The Highlander's Heart (2 page)

“I am not a… a whore,” said Isabelle, hating the way the word sounded on her tongue, but not knowing how else to convey the meaning.

“Aye, ye’d only be a whore if we paid ye,” snarled No Teeth, “and we dinna plan to pay.”

Isabelle faced her attackers and screamed for all her worth. No Teeth leapt for her and she turned and ran with another ear-piercing screech. She was pushed to the ground with such force it knocked the scream from her lungs. Hands grabbed all over her. She spun on the ground and kicked with ferocity, gaining some satisfaction on hitting something solid and seeing Porridge Shirt doubled over in pain.

“There now, hold her lads, while I gets me turn.”

Isabelle shut her eyes and screamed again. Her voice sounded much louder and more ferocious than she expected. Surprised, she opened her eyes to find her three assailants had vanished. She closed her mouth, but the horrible noise continued. A cloaked figure rushed past her, nothing but a blur of fury, his battle cry blasting through the trees.

He disappeared into the brush after her assailants and the forest sank into an unnatural silence. Isabelle sat on the dirt road, unable to scream, unable to move. She strained to hear what was happening, yet all was still. Suddenly, a barbarian emerged from the forest before her like some fey creature. Isabelle gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. He was a monstrous beast holding a long sword with both hands, his face obscured in shadow.

And he was half-naked.

Isabelle stared at the barbarian before her. These would surely be her final moments on Earth. She tried to think of something worthy of her last thoughts.
I
can
see
his
knees.
Isabelle groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. This would never do. Thoughts like that would send her straight to purgatory. She put her hands over her eyes and tried to think of something pious. Nothing but a mental vision of his thighs came to mind.

“No, no, no.” She looked up pleading. “Do not kill me yet, I am not ready.”

“Sassenach,” said the shadowy figure with disgust. “Get up, English, I will no’ be killing ye.”

He lifted his sword over his head. Isabelle cringed, but the man only sheathed it in the harness he wore on his back. The action should have been comforting, but she could not overcome the shock of his appearance.

He was a tall man with a muscular body, around which he wore some kind of woven blanket. It was belted around his waist and thrown over one shoulder, pinned to a thick shirt. He wore large, black leather boots, but between the top of his boots and the edge of his blanket he was naked. She stared at his bare legs. Strong, hairy, man legs. She had never seen the like. She swallowed hard.

“I… you… perhaps you require time to finish dressing?” She cringed at her inane babbling.

The stranger sighed and glanced toward the heavens. “I am fully dressed.” It was more of a growl than a statement.

“But I can see your legs,” she blurted, wishing she had held her tongue.

“And I can see yers,” he retorted.

“Oh, merciful heavens!” Isabelle realized her gown had been rucked up to her thighs. She pushed down her skirts and struggled to stand. Her face burned from being caught in such a compromising position and from the memory of what had almost happened.

“I should thank you,” Isabelle stammered, focusing on smoothing her ruined gown.

The stranger shook his head. “I kenned ye were a Douglas lass or I woud’na troubled myself. Well, good day to ye, English.”

“Wait! If you please, where am I?”

“You are in Ettrick Forest and the land of Sir William Douglas.”

“The Douglas?” Isabelle gasped. She had been raised in fear of the Black Douglas. She could still hear the hushed voice of her nurse threatening the Black Douglas would come for her if she did not go to sleep or eat her porridge.

“Aye.” The man frowned at her, his eyes piercing into hers until his face softened. He looked away and shook his head. Muttering something to himself, he turned and walked down the road from where he had emerged.

“Wait!” called Isabelle, hobbling after him on sore feet. She did not wish to be left alone again. “I am a bit lost. I… please, sir, could you help me?”

Struggling around the bend in the road, Isabelle saw that the man had reached his horse, which, unlike her own, was standing still, placidly waiting for his master to return.

“Go back to your menfolk, English. And tell them to get off Douglas land. I have no time for trouble today but if I come across them, they shall no’ be spared my blade.”

Isabelle stammered, trying to find the right words, unsure what to do. He was a Scot. Worse yet, she strongly suspected him of being one of those Highlanders, a wild race of barbarian warriors. Yet he was also the only human being she had seen all day who was not trying to return her to her husband or molest her. She was hungry, lost, and the sun was low on the horizon.

“I have become separated from my party and have walked all day. I would greatly appreciate your assistance.”

He pointed toward the dark forest. “England is that way.”

“Would you consent to escorting me home?”

“Ye would have me set foot on English soil?” He snorted. “Nay, I winna be throwing away my life just because ye got yerself lost.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Och, come on then. I’ll see ye to the next burgh.”

“But, please, sir, I wish to be returned home. I assure you that you will be well compensated for your time and effort if you would but consent to see me safely home to… um, that is to Bewcastle.”

“Have ye a husband in Bewcastle?”

“No!” It was spoken with a bit too much emphasis, but she certainly hoped she would not find her husband there.

“Yer father, then?”

“No.”

The man sighed as if trying to maintain his patience. “Where is yer father?”

“Resting with the Lord.”

“Have you any man to care for ye?”

It was a question she had never been asked. Standing lost in a strange forest before a strange man, she realized how alone she truly was. She shook her head. “My uncle recently passed away and…” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together, trying to get control of her emotions.

The man’s face softened. He stepped toward her, assessing her person. His gaze traveled down her body and back up, lingering on her face, his eyes catching hers and holding them. He stepped closer until he stood directly before her. Isabelle’s mouth went dry.

He was a large, solid man, with a sword as long as she was tall. He reached out to touch her shoulder, stroking his hand down the length of her arm, her skin burning at his touch. “Let me hazard a guess. Ye were distraught. Ye had no one to care for ye. Some ne’er-do-well came along, made a lot of promises, gave ye this old gown, and ye took up wi’ him, but it dinna go well.”

“No!” Isabelle recoiled with indignation. “I am not… I would never…”
I
am
the
Countess
of
Tynsdale!

Isabelle held her tongue to consider the outcome of her confession. First, he would probably not believe it, considering her state. Second, if he did believe her, he would most likely do what any Scot would do, hold her for ransom and return her to her…
husband
.

“I did not…” Isabelle struggled to find some explanation for her being in the woods alone that did not make her a countess or a woman of ill repute. “Whilst I was traveling, my horse bolted, and I got lost.”

“Where is yer horse?” He folded his arms in front of him, clearly not believing her.

Isabelle focused on smoothing her ruined velvet riding gown once more. It had been a beautiful deep wine red; it wasn’t anymore. “I lost that too.”

She dared to glance up at the stranger once more and found him staring at her intently.

“I want the truth. Who waits for ye in Bewcastle?”

Isabelle tried to think of a suitable answer. “I… my… er…”

“Stop wi’ yer lies, Sassenach.”

“I have an aunt in Bewcastle! I am going to see my aunt!” exclaimed Isabelle, relieved to have blurted out something sensible.

He leaned closer, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “Tell me the truth for I will ken if ye speak to me false.”

Isabelle nodded, her heart thumping hard. What was he going to do?

“Ye dinna have an aunt in Bewcastle, do ye?”

Isabelle hesitated for a moment and shook her head, fearful of what he might do if he knew she was lying.

“Ye are here because of the wrongdoing o’ some man.”

Isabelle nodded furiously. “’Tis all his fault!”

“I am sure it is. Come wi’ me then, I will drop ye at the next burgh. Mayhap they can find a suitable arrangement for ye.”

Isabelle was not sure what kind of “arrangement” he had in mind, but she was certain she did not wish to discover it for herself. “No! Please, I must get to Bewcastle. Someone awaits me there.”

“Going from one man to another?” The man shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval “I can take ye to the next burgh, but I winna stand here all night. Ye can come wi’ me or take yer chances on the road, English.”

“I must return to England!”

“Sorry, but I dinna care to have my neck stretched.”

“But it is imperative I get to Bewcastle!”

The man shrugged. “Good luck to ye, then. I’m sure yer next conquest will enjoy ye.”

Isabelle put her hands on her hips, a hot wave of righteous indignation washing over her. Did he not know that a knight should always help a damsel in distress? He was devoid of all proper feeling. This is what she got for asking a barbarian for help.

“I thank thee for your kind offer to find me an arrangement—is that the word you used?” Her tone was hardly polite but she gave herself some latitude considering the circumstances. “But I prefer to walk back on my own.” With as much dignity and poise as she could possibly muster, she walked past him into the forest.

“England is the other way.”

Isabelle stopped short. She balled her hands into fists and slowly turned around. Her tall, not-so-heroic Highlander had the audacity to look amused. She
hated
this man. Clenching her jaw, she walked with false confidence to the other side of the road. She held her head high, her back straight, but feared her cheeks burned in evidence to her embarrassment.

“’Tis getting dark, lassie. Night will be upon ye soon.”

Without looking back, Isabelle walked with determined defiance into the forest. She had made it this far, she could make it back.

“There be all sorts of beasties in this forest at night,” he called after her.

Now that did make her pause, but the thought of being taken farther into Scotland to be settled in an “arrangement” got her feet moving again. She had wished to escape her husband, not the whole of England. True, she had evaded her husband’s guards, but being dragged into Scotland by a half-dressed barbarian was little improvement. Even if he did have striking green eyes and long eyelashes. Not, of course, that she’d noticed.

A rustling sound in the brush ahead of her gained her attention. She froze, hoping whatever it was would go away, but luck had utterly abandoned her this day. Concealed by the dense foliage, something snorted and pawed the ground. With a high-pitched squeal, a wild boar emerged from the brush.

Isabelle gaped at the beast, her heart pounding in her chest. The beast was covered with coarse, black bristles and had two sharp tusks curving out of its pointy snout. Prior to this unfortunate day, the only boar she had ever seen had been as God intended, dead and roasted with an apple in its mouth.

Isabelle swallowed hard, as if some of those sharp bristles were lodged in her throat. This angry pig was far from being supper. The beast pawed the ground and snorted, steam rising from its warm breath in the cool dusk. Isabelle stood as still as a statue, hoping it would not notice her. Those sharp tusks could tear a person to shreds. The boar grunted again, lifting its snout to the wind.

Suddenly the beast squealed, lowered his head, and charged.

Isabelle screamed.

She spun, lifted her skirts in both hands, and ran with all her might. A large shape passed her and she screamed again, her lungs bursting. She tripped and fell hard. Behind her the boar shrieked. She grasped at dirt and tree roots trying to stand, panic coursing through her veins.

When at last she regained her feet she swirled around, but all was silent. Trembling, she put a hand on a nearby tree trunk to steady herself and cautiously scanned the surrounding forest. Cloaked in the shadows, was the Highlander. He stepped toward her. His sword was in his hand, its blade dark red. She put her hand on her chest and tried to take a step forward but swayed, light-headed. Her legs would not seem to hold her and a gray fog circled her vision. Bright lights danced before her eyes.

Warmth engulfed her and she struggled to remain conscious.

“Are ye injured?”

Isabelle opened her eyes, wondering when she had closed them. She looked up into the Highlander’s face, so very close to her own. She tried to step back, but her feet were not touching the ground. He was holding her close, his strong arms pressing her to his warm body. She opened her mouth to speak, but for once, nothing emerged. Her skin tingled and she was dizzy again. She must tell him to put her down. She leaned her head on his shoulder instead.

“Where are ye hurt?” He spoke softly and Isabelle’s traitorous body melted into his. She relaxed until he started moving his hand down her side to her hip, searching for injuries.

“Oh, stop. I am uninjured. I just tripped and fell,” she stammered, the blush spreading like fire across her face.

“Can ye stand?” he asked gently, putting her feet back on the ground.

“Yes, I believe so. Thank you kindly. Most inconvenient time to feel faint.”

He lowered her to the ground, but kept a hand around her waist, holding her securely against his solid frame. His eyes searched hers, until she could no longer hold his gaze.

“It must be the shock of it, of seeing the boar, that is,” Isabelle rambled, her eyes flickering around, looking at anything but him. “I never knew they were quite so big, nor quite so bristly. They look much nicer roasted, do you not agree? Maybe I am just suffering from lack of nourishment, for I have not eaten since porridge this morning. And I do not think porridge was sufficient for the exercise I have had today.”

She put her hand to his warm chest, trying to steady herself. Despite her bold words, a wave of fear passed over her. She was lost and surrounded by monsters. What was she to do now? A single tear rolled down her face.

He dropped his sword and covered her trembling hand with his. “Hush now, ’tis over. The beast is dead.”

Isabelle stifled a sob and clung to her protector, wrapping her arms around his neck, her body still shaking from the fright. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. “’Tis not only the beast. It has been a horrid day. Ghastly, wretched day.” She pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to keep from crying like a small child. He smelled nice for a barbarian.

“I understand.” The big man sighed. “My day has no’ been going so well either.”

“And yet you stopped to save me—twice. I should thank you.”

“Indeed ye should.”

“I wish I had something to give you to show my appreciation, but I have nothing, I fear.”

The man wrapped both arms around her waist. “I woud’na say that.”

Isabelle swallowed hard on a throat that had instantly gone dry. “I… I have no…” It occurred to her, somewhat belatedly, that she was in the middle of a forest with a man she did not know holding her close, and the only thing she wanted was for him to be closer.

“Would you accept a kiss as a boon?” she asked, surprising herself with her own boldness. She had been lost in the woods, attacked by highwaymen, and nearly gored by a wild boar, all valid justifications for this shocking lapse in propriety.

“Aye.” His green eyes smoldered.

With some hesitation, she gently pecked his cheek with her lips. He frowned.

“You do not appear to like my kiss,” said Isabelle, frowning herself.

“I dinna ken ye would kiss like my Aunt Edna, God rest her soul. She used to pinch my cheeks to keep me from running and give me a peck like that. I warrant if I saved good ol’ Edna from a boar, even she might find a wee more passion.”

Isabelle could not suppress a smile. “I do apologize for kissing like Aunt Edna. How dreadful.”

“We’ll ne’er speak o’ it again. And to show ye how forgiving I can be, I’ll give ye another chance.”

Heat crawled up the back of her neck. She was acutely aware of all the parts of her that were touching all the parts of him. Very wrong. Very nice. She went up on her toes and lightly gave him a peck on his lips.

“Thank ye, Edna.”

She scrunched her nose. “I am not your sainted aunt.”

“Then stop acting like it.”

She grabbed either side of his head and smashed her mouth to his. She came away breathless. It was the single boldest thing she had ever done with a man. “There! Not Edna.”

He looked up at the sky, considering. “Better, I grant ye. But still with an Edna quality.”

“Oh! You are a wretched man to say so! Pray tell, how would you give a kiss?”

He smiled at her, his eyes gleaming. “Since ye have asked, I will give ye some instruction.” He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers, soft and tempting. He kissed her sweetly on her lips, while massaging his hands up her back to her neck. It was achingly good. She arched back into his touch and a small
ahhhh
, escaped from her lips. He kissed her again, caressing her open mouth with lips and, shockingly, tongue. She had not known such a thing was possible and leaned into the kiss, the rest of the world slipping away.

When their lips finally parted, she took several short breaths, trying to remember who she was and what she was doing.

“Not Edna,” she said, stepping back from him, trying to regain some composure.

“God rest her soul.” He made the sign of the cross.

“Sainted woman she was.” She also made the sign of the cross. He raised an eyebrow. “To tolerate you, she must have been.”

He picked up his sword with one hand and held out his other to her, leading her back to the road. “Ye’re no’ much o’ a lightskirt, though ye look like one.”

Isabelle tried in vain to smooth the wrinkles from her gown. “It has been a trying day, but I can hardly look as bad as that.”

“Yer hair is loose.”

Isabelle winced. No decent woman traveled unaccompanied with loose hair. Little wonder everyone thought she was public property. “A tree got my veil.”

“Ye ought to have fought harder for it. Ne’er let yerself be bullied by a sapling.”

“It was a large tree and I was on horseback and I could not make the dreadful beast turn around and…” She noticed he was laughing at her. “You are making a jest of me.”

“Aye, lassie.”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “I warrant you have younger siblings.”

“Aye, verra good.”

“I pity them.”

“I will send them yer regards. Come wi’ me, lassie. I’ll set ye at the next burgh.” He pushed through some thick brush to reach the road.

Isabelle hobbled after him, deciding she would do better to stay with him, at least for the night. Tomorrow she could try again to return to England. No more forest beasties for her this night.

Loud shouting got her attention and she hustled through the brush to find her Highlander standing in the middle of the road yelling at the disappearing figure of the man with the red cap riding the Highlander’s horse down the road. Though he spoke a foreign tongue, Isabelle had no need for translation to have a basic understanding of what the warrior was shouting at the horse thief.

The large man stood in silence, watching the dusty cloud left by his stolen horse waft into the light of the setting sun. Isabelle fingered her dress, wondering what sort of expression he might be wearing. She doubted she wanted to know. Surely he would not blame her for the incident… would he?

“How many attacked ye?” the Highlander asked, without turning.

Isabelle gulped at being addressed. “There were three, No Teeth, Porridge Shirt, and Red Cap.”

The hulking shape in front of her cursed again in some foreign tongue. Well, she guessed it was cursing; it sounded very angry.

“I only got two of them and now yer Red Cap has stolen my horse,” shouted the barbarian, still not turning around.

Isabelle glanced at the forest, wondering if she might do better to take her chances with the beasties. The Highlander turned slowly and Isabelle clenched her velvet gown. His eyes blazed. Any trace of gentleness or compassion was gone. He strode toward her, shouting more in his unknown language. Isabelle stood her ground, more because she was frozen in fear than due to any abundance of courage.

Isabelle made an unfortunate shriek when he reached for his sword. The man stomped past her to the brush by the side of the road and attacked the foliage with abandon. Isabelle was flooded with a mixture of horror and awe as he hacked at the brush with enraged vengeance, bits of twig and branch flying every which way. When the leaves finally settled, the square-shouldered man stood panting for a moment, then sheathed his sword and turned to her. She was startled by his calm appearance.

“We’ll rest here for the night,” he said in a mild tone, but Isabelle could still see the veins bulging in his forehead. Isabelle followed him into the clearing he had just made, walking slowly and giving him a wide berth. She did not wish to disrupt the perilous calm.

***

Isabelle sighed contentedly. She took another bite of roast pork, though her belly was already full. She had not quite realized how hungry she was until her Highlander rigged up a spit and started roasting part of the boar. Despite her irritation at this Scot’s presumption regarding her morals, she had to admit he was a fine camp cook. He had a large fire roaring, a fine roast of wild pork, water from a small stream, and he had even fashioned a comfortable bower for her bed with the brush he had so aggressively hacked.

He had spoken very little to her, focusing on his work. Occasionally he had barked out orders, but since they were mainly commands like, “Sit by the fire,” and “Here, eat this,” she was inclined to overlook his tone and comply. She stretched out on her bower, warmed from the heat of the fire and her full belly.

Niggling in the back of her mind was the objection that sleeping alone with a barbarian was hardly an acceptable situation for an English lady such as herself, especially since the barbarian in question believed she was of loose moral character. To be fair, she could not blame him for that assumption, considering her appearance and unfortunate situation. Her behavior toward him after he rescued her from the boar certainly did nothing to dissuade the impression. She wanted to correct his misunderstanding, yet feared if he knew the truth it would only make things worse for her. She focused back on her meal. It would do her no harm to eat and rest before setting out toward England on the morrow.

Worry of what happened between her guard and Tynsdale’s men after she left also frequented her thoughts. Had they fought? What would Captain Corbett do when she did not appear in Bewcastle tonight? She shoved aside those thoughts too. She must regain her strength, for she had a long walk ahead of her.

In the flickering light of the campfire, the Highlander ate his meal in silence, though often she found his eyes on her, causing her temperature to rise. At first she was afraid he would take out his frustration on her, but he was clearly not that sort of man. Then she feared he may take liberties with her person, considering his low opinion of her. But it appeared he was not that sort of man either.

He produced a flask from a small pouch he wore around his waist and took a healthy swig. In the orange glow of the fire he looked rather handsome, for a barbarian, that is. It must have been a trick of the firelight, but his features seemed not quite as harsh as they did in the sunlight.

The man had piercing green eyes with remarkable lashes. His nose was straight, his jaw was square, and when he frowned, which was often, deep worry lines appeared on his forehead. She was surprised that this barbarian was clean shaven and had short, neatly trimmed, brown hair. Who was this man?

The Scot finished his meal and turned his attention to his hip. He pulled up his garment, uncovering a dark line trailing down his outer thigh.

“You are injured!” Isabelle was up and walking around the fire toward him before she could consider the wisdom of the action.

“’Tis naught but a scratch.”

Isabelle knelt beside him and examined the cut. “I cannot quite see the extent of it with all this dried blood. Why did you not tell me you were hurt?” Isabelle grabbed the flask from his hand and poured it onto his thigh, washing away the blood and revealing a three-inch gash on his outer thigh.

“Arrghh!”

“Did I hurt you?”

“That was good whiskey, and the only flask I have left o’ what Douglas gave me, thanks to ye.”

“I am sorry about your horse. I seem to have bad luck with beasts today.” Isabelle ripped away part of her chemise, which was not difficult since it was already quite torn, and fashioned a bandage to wrap around the wound.