The Highlander's Sin (12 page)

“Aye, lass, ye can. Do it.”

Heather gritted her teeth and, with all of her might, willed her knee up and over the edge. Every muscle in her body screamed from it. Her lungs burst, and she gasped, pushing off that solid knee and rolling the rest of the way onto the bank.

She’d made it. She wasn’t dead.
As she lay there, catching her breath, she’d almost forgotten—Duncan!

Heather glanced over the edge, and nearly bumped her head against his. Apparently climbing up was
n’t as big a feat for him as it had been for her.

He lay
on the ground beside her, his chest heaving. Rolling his head toward hers, he smiled. “I think your gowns weigh four stone each.”

A short gust of a laugh escaped Heather. “Ye might be right about that.” Their eyes locked,
and they were both silent, serious as they observed one another. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For shoving ye. This is all my fault. I could have killed us both.”

Duncan reached up, touched her forehead with his index finger and said, “Ye’re forgiven.”

Heather shoved his hand aside. “I dinna want ye to absolve me of my sins, Duncan. I wanted to apologize to
ye
.”

He frowned. “Me?”

Heather rolled her eyes. “Aye. I nearly killed ye.”

“Was that your intention?”

She shook her head, exasperated. “Nay, ye buffoon.” But as soon as the words were out, she felt contrite. “I’m sorry for calling ye that.”

“We all get angry, lass. And aye, ’twas extremely stupid what ye did, but ye had no intentions of falling backward, nor of me saving ye. I shall now be aware in the future that
ye are an impetuous, senseless princess.”

Heather’s mouth fell open with shock. Had he truly just insulted her?
After
she’d apologized? “I suppose I deserve that,” she grumbled. He was right, after all. Were his words not unlike many she’d heard before? Hadn’t she just admitted as much?

Heather glanced up at the tops of the trees crowding out the sky, flopped an arm over her forehead and tried to still
her racing heart and breath. “I thank ye all the same for saving my life.”

Duncan grunted.

An answer she took to mean he hadn’t saved her for anything other than his own personal gain.

Through the
trees, the sky still looked gray. A crack of thunder was followed by a flash of lightning.

“We’d best find Blade and then make a new she
lter afore the storm truly hits,” Duncan said.

“’Tis already hitting.”

“Aye, but from the look of black coming from over there, it’s going to be a rough one.”

Heather glanced toward where Duncan pointed over the swirling deathly waters.
The sky was swiftly turning black with storm clouds, likely to kick up winds that could carry away people and sheep.

Duncan stood beside her and reached out a hand. She grasped onto it, feeling the strength of him as he pulled her up.
Her legs shook from the effort of standing. Every muscle was sore, exhausted. What she wouldn’t have given for a nice hot bath and the comfort of her bed at Dunrobin.

It was then she notice
d Duncan’s attire—or lack thereof. He wore only his soaked leine shirt. The light-colored fabric was nearly transparent, showing the dark crisp hair of his chest and every contour of muscle.

Heather swallowed, willing herself not to look below his chest.

“Where are your clothes?” she asked.

“I took them off afore I jumped in. No need for us both to be dragged under.”
The way he spoke, so nonchalant, as though he regularly walked around nearly nude.

She turned her gaze toward the sky, forcing herself not to admire the raw, sheer masculinity of him.
“Then I suppose we’d best find your things before we get the horse.”

“Why is that?”
A teasing edge lined his words.

The man loved to torment her in any way he could.
“Ye’re indecent.”

“Ye’re not much better.”

Heather glanced down at herself. The three chemises and gown did nothing to hide the outline of her body. Her soaked dress clung to her like a second skin, and her nipples were visible, pushing like two tiny hard stones against the fabric.

She cleared her throat, realizing he, too, was staring at her breasts.
“Thank ye, for saving me,” she said again, perhaps this time hoping for a better response, or mayhap she needed a distraction from her turgid nipples.

“Ye’re wel
come.”

Chapter Eleven

D
uncan gripped tight to Heather’s small hand. Her fingers were cold and not likely to get any warmer. Gusts of wind took the heat of summer, and he could feel her shiver with each blow.

They had to hurry to find shelter, and he wouldn’t make the mistake hiding out behind the falls again. Too much chance that their previous attackers had been able to make it safely to the shore as well and would backtrack to seek revenge.

Duncan put two fingers in his mouth and blew. The ear-piercing sound rippled through the forest and brought out an answering whinny in the distance. Thank God for his amazing horse. The animal was cantankerous to anyone but Duncan. Blade was more likely to get put down than mounted by another rider.

“My horse is safe. We’re almost there,” Duncan said, looking behind him at his beautifully haggard captive.

“All right,” she said, barely more than a whisper.

Heather was growing weaker. Her lips were blue, face pale as a Highland snow and her eyes were drooping. She shivered constantly, and if he
’d had anything other than a wet shirt he would have given it to her. As it was, he doubted heartily she’d welcome the wet shirt off his back for comfort, or the sight of his naked rear.

Fat drops of rain started to plop against the foliage, splattering to the ground and upon their heads and shoulders. The last thing they needed was more water.

Duncan expected to hear Heather groan, but she didn’t make a sound. The lass was trying with all of her might to be brave, to power through their ordeal—hers, really. They’d nearly drowned, but at least she was not being delivered to strangers on a polished platter—yet.

Guilt riddled him. The part of him that didn’t want to give her up was growing stronger with every second. When he’d seen her tumble through the falls, there hadn’t been a question of letting her
fend for herself. And he’d not jumped in because of the pouch of silver, either. He’d willingly dived into danger to save her, because deep down, Duncan actually liked the fiery woman. Immensely.

Ballocks!
How had this happened?

He was not free to fall for anyone, to like a woman. He was
, for all intents and purposes, not his own man—he belonged to the church, to the clan who didn’t know he existed, and to those who paid him. Most of all, he belonged to the devil in hell for all the many sins he’d committed, no matter how many times he’d been absolved.

Duncan glanced back at Heather again. There was no expected rush of hate for who her family was. Nor a need to toss her to the wolves, but instead an intense desire to wrap her in his arms and never let go.

Yet again, Fate intervened when he sought to meet out his revenge on the cursed Sutherlands.

Yet again, Fate had intervened when he’d sought to mete out his revenge on the cursed Sutherlands.

A few years before, he’d been at the kirk, waiting for the Sutherlands to arrive so he could kill them. He’d not expected to marry two of them. To wish them joy and happiness. When he’d given them his blessings, he’d wanted to stab them in the hearts. But, instead, he’d let them go. Coward that he was. Another chance had taken up residence. When he’d sneaked into the castle of Magnus’ cousin—Brandon Sinclair—again to seek out his revenge, he’d been unable to do it. The man’s wife, Lady Mariana, had sat with two beautiful babes in her arms, innocent lives that he could not take.

Duncan believed that Fate played a hand in most things. Not being able to seek out revenge on the Sutherlands on those two occasions had been partially because the woman—Mariana—
had not been to blame, nor part of his issue with that damnable family. And also, because Fate had wanted him to wait until now, when he’d found Heather.

Oh, Fate cursed him. Fate played tricks with his mind. How could she torment him so? To fall for his enemy…

Duncan shook his head. Such a thing would be committing treason against the memory of his family, against his whole life. Impossible.

Pounding upon the ground before them startled Duncan from his thoughts. Damn it. He wasn’t normally so muddleheaded, but the lass was messing with his mind.

He tugged her behind a tree, pressing her spine against it, and covering her front with his own back.

“Dinna make a sound.”

There was no telling if the approaching horse had a rider, or if it was Blade. He prayed it was his mount. It would be difficult to fight without his sword, and only a shirt on for protection. He didn’t even have his shoes on, for heaven’s sake.
Mo chreach
, nor his sword. The weight of the weapon would have only dragged them down into the water. At least he still had the knife tucked into the sheath at his wrist that he’d used to cut Heather’s gowns.

Duncan reached for the knife now, preparing for the worst and praying for the best. The angry snort sounded like Blade. He took a chance and glanced around the side of the tree, watching his horse approach with a rolling mist chasing at his heels. Indeed, the coming storm was going to be brutal.

“Thank the saints,” he muttered. Checking the immediate surroundings to be sure his mount had not been followed, he surmised that all was clear. “Our ride has arrived.”

Heather pressed two little hands against his shoulders, peering around him. “Thank the saints, indeed.”

“Let us hurry to gather the things I left at the falls and then we’ll be on our way. I know of a cave nearby where we can make camp until the storm subsides.”

Duncan lifted Heather onto his horse and climb
ed up behind her, wincing as his cold limbs hit the heat of his horse. He’d been so preoccupied about Heather, he’d not realized how his own flesh had chilled.

He urged the horse forward, his fingers curling around the mane. Thick, wiry hair sliced into his pruned fingers like sword edges. The ride through the forest was jarring, his wet flesh rubbed raw against the bare back of the horse.

They’d drifted farther down than he’d realized. By the time they reached the falls, rain fell in earnest droves, pummeling them, and black clouds blocked out the majority of sunlight.

Duncan shaded Heather’s face from the pelting droves with his arm, but he feared he did little as rainwater soaked her hair.

“Wait here on Blade,” he said, when they reached the ledge by the falls leading to their tiny, private alcove.

“Be careful. ’Tis bound t
o be more slick in the storm,” she said.

Their words were drowned out by the storm, slipping from their mouths silently and coming back on the wind.

Duncan nodded. He patted his horse on the neck and leaned in, whispering, “Take care of the lady.”

Blade nodded his head, shook it. Could have been in answer or it could have been that he sought to flush the water from his eyes.

Duncan wasted no time. There was no point in waiting to see if the rain would subside. It likely wouldn’t, and they were out in the open now on the edge of the forest. He bolted toward the ledge, his toes sinking deep into mud and popping out with each step he took. Mud-covered feet would not make his approach to the alcove any safer.

He glanced up at the sky, praying for safety and strength as water pelted his face, and then he took his first step up, wavering as he centered his weight. Duncan leaned against the wet stone, sensing how slick it was around his hands and his feet. He took a tentative step forward, measuring the extent of the ledge’s slipperiness. Not as bad as he
’d thought.

Taking it slow, he inched to the side, his chest pressed to the stone wall, back to the angry current below. He blocked out all noise of his surroundings, zeroing in on his breath, his heartbeat and the measured steps it would take to get to the alcove
, where he could gather his things before having to make the treacherous walk again.

Duncan blew out a breath when the alcove was within leaping distance. He jumped to safety, skidding a little as his wet
, muddy feet hit the dry alcove floor.

He gathered their things,
stripped off his wet leine, pleated his plaid, rolled it around his hips and pulled his black robe over his shoulders, securing it at the neck. Back in costume he felt safer, calmer. Hidden.

One last order of business. He s
tuck the backs of his feet briefly under the falls, washing away the muck before slipping his feet back into his hose and boots.

Ready to make the walk again, he check
ed first on Heather, raising his arm to her. She raised hers in return before ducking her head away from the storm. They’d be lucky if she didn’t get sick from this. Duncan was used to being out in the elements, but he doubted Heather was. Ladies normally ran for shelter at the first shift in the wind, safe from harm before a drop of rain could even fall.

Even as the thought went through his mind, doubt crept in. She struck him as more adventurous than that. Perhaps the lass stayed behind to dance in wanton circles as Mother Earth’s nourishment fell all around. ’Twas a fact he’d yet to hear her complain.

But it could have been that she was so frozen she couldn’t speak, a thought that sent a most unsettling feeling through him. He had to get her to shelter straightaway.

With Heather as his sole thought, he made it over the ledge and back to her side before he realized he’d stepped foot on the dangerous stone shelf. The woman was taking him out of himself. Dangerous. Just being near her put him on treacherous ground.

He made quick work of pulling her down, putting the saddle and bridle on Blade, and then getting them both settled back onto the horse’s back. He would not have normally gone to the trouble in a storm, but carrying the saddle and satchels on their laps would have been a bit much. He expected to hear some witty comment about how he was finally dressed, but she said nothing, simply leaned back against him, shivering.

The exact opposite of what she’d done every other time they’d ridden together. The lass was unquestionably ailing.

The storm showed no sign of relenting, only the warning of worse things yet to come. Duncan kicked Blade’s flank, urging his mount into a gallop through the soggy mud and torrential downpour.

“Just a short ride away,” he said, comforting Heather, the horse and himself.

Every passing minute found Heather sagging heavier and heavier against him. She was definitely not herself. The Heather he knew would have been nearly over the top of the horse in her haste to get away from him. Damn it! She couldn’t catch a fever on him! Duncan wouldn’t allow it.

The cave loomed into view, or rather its surroundings did. The entrance was hidden behind an overgrowth of gorse bushes that he’d made sure to plant and a very tall oak that had been there for a century at least.

Duncan wasn’t the only one to have found the cave. Occasionally when he came upon it, there were remnants of passers-through, but he’d never run into one. Today may prove to be different, given the weather.

“Dinna make a sound,” he whispered, though she’d not spoken thus far.

He slowed Blade to a painful walk as what felt like buckets full of water fell from thick leaves that had filled up, and rain that had managed to avoid the trees altogether pelted against their cheeks.

There was no way to ascertain if one or more people had taken shelter within the cave. He wasn’t about to call out a greeting.

No prints remained indented in the muck, the rain heavy enough to wash away all evidence that anyone had ever stepped here. No horses roamed the vicinity. But that didn’t prove anything. Duncan himself planned to bring Blade into the cave so the animal could dry off and remain warm.

Only one way to find out, and there was no use standing outside to figure out another course of action. Heather needed warmth and a roof immediately.

He urged Blade forward, around the wide oak and bushes to the narrow path that sat between them and the cave entrance. There was no scent of smoke or sound of people talking. They might just get lucky.

Before they reached the entrance, Duncan still
ed his horse and gave Heather the reins. She opened her mouth to protest, but he put two fingers to his lip. With her nod, he dismounted. He pulled his claymore from the sheath at his back and gripped it in two hands as he crept forward. Either not having alerted those who resided inside to his presence, or he and Heather were truly alone, no one popped their heads out to see him. Positioning himself to the side of the entrance, he called out, “
Feasgar math
.”