Highlander's Heart Page 3
“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.”
“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.
“In the future, I will take pains to keep ye from my cattle.” The Highlander spoke gruffly but made no effort to push her away.
Isabelle bent at her work, covering the wound and beginning to wrap it around his thigh. Halfway around, she realized she would need to move her hands around to his inner thigh to wrap the cloth and paused, unsure of how to proceed. “I’ve found wounds heal faster and are less likely to fester if they are cleaned and wrapped,” she explained.
His green eyes flickered, reflecting the dancing firelight. “A healer, are ye?” His voice was soft.
Isabelle swallowed hard. Heat licked the back of her neck. “Y-yes, at least I was trained to treat common complaints. If the wound was still bleeding, there is a plant to help it to stop. There are herbs for almost any complaint, some to help you sleep, some to ease pain, some if you are bilious…”
The Highlander raised one eyebrow at this, a slow smile creeping on his lips. Isabelle blushed, remembering too late her tendency to ramble when flustered, yet still was unable to curb her tongue. “I’ve been called to stitch and bind many a wound. The menfolk are always getting themselves hurt one way or another.”
He leaned closer, a small movement. “Wi’ ye around I dinna doubt it.”
Isabelle’s mouth went dry. She focused back on her work, slowly wrapping the strip of cloth around his thigh, her hands trembling and uncharacteristically awkward. She accidentally brushed her hand across his inner thigh and he caught his breath. Tying the ends of the bandage, she raised her head, finding his face close to her own. His expressive eyes mirrored her surprise.
“You should be well now,” she whispered.
“I thank thee.” He leaned closer and kissed her chastely on the cheek. “A boon for ye.”
“Thank you, Edna.” The words escaped her lips without thought.
The man brushed back her hair from her eyes and kissed her sweetly. She leaned closer into him and he deepened the kiss. She could taste the whiskey on his lips, and wondered if that was the cause of the intoxicating sensation coursing through her.
Behind her the fire popped, casting flaming sparks. He jerked back and reached around her, beating out the burning embers that had fallen on the hem of her gown.
He took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Ye are too close to the fire.”
Her head spun. She was much too close indeed. She should not speak to him again. “I am sorry… that is… too close, I understand… dreadful losing the horse.” She inwardly groaned. She was babbling again.
He gave her a faint smile of amusement. “Not yer fault about the horse. I shoud’na have lost my temper, but I am due in Glasgow for a meeting, and it will be verra bad if I should miss it.”
“Am I to know your name?” She blurted the question that had been on her lips all night.
He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on her. “I am Sir David Campbell.”
“You are a knight, then?”
“Aye. And what shall I call ye?”
“I am the… Isabelle.”
“The Isabelle?”
“How came you by the honor of knighthood?” Isabelle asked, trying to cover her blunder.
“I was knighted by Sir William Douglas for service rendered to Scotland for ridding Ettrick Forest o’ the English.”
A slight tingle on the back of her neck gave her a twinge of warning. He said the word English as if it was a curse. Campbell dropped her hand and folded his arms across his chest.
“For the same act,” Campbell continued, “yer king declared me a criminal and put a price on my head.”
Isabelle sucked in a gasp of air. This Highlander was a wanted man, a criminal. He was her enemy and she would do best to remember it. Isabelle hastened back to her bower. She laid down with her back to him, closed her eyes, and said no more. At first light she would slip away, back to England. She would not be going anywhere with this man.
Four
Isabelle woke early in the dim light of dawn. The barbarian was sleeping sitting up, his back against a tree, an unsheathed knife in his hands. Even asleep he emanated power. She froze, fearing he would wake at any moment, yet he continued to sleep, snoring slightly. He was not so fearsome without his customary frown. Memories of his kisses warmed her even in the morning chill. In the gray light of dawn, she concluded Sir David Campbell was the most attractive man she had ever seen. How she could have thought otherwise was a mystery.
It was a shame to have to leave him, but she must return to her people. She moved very slowly, taking care to be silent with each movement. With considerable stealth born of fear, she crept from the camp. She was not sure if he would stop her, but waking him posed too great a risk.
Several yards from camp she paused, trying to decide which way to go. She could follow the road, but Campbell had indicated it did not lead to England. On the other side of the road was a small hill. She decided to climb it to see if there was another road that might lead her back toward England. At the top of the rise she could still not see beyond the thick foliage. If only she was taller, she might be able to see above the bushes and small trees.
A large boulder caught her eye and a moment later she was scrambling up it, ignoring the painful sound of ripping velvet. She had been a tree climber in her youth, before someone decided she was old enough to leave the nursery and become a lady, thus ending her amusements in life.
Standing on the boulder was better, but still her view was obstructed. A low-hanging branch provided a tempting option and she took it, hoisting herself up into a tree. Now she had a clear view of the surrounding area. Below her was the road she had found yesterday, and beyond that was another road, which might suit her purpose of returning to her country.
She was engaged with trying to find a path to this road when she noticed something else. A line of men leading horses were tracking through the forest in her general direction. At first her hopes soared, thinking it must be her captain, come to rescue her. She was disabused of this happy notion when the men stepped into a clearing, and their livery became clearly visible. They were Tynsdale’s men.
Isabelle gasped and leaned forward, hoping that perhaps she had been mistaken. She was not. Careful scrutiny confirmed they were indeed her husband’s guard come looking for her.
At once she felt the deprivation of her genteel education, which did not afford her with such language as she now felt necessary to convey her true feelings. She envied Campbell, for in his darkest moment he had not appeared to suffer from a loss of words.
What with leaning forward to see her tormentors drawing nearer, and her idle musings on her lack of vulgar vocabulary, she lost hold of the branch and slipped forward with a shriek onto another one a few feet below. She swung forward, her feet dangling in the air. The branch was not sufficient for her weight and it bent down at such an angle that she lost her grip, and fell to the ground, a mere few feet away. She landed in a heap, panting and shaken, but unhurt.
“Bother!” she exclaimed, and knew it to be a woefully inadequate expression of her current wretched situation. Throwing off all propriety she lifted her skirts in both hands and raced down the hill, ignoring the sting and scrape of branches as she ran. She must fly or risk
being taken prisoner.
Her only hope now was in throwing herself on the mercy of a barbarian Scot. Truly, not even one proficiently schooled in the art of foul language could have the words to describe this sad circumstance.
But… what if he was gone?
***
David Campbell regained his mount after a brief but decisive altercation with the knave who had stolen his horse. He had heard Isabelle leave early that morning, and considered trying to stop her, but let her go. He had offered his help. If she chose not to accept it, the better it was for him. He was already behind schedule and taking up a female would only slow him further.
After she left, he followed the trail left by the horse thief. Fortunately, he found the thief had made his own camp about a mile away. Unfortunately, the thief had helped himself to the whiskey Douglas had given him. If stealing his horse had not already inflamed Campbell’s anger, drinking his whiskey sealed the thief’s fate.
Astride his mount, Campbell turned toward Glasgow. The dark road stretched out before him, still cast in the shadows of early dawn. He ought to move fast, for he was already late. He turned back to where he had made camp with the little English vixen. He had offered his help. She had refused it. He had no obligation to help her. And yet he was plagued by memories of her kiss, warm yet innocent. He could not shake the impression that there was more to her story than had been revealed. She was in trouble, that much was clear. Good thing it was none of his concern.
Campbell had enough female trouble of his own. His visit to Douglas, his former foster father, had been brief. He had ducked some rather pointed questions from Lady Douglas as to the timing of his nuptials with her daughter, replying that he still mourned the loss of his father. His sire had died last fall, and this being spring, the excuse was growing a bit lame. Campbell cited urgent business at one of his holdings and left the castle with some haste.
It was not that he had anything against Eileen Douglas, except that she was a shrew with a shrill voice and a haughty laugh, but that was hardly a consideration. An alliance with Douglas would be a highly desirable thing, but other alliances and loyalties must be taken into account. Rumblings of discord were in the air, whispers of treason and preparation for war. It was a dangerous, lawless time in Scotland.