Read The Highlander's Sin Online
Authors: Eliza Knight
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #British & Irish, #Historical, #Genre Fiction, #Romance, #Medieval, #Scottish, #Historical Fiction, #Historical Romance, #Fiction
Anger burned inside her. “And, as I said, ye’re the worst sort of man I’ve ever met in my life.”
He winced but caught it quickly, replacing that moment of vulnerability with a hardened stare. “A good thing ye’ll soon be out of my hands.”
Heather curled her hands into fists, her nails biting into the sensitive flesh of her palms. How did the man have the power to affect her so much? Tears burned the backs of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. She would not cry in front him. Would
not
. Could
not
.
The tears, however, couldn’t care less about how she felt. They gathered until they blurred her vision and then started to spill in fat drops on to her cheeks. She ducked her head, glancing toward her lap in hopes of keeping her utterly feminine, child-like reaction hidden. No need to hear him tell her once more what a spoiled brat she was. Here she was, so frustrated she’d been unable to control herself, and now she cried like a bairn.
But darn it! She had a good excuse. Not only had she been abducted, half starved, nearly drowned, and denied enough sleep in the last few days, but her feelings were thoroughly hurt and her dreams of a promising future had been all but burned away like the embers in the fire.
“Are ye crying?” Duncan’s voice was softer, not the harsh tones she’d become used to.
She ignored him. He didn’t need to know if she was crying or not. Even if it was fairly obvious. Her shoulders shook, nose ran, eyes burned. She swiped angrily at her face with the blanket.
Scuffing boots echoed in the quiet hollow, and then he was beside her,
his body heat warming that side of her.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t touch her, just sat beside her. Heather didn’t know what to do, how to react. If he’d been her brother Magnus, she’d have leaned against his shoulder and let her sobs come out as loud as they needed to be. If it’d been her brother Blane, she would have begged him to retaliate against whoever had done this to her. Her brother Ronan would have let her punch him until her tears were no more, and her sister, Lorna, would have given her the best advice. But her family wasn’t sitting beside her.
Nay, the one sitting beside her was the one who’d caused her to cry in the first place. And because of that she didn’t know what to do besides sob quietly into her lap, all the while begging herself to let it stop. It was humiliating to let him see how much he’d affected her, hurt her.
Confusing, too, since he said nothing. All the more befuddling was how she gained a sense of comfort from his nearness.
When her tears began to subside, and she could find her voice again, she said, “Let me go.”
Duncan had been nice to her, and here she was crying her eyes out. The Ross clan would not be so nice to her, and to show such weakness in front of them would be more humiliating than showing Duncan.
“I canna,” he said quietly, and she sensed the regret in his words.
“Why?” Heather turned her head slightly, leaning a cheek against her knees. “Why canna ye?”
Chapter Fifteen
G
uilt soured Duncan’s stomach.
“My family will triple the coin the Rosses would give ye. They can take care of themselves. We’d welcome the war. I promise ye.” Tremors left over from Heather’s cry laced her words.
Duncan shook his head and locked eyes with hers, which were rimmed red and a brighter blue than purple at that moment. He resisted the urge to wipe the wetness from her cheeks.
“’Tis not the coin that holds me.” He’d plenty buried in the stone walls of the
abbey.
“I’ve told ye I had nothing to do with your family’s
slaughter, though if I could have, I would have tried to stop it.”
“Ye were barely old enough, if even born yet.” He supposed he ought to tell her his weakness. Where Lady Ross had him, strictly by the ballocks. “Ye see, if I dinna deliver ye, they will burn my abbey, and all those who reside inside it.”
Heather gasped. “How can they? That will certainly condemn them all to hell.”
Duncan shrugged. “They dinna seem to care about that. They are fueled by rage and care not for the path they will follow in the afterlife, but only for the life of now.”
“And ye were the perfect man to see it done. Levelheaded, well-trained, and wanting revenge on my family.”
He shrugged again. She had the right of it. ’Twas the reason he’d agreed, but not the reason for carrying it out. Though the monks and prior angered him sometimes, he would never see them suffer. They’d taken him in when he’d had no one. They’d raised him, fed him, sheltered him,
clothed him, educated him. Duncan was not sore enough about cold winter nights and stale bread to wish them harm. Never. If anything, he owed the church his life. They had toughened him up. He’d have perished with the rest of his family if not for them.
“We all do things for those we love that canna often be explained,” he answered.
“Love,” Heather said, biting her lip and looking away. “Something I’ll never know if ye give me up to those monsters. I’ll be lucky to see the morning.” She laughed bitterly. “Ye see, as soon as ye leave, they will slit my throat. Ye’ll deliver the message to my family that they have me, because ye would know nothing otherwise, and ye’re a priest they can trust. All the while, I’ll be rotting in a shallow grave, if they even give me that much, while they sharpen their blades in preparation
for murdering my family. Shall I issue ye my thanks now, or would ye prefer it upon my deliverance?”
With each word she uttered, Duncan grew colder and colder until a numbness surrounded him.
Visions of her lying in a grave, staring up at him, lifeless, made him shudder. “One life for the lives of hundreds,” he muttered, hating himself.
“I’m to be a sacrifice.”
He swallowed, cursing himself. “Are the hundred men of the cloth at Pluscarden to go in your stead? They will not abandon their abbey.”
Shadows covered her eyes
, and she flicked her gaze away. “I dinna know.”
“Death comes to us all, princess.”
The words sounded cold even to his own ears, and he was disgusted to have uttered them.
“Ye’re cruel,” she said, and rightly so. Heather leaned away from him, closer to the fire, as if she’d prefer to be burned than sit beside him.
Hell, he’d rather be burned than ever have to say what he’d just said again. He wasn’t a cruel man, wasn’t the sort to let an innocent go to her death. And here he was, doing just that.
Empathy bade him to beg her forgiveness, but his pride kept his tongue motionless. If he could have, he would have saved her from the fate he’d led her toward. But, truly, how could he save the abbey from destruction and not give her up to her enemy’s hands?
There was only one way. And it meant that Duncan had to forgive the family who’d destroyed his own. That meant giving up everything he’d stood for practically the whole of his life. It meant approaching his own enemies and begging for help.
Duncan wasn’t a beggar, and he wasn’t sure he could change who he was, even to save her life.
“Get some sleep. On the morrow we ride, rain or none.”
Heather nodded, avoiding eye contact. He tossed her the remaining blanket as a pillow and watched her lay her head
down, her back facing him as she curled into a little ball. Her shoulders shook. She was crying again.
He hated himself at that moment, seeing her so vulnerable on the floor, a shadow of the woman he’d met in the Sutherland chapel.
He’d done that. Broken her.
Duncan had to force himself to look away, to hide from himself the damage he’d done. Dragging his feet to the cave opening, he leaned against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest and looked out into the woods. Wind pelted the rain with force into the trees, but the leaves acted as tiny shields, trying their damnedest to protect the forest. But the wind was strong, bending some smaller, weaker trees nearly in half.
Blade sauntered forward, nudged Duncan’s arm with his muzzle. The horse blew out a disgusted breath, his nostrils flaring. Was he upset with the storm, or did he, too, think Duncan was a cruel man?
“What would ye have me do?” Duncan asked under his breath. “Marry the chit and declare war on the Ross clan? Side with my enemy and call them brother when I’ve done nothing over the past two decades but imagine their blood on my hands?”
Blade snorted again and nudged his shoulder a little harder, this time causing Duncan to shift on his feet.
He glowered at the animal, disbelieving he was actually having to explain himself to the beast. “I’ll nay do it. ’Tis a duty I have for the sake of my family’s souls. My father would roll over in his grave.”
Duncan glanced over his shoulder. Heather lay still, her tears either having subsided or sleep rescuing her from the pain Duncan had caused. Just imagining the emotional torture he’d put her through sent a fresh shaft of guilt into his heart. He’d been surprised by the welcome warmth her company had brought—and not at all surprised by her feisty tongue. But how much he enjoyed sparring with her had jarred him. When Lady Ross had debriefed him, he’d expected to hate this mission, to want to murder the lass before turning her over, but it’d been the exact opposite of that.
Aye, he’d threatened her plenty of times, but mostly because he liked to see her reaction, not because he intended to actually go through with
whatever punishment had come to mind.
Disappointment took hold, tightening a rope around his middle. He was discontent with the idea of letting her go, with what the evil couple would do with her. He was disenchanted with the idea of burying his revenge. But
the notion of marrying Heather… A seed had been planted in his mind and began to grow roots, extending through his head, down his neck and growing stronger by the minute.
He turned away from her. The longer he stared at her, the likelier it was he’d ask her what she thought of the idea. The answer to that would be very clear. She’d gut him for sure,
with any sort of utensil she could find, maybe even gore him with one of the burning embers.
At least the horse had stopped nudging him. Duncan slicked his hand over his hair, tightening the queue that kept it from falling into his eyes.
He, too, was exhausted. But he knew if he lay down, sleep was not likely to visit him. When morning broke, he’d have a decision to make. Lady Ross would be meeting him at an inn at noon. That much was set in stone. He would either be there, or he would not. She’d reminded him that with each passing hour, the coins in the purse would deplete, and if he should be an entire day late, lives would be taken.
He and Heather would have to rise at dawn and ride Blade hard to make it in time.
There was no time to engage the Sutherlands in negotiations. How could he possibly save his abbey
and
the lass?
The Sutherlands would protect Heather, of that Duncan had no doubt. But there was no incentive for them to protect the abbey. They had no stake in his church. Even if he sought the help of Brandon Sinclair, the cousin of Laird Sutherland, with whom Duncan had had dealings in the past, there would still not be enough time to save anyone.
Knowing the Rosses, they’d already gathered a group of warriors to surround the abbey, waiting with salivating mouths for the call to attack. They were a vicious clan, more animalistic than human.
Duncan wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that they’d formed a pact with the devil himself.
Heather coughed, the sound bouncing off the walls and startling Duncan from his thoughts. He whirled and in four strides was by her side. Bending at the knee, he pressed a hand to her shoulder.
“Are ye all right?”
Heather’s eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him. “I’m fine.”
“Do ye need a drink?”
She shook her head and closed her reddened, swollen eyes.
He should have left her side, gone back to the front of the cave where he belonged, but Duncan couldn’t bring himself to do it, couldn’t make his legs lift him. Instead, they seemed to have lost all power. He sat down beside her.
“Go away,” she murmured. “I’m stuck with ye in this godforsaken cave, at least allow me the privilege of not breathing the same air as ye.”
“I know ye hate me, lass,” he started, but she cut him off.
“Aye. Now go away.”
“But I dinna want ye to hate me. I’ve not put ye in a spot ye want to be in, I know it.”
“That makes two of us, now will ye please allow me to sleep?” The anguish in her voice choked off the rest of Duncan’s words.
Heather was still too raw to hear his ideas, to help him figure out how they could get her out of this alive. He nodded, though she didn’t look at him. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and had started to stand when a tiny white hand reached out and grabbed onto the bare skin of his forearm.
A tingle shot from the spot, rushing through him. Surprisingly, though he felt his cock stir, the biggest place her touch seemed to influence was his chest. It grew tight, making breathing harder. He stilled in mid-crouch and slid his opposite hand over hers, feeling how very tiny hers was in his palm.
“I know your people mean a lot to ye,” she said. Her eyes remained closed, as though by not seeing him, perhaps he might disappear. “And I must be the most selfish woman on the planet to be upset that ye would beg for their lives over mine. I’m sorry for it.”
“Och, lass, to ask anyone for their life is selfish. Dinna blame yourself for the reaction ye had, nor the feelings that have risen from it. I’ve asked too much, and truth be told, I’d have ye live.”
She opened her eyes, eyes that showed him the depths of her despair and filled Duncan’s soul with repentance. “Dinna say things that will never come to pass.”
Could he risk telling her his thoughts?
Nay, not yet. Duncan shook his head. “I never say things I dinna mean.”
“Well-meaning has no place when your actions contradict it.”
Despite her innocence, her verve for life, Heather was wiser than Duncan had originally given her credit for.
“Ye’re a very intelligent woman,” he mused.
She rolled over to her other side, breaking contact with him. “Apparently not intelligent enough.”
“Despite what ye think,” Duncan stood and scooped up the discarded whiskey jug, “I’ve a great respect for ye, lass. And while I think ye’re a pain in the arse, I’ve quite enjoyed your company.”
She grunted halfheartedly. “Words of a man filled with guilt for his actions.”
Heather was right, but just because she’d pinned the precise reason for his saying so, did not mean she’d had to voice it.
She was the type of woman who always had to have the last, stinging word. Probably the result of having three older brothers who tormented her and indulged her. They’d molded and shaped her into a harridan, and he was about to lay down his life to spend the rest of it with her.
“Ye’re a s
tubborn little wench,” he stated, but lightened his tone. Duncan was well aware that he should stop right there. That he should lie down and try to get some rest. To keep speaking when they were both so exhausted would never result in anything productive. Rest was best, for tomorrow would be one of the hardest days of his life. But he couldn’t seem to make himself shut up. Something about Heather made him want to fight with her. “I ought to drag ye through the rain and straight to Ross lands now.”