The Laird's Right (3 page)

His secure hold kept her on her feet. No man besides her husband had held her so close. In her tired mind, she felt safe when she was in great danger. This man kidnapped her, after all.

“I will not let you go.”

She ordered her legs to withstand her weight and to move. Stepping away was not an option if she didn’t want to land on her face. He loosened his hold and she clasped his forearms. She jerked her hands back, leaving faint scratches on his forearm.

“Walk and you will be well.” He released her, taking away his steady support.

This was the perfect moment for her to act haughty, however, she focused on remaining standing. Gingerly, she put one foot forward then dragged the other useless limb along. She hissed and cringed.

The blame lain sorely on the thick head of this Highlander. Her journey to Scotland hadn’t been easy yet she hadn’t remembered such hardships. Fear must have given her the will to endure since she collapsed at her sister’s door upon her arrival.

Once soreness replaced the vanishing pain, she glanced about the clearing. Water scented the air and blended with the fragrance of these wild lands, peat and a smoky hint. The sun fell behind the sky-brushing mountains. This was so very different than England where soft rolling hills were broken by forest, a home she would be seeing soon but not for long.

Her kidnapper grabbed her by the upper arm. “Sit and a fire will be made.”

“I require a private moment.”

The knave pressed his lips, ready to deny her. The blond shook his head while the other two glared at her.

“My legs are shaking. I will not run away. I may not even have the power to return.”

“Go along before I escort you.” He waved her along. She might have taken affront to his command but she was too tired to quarrel with the man. Dragging herself to a hidden spot, she hurried to care for her needs. Taking a quick peek, she found a rock-strewn footpath. It must lead to a settlement otherwise the path wouldn’t have been here, cut through the ground by use.

For added protection, she picked up a particular pointy stone and tucked it among her pouch alongside her dice and dirk.

Portia returned to find a fire. The redhead stabbed an oatcake at her so she reluctantly accepted.

She plopped down on a blanket with the other redhead, who she noticed shared a resemblance to her captor, standing behind her. The blond one with the hard, square face stabbed at the fire. Though a wind blew through the clearing, his extra-wide shoulders shielded the flames from being blown into wisps of nothingness.

A wooden cup appeared in her face. She trailed her gaze up the arm to the face of her third kidnapper. His broken nose hardened the red-gold of his wavy strands. His pale blue eyes narrowed and he snarled at her, as if she pleaded with these men to snatch her.

Portia accepted the cup and gulped down the chilled water under the watchful eye of the three men. “Thank you.” She held it out. The blond one took it from her with no reply. She wasted time, straightening her skirts, while hoping inspiration came to her.

“I am Lady Portia de Mowbray.”

All three of them blinked at her then lowered their heads.

“What are your names?” More blinking. The one with the broken nose threw something into the fire and sent sparks flying.

“I shall regret this but I do miss my mother. I have been in Scotland for more than two fortnights. Tis a beautiful country.”

She continued as if the fire before her came from a hearth and not a pit in the ground. “You ought to release me. I’m a weak woman who may not survive the journey.”

“They won’t speak to you,” their leader said. He shadowed over her. His wide stance emphasized the power of his form from foot to slim hips beneath the drape of his plaid. Fine brown hairs covered his thick calves and disappeared into hide boots wrapped with leather string. The hem of his plaid reached his knees and did nothing to hide his brawn. Portia was a tall woman yet she was inches shorter than him. With Stephen, she lacked a feeling of delicacy, yet with him, she felt utterly feminine, even dainty.

“You will,” she questioned, the raise of her pitch betrayed her. “What is your name?”

He grinned, making him more handsome than she first believed. “I’m Laird Alec Cameron.” He bowed as courtly as the courtiers before the king.

She rose. “I’m—”

“Lady Portia de Mowbray, as you informed most of Scotland and its heavens,” he teased, mirth lightening his tone to an intimate sensation that sent a melting warmth through her. The fire might have added to her loosening.

“He is Ronan.” He pointed to the redhead. Ronan sat across the clearing. The flames deepened the hollows of his face.

“A relation. I noticed the filial features.” And the glare he shot across the fire.

“Nay, my cousin. He is Quinlain.” The blond remained stoic, watching her with a hard gaze. His craggy face seemed to be telling her that he wasn’t pleased for her company and might want to rid himself of it permanently.

“And the other is Hurley.” Hurley had a handsome face without an etch of tension cutting into his features. The corners of his eyes were relaxed in such a way Portia almost believed him kind. But she knew about the truth of handsome faces and the evil mask it could obscure.

“I must warn you my brother-in-law shall send many men after me. There are only four of you…” She shrugged, letting the implication hang.

Even Quinlan chuckled.

“Don’t fret, Portia.” The lyrical roll of his burr caressed each letter of her name. Months had passed since a man spoke her name with such tenderness. Alec’s held a sensual note that played in her mind like a prayer. “Rest, tomorrow is a long ride without halting.”

He threw a plaid over her. Truth was she was tired. Sleep had visited her for mere hours a night, only to have it snatched away and dangled before her as weariness had overtook her. Fear arrived again tonight, digging its chilled hands in to her.

This night was no different from the others. In the darkness time of the night, she laid wide-eyed. The thick blackness blared with cries and calls of night animals. The fire was dead and the smoke blown away hours ago. The plaid provided some warmth from the cold night. Beneath her, the hard ground grew colder and harder. Her body rattled from the chilly bite.

Ronan spread out in the ground as if he slept in a lush bed. Quinlan laid beside his sword and Hurley was underneath his plaid. The soft respirations of sleep added to the sounds around her. She couldn’t spot Alec. Last, she knew, he rested with his back against the tree. After a long moment of holding her breath, she shifted. She waited for one of them to snap an order to cease or shift in a sleepy haze, reacting to her. No movement. She did it again. Nothing.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and clutched the plaid to her chest. With one long glance, she ducked into the night.

* * * *

Alec watched her slip among the trees.

“The lass is a danger to herself,” Quinlan said, unmoving.

“This little ride and she’s a wet rag. She can’t survive alone in this land. There is a band of thieves just over that slope.” Hurley pointed to the west.

“She thinks she can survive alone here.”

“She won’t make it to Cameron lands.” Quinlan scratched his head. “What does a noble Sassenach know? Nothing.”

“Shall I go after her?” Ronan pushed up from the ground.

“Nay. I will.” For some reason, the thought of Ronan or any other man chasing after her stirred his annoyance. “Gather the horses and prepare to ride.”

Alec set off after her. Her footsteps were light and she made nary a noise but for her breathing. As he ate up the distance between them, her breathing grew shallow until Alec swore she’d faint.

Only one female he knew was capable of such foolishness, Ailsa, Lairdess MacLean. Ailsa usually fled to protect herself from punishment, willing to risk her life for moments of peace and safety with no care to man and animals. Like the time, the Highland cat attacked her and Connor found her, drenched in blood.

Did Portia suffer the same abuse heaped upon his sister? If one man dare to hurt her, he would kill him, slice him with his claymore then throw him from a cliff for scavengers to feast upon his corpse.

First, he must save her from herself.
Silly female, vanishing in the night in an unfamiliar land.
Alec possessed the know-how to travel about the night, having raided since his first chest hair. He knew the dangers too. He almost yelled out to her, heaping reprimands on her head, then stopped himself. No need to frighten her and endanger her more than she must be. Once he called out to her, she would run—run straight to her death.

A branch snapped and not from being stepped upon. Her hiss of pain travelled from his right. She must have slammed into an overhanging branch. Beside that one slip, she was quiet. Only the nocturnal creatures betrayed her path. The quarter moon provided scant light and the canopy of trees blocked moonlight from reaching the ground. It would be a time before the sun broke the sky. He stalked her, closing the distance between them.

On the edge of the tree line, he spotted her. Her English garb caught on the edge of a tree branch. She let out a curse. He smiled at her fight. She tugged at her sleeve, sending leaves down upon her. Her blonde hair slipped free from her braid and stuck out, shining as faintly as a rising sun.

Her full hips wiggled as she struggled to free herself. She wasn’t a small woman—almost as tall as him, her high-necked garb couldn’t conceal her lush bosom as it strained against the fine fabric with each wiggle, it bounced. She was a woman in every sense of the word.

Taking his chance, Alec ate up the distance between them. Her shallow pants blew smoke then faded away in to the air. She tucked her arms tight around her chest. Nothing could stop the highland brisk air from burrowing deep and snatching away body heat. She shivered and tossed the plaid over her shoulders. Her teeth chattered. Foolish lass, she’d be dead before she ever reached England.

Alec had a choice to make—pick her up or…

“England is that way.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

A sound—a squeak and a scream—broke from her. She leapt in to the air. He couldn’t see her but for a silhouette highlighted from the faint moon. Nonetheless, he wagered she glared at him, doing that pouty thing with her mouth.

She spun around, freeing her hair as she teetered on her feet, wailing her arms about for purchase and somehow remained upright. She backed up. “Then I’m heading in the right direction.”

“Cliff.”

She halted and cocked her head, silently questioning him.

“There’s a cliff a few steps ahead.” He motioned with a flick of his wrist to her left.

She curtsied. “Thank you.” She veered to the right, giving a wide berth to the rocky cliff edge.

Alec clasped his hands behind his back and trailed behind her. With a break in the trees, he saw her face. She glared over her shoulder. He smiled, just to vex her more.

“I cannot allow you to escape.”

“I must escape. Tis my duty as a captive,” she said as if she instructed a simpleton.

“As my duty is to capture you,” he replied using the same tone.

She dug in her pouch and threw a rock at him. It landed at his feet. He kicked it and smiled at her. She picked up her skirts to her knees and darted away. Alec froze.

“You ran away from me.” Sure, he stated the obvious, but he was dumbfounded for a brief moment.

Without much speed, he chased after her. He couldn’t help it. He laughed with his whole body. The rare guffaw covered the crush of the bramble beneath his footsteps.

“You are not faster than me, Portia. I will catch you.” She made one mistake and looked behind her.

He snaked his arm around her waist and swung her into the air. She grunted as she banged against his chest.

“You clout!”

He buried his face in her hair, smelling the faint scent of rosewater, smoke from the fire, and her light musky scent. With his lips against her small shell of her ear, he said, “You are mine and I shall not let you go.”

She bucked against him, pushing at his arms and digging her nails into his skin and ripped the short hairs dusting his arm. The underside of her breast brushed against his arm. Her behind wiggled against his awaking manhood. The kiss replayed in his mind, which would have been much more pleasurable if she had returned it. Her lips were moist and warm. He wanted to feel her lips meld against his and her tongue wrapped around his. He would have deepened it, explored her to learn what made her moan and melted her to a fiery woman. Aye. He would have worshipped her beautiful mouth.

“Do not kiss me.” She stilled and aimed a finger in his face.

He nipped at it, but she pulled it away before he could get his teeth around the tip. “One day, you shall ask for one.”

Chapter Three

The journey was taking longer than he had planned. Alec tightened his hold on Portia before she toppled to the ground. Sleep weighed down her body and molded her lush body to his. Her buttocks rubbed closer to his manhood. Half the ride was completed in a state of half-arousal. Her breast pressed against the underside of his arm. Her feminine scent hung around him, that he could smell nothing but her.

The ride was hard going for her and slower since he halted for a few moments for her to rest and to get the blood back to his head. If not for her, he should have been back in Cameron Castle and handling his duties. Unfortunately, he couldn’t press her.

He couldn’t torture her more than he had.

“Why are you halting? Let’s continue home,” Quinlan started in Gaelic.

Alec looked down at his captive. Each mile traveled, she lost a bit more color. The pink of her cheeks bright against her creamy skin faded. Dark circles intensified with each passing hour. She trustingly slept in his arms. The very least he could do was care for her. Camerons were gentlemen, no matter how damn hard it was.

“I need her alive not ill. We halt at MacAulay.”