them to get back together.”

Kester looked away. “Aye. That I did.”

The old warrior was as close to her father as any brother. He was also a man that Emily could always talk openly with. She could seek his opinion on things she could never say to her father. From childhood, she’d known she could trust him to keep her secrets. She wasn’t about to be angry with him now.

Snippets of discussion reached them from the Macpherson men. They’d follow the river to the loch west of here that led to the sea. They’d try to catch up to the raiding party or Alexander and Kenna. James told one of the MacDougalls that she needed to go back to Craignock Castle. She heard the word
wedding
mentioned several times.

Her cousin’s objections about Sir Quentin came back to her.

“You were there when they negotiated my marriage,” she said to Kester.

“Aye.”

“Why him?”

“You know why, lass. The MacDougall believes it’s a good match. You’re an only child. Many of the elders of our clan have been after your father to marry again, to produce a son. But he’s not interested.” Kester paused. “The world’s getting smaller all the time. As you can see, the English feel free to roam about here, taking what they please. Raiders from the sea are a threat like never before. Your father thinks the safety of our people lies with you and your future husband.”

Two summers ago, Emily’s mother died. While she was sick, Emily had heard many a heartfelt lecture on duty and responsibility.

“But why
him
?” she repeated. “Why Sir Quentin? Why not . . . why not someone I know, at least?” And someone with a dozen more qualities that Sir Quentin seemed to be lacking.

“You’ve never shown any interest or made it known that you wanted to choose. I, for one, never saw you show any fondness for any particular lad. So your father took the first good offer.”

“I had a choice?” she asked, stunned. “I had a choice in whom I was to wed?”

“Of course. You had a choice of ‘aye’ or ‘nay.’ You’re Graeme MacDougall’s only child, lass.”

Emily’s gaze drifted to James Macpherson. He was issuing orders to his men. “Do I still have a choice? Is it too late?”

“Your father wants you safe. He wants the clan safe. He may not be thrilled for you to speak up now. But so long as you keep those things in mind—if you’re asking me—it’s never too late.”

He was dreaming. Alexander knew it, but he still could not shake off the blurred chaos of events disturbing his sleep. The force of the river. The panic at losing sight of Kenna in the wild rush of the current. The fight with the soldiers. The short sword jabbing into him. The clawing dread at the thought that the Lowlander might take Kenna away. Jock wielding the oars that weighed nearly as much as the lad himself. The fog rolling in around the boat as they moved across the loch’s black waters. The look of fear in his wife’s face.

Alexander blinked back the mist from his mind and opened his eyes. A thin band of moonlight streaked in through the window and lit the stone wall of the cottage. He remembered where he was. He took a deep breath and tested his shoulder. It moved. He fisted his hands and held them up before his eyes. They were whole. He remembered the wound in his side. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. He touched it. There was no fresh blood, and the hole made by the raider’s sword was closed. It felt more like an injury weeks old. He shifted his weight. Soreness, but more of a nuisance than anything. Nothing like the sensation of a hot poker boring into his side.

He wondered how long he’d been unconscious.

The last clear memory he had was Kenna fussing over him as he tried not to pass out. Everything after that was a jumble, a hazy hodgepodge of visions from his past, of touches both healing and sensual. There were moments when he didn’t know if he was dead or alive.

The life Alexander led up to now was full and adventurous. He could think of very few moments that he would do over. His wedding night was one. And he regretted not going after Kenna the next day. Or the day after. He should never have allowed so much time to go by with the two of them apart. They’d been strangers at the kirk steps, but they were well suited for each other. She was fearless and independent. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met.

He recalled something else. Pain. He’d been here in this same hut and he’d felt the worst pain. He was dying. And wanting Kenna had been his final wish.

Alexander turned his head. Kenna was sleeping an arm’s length away. She hadn’t deserted him.

His sword lay between them, close enough for either to reach. He wondered for a moment whether it was there for defense against the danger lurking outside or a message to him.

He was alive, and he wasn’t about to be deterred.

He rolled toward her, admiring how beautiful she looked in spite of everything she’d been through. She was fast asleep, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Her lips were parted, her breathing uneven. She was fighting demons in her dreams, as well. The laces of her dress had loosened, and the curve of one breast showed above the linen shirt she was wearing beneath it. He immediately went hard. It was good to know everything was in working order.

He reached for the sword to move it. Her eyes flew open. She grasped the weapon just as he did.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

“Good morning, wife,” he replied instead. “Or is it night? It’s still dark, it seems. How long have we been here?”

She pushed up onto one elbow. A blanket of curls swept over one shoulder. The neckline of the dress pulled further apart, giving him a better view of the tops of her breasts. He wanted to taste them. She seemed to be struggling to wake up.

“May I?” he asked, moving the sword behind him.

She slowly sat up and got onto her knees. The dress slipped off one shoulder. He was relieved he still had his kilt covering him. He didn’t want to frighten her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, peering at his stab wound.

“Better than you know.”

Kenna didn’t appear to trust his words. She pushed his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. As she leaned over to inspect his side, her hair trailed across his stomach, caressing him with its silky softness. Her touch was as arousing as any dream.

Alexander took a deep breath. Control, he told himself.

“How long have we been here?”

“Since yesterday. It hasn’t been a full day.” She sat back on her heels again. “I want to wash the wound. I’ll be right back.”

Alexander couldn’t tear his gaze from her as she picked up a bowl and went out into the darkness.

“Wait,” he called out, but she was gone.

He struggled to get up. He had to go after her. Danger could be right outside the door. He felt weak. By the time he managed to sit up on the bedding, she was back.

“You shouldn’t go out unprotected,” he snapped. At least she wasn’t limping, he noticed. “Where’s that dirk you’re always waving about?”

“Right here, to use against you when I need it.” She crouched down beside him, holding the bowl to his lips. “Drink this. We have no food, but this should quench your thirst.”

She was the only thing that could quench what he was feeling. As he drank from the bowl, he felt her sleeve. “This is wet. Why are you still wearing it?”

One eyebrow went up as she took the bowl away. Alexander watched with interest as she reached under her skirt and tore another strip from her shift, but not before he had a good view of the cream-colored skin of her legs. He imagined them wrapped around him.

“Let me wash your wounds.”

“And I’ll help you out of this wet dress.”

“You must be dreaming.” Her voice had suddenly grown husky.

“I
was
dreaming, and you were quite happy in my dreams. Sitting naked on my lap, riding me while I suckled your breasts. You couldn’t get enough of me.”

Even in the dim light he could see the blush that crept into her cheeks.

“This is no way to talk to me, you saucy ape.”

“I think you like me the way I am.” He reached up and ran his finger along the silky softness of her neck. She didn’t pull back from his touch. He slipped an arm around her and brought her mouth to his. She immediately opened up to his kiss, and he felt his loins tighten.

Too soon she drew back, breaking off the kiss. She dipped the cloth into the water again and gently dabbed at his side.

“I want my wedding night, Kenna.”

“You’re not going to get it. We’re going our separate ways once we reach Oban.”

Leaning back, Alexander smiled. “Devil take me if we do.”

He ran his fingers like a comb through her hair.

“You’re distracting me,” she said, inching closer without moving her gaze from the wound.

Alexander knew women. And right now he knew Kenna. He untied the top lace. He heard the breath catch in her throat.

“Let me finish,” she whispered.

“You just keep on with what you’re doing.” He pulled the next pair of laces free, and the next.

She shifted her weight from one knee to the other. He saw her hand tremble as she dipped the cloth into the bowl again before placing it against his skin.

“You forget I have a cut on my shoulder.”

She moved closer to check, and Alexander caught her by the waist, drawing her near. Their gazes locked in a moment of challenge.

“You lied to me.”

“And I will lie again.” Alexander spread the neckline open until the tops of her breasts were exposed. She shivered as he trailed his fingers along her throat and chest, slipping his hand inside the fabric. He cupped one of her breasts, lifting it and stroking the hardening nipple with his thumb.

A soft gasp escaped her. Her eyes were wide and uncertain as she stared at him. The wet cloth slipped out of her hand.

“I’m not done cleaning the wound.”

“I know,” he whispered back, kissing her neck. “I’m not done with you, either.”

He pressed his lips to the top of each breast. He pushed the clothes down and suckled her nipple.

She cried out his name, and her fingers gripped his hair.

Alexander’s hand moved up her leg and beneath the dress. Her skin was like silk, her legs strong and smooth. His fingers reached the juncture of her legs, and she gasped again. She was moist, ready for him.

“Wait,” she whispered.

He stopped, hearing the same noise. He reached for his sword.

Someone was coming.

Twelve wagons, laden with boxes of abbey treasure, sat in a line on the river road, while sparks and glowing embers rose from the fiery structure, lighting up the night sky.

“But Sir Ralph,” the duke of Hertford’s messenger stressed, following Evers and Maxwell down to the river’s edge. “His Grace sent me specifically to tell you that anything taken from the abbey was to be sent to him for shipment to His Majesty.”

Maxwell watched Evers crouch by the slow
-
moving water, peeling his gloves off and washing blood and soot from his face. The monks had put up a good fight, but they didn’t have a chance once the invaders smelled blood.

When it was over, Maxwell had stood in the shadows, the hackles rising on his neck while Evers spoke to the empty air above the body of the dead abbot. Then he’d followed the Englishmen directly to a crypt in a chapel where he opened a secret passage into the abbey vaults.

So now it all belonged to Evers. All of it.

“It’s a dangerous job you have,” Sir Ralph said, standing and facing the messenger. “Riding through the countryside of our Scots enemy. Many messages must go astray and the messengers lost to our foes.”