Читать книгу The Mackintosh Bride - Debra Brown Lee - Страница 10

So much for hunting.

Iain reined his lathered stallion to a walk. They’d outridden the warriors, but on his life he knew not how. The terrain had been rugged and steep, and his steed already spent when the chase had begun.

The woman had swooned—from shock and exhaustion, no doubt—but not before she’d driven the roan to break-neck speed. Iain had never seen anything like it. As they’d topped the ridge above the ravine she’d leaned far forward in the saddle, her hands resting lightly on the stallion’s neck. ’Twas almost as if she’d whispered something to the beast. The steed had responded immediately, had flown past larch and laurel, dodging stumps and boulders, leaving the Grants far behind.

Securing one arm ’round her waist, he draped the woman’s legs over his thigh. Her head lolled back, spilling flaxen tresses across his plaid. Wisps of the fine hair grazed his bare leg like a thousand silken fingers. Her full lips were parted. “Holy God,” he breathed, and fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Feelings stirred inside him that he couldn’t explain: fierce protectiveness, awe, desire. He pushed them from his mind. Who had time for such foolishness?

He guided the roan toward a small creek and dismounted carefully, the woman in his arms. He laid her gently down onto a bed of wild grasses near the water’s edge. They would be safe here, for a while at least.

God’s truth, she was lovely. He hadn’t spent much time with women. He’d been far too busy working toward the day he’d clear his father’s name. That day was coming, and soon.

With a strip of cloth cut from his plaid, he washed the blood and caked mud from her face and neck, hesitating a moment before moving to her shoulders. He swallowed hard as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts with each slow, steady intake of breath.

A few stray leaves clung to her hair. As he plucked them from their golden nest he had the strangest feeling he knew her. Nay, ’twas impossible. He was certain he’d never seen her before. Hers was not a face a man would soon forget.

Examining the fine silk of her gown, he wondered about her family, to which clan she belonged. She was a lady, surely. Her mount had lacked distinctive markings or livery. In fact, the gelding had neither saddle nor stirrups. She’d ridden bareback and outrun the Grant. Now that was impressive.

On impulse he clasped one of her hands in his and ran his thumb lightly over her palm. ’Twas rough and callused, surprisingly so. A lady, surely, but with the hands of a servant? No matter. He’d solve the mystery soon enough.

“Wake up, lass,” he whispered, and rubbed her cool hands between his.

She felt like ice.

Aye, except for her hands. They were warm. Oh, what a terrible dream. She drew a breath and opened her eyes. “Jesu!”

A huge warrior knelt above her, a dark shape against the setting sun. “Nay!” She wrenched her hands free of his grip and thrashed at him with her fists.

“Easy, lass, easy.” The warrior grabbed her wrists to still her struggle. “You’re safe, you’re safe now. No harm will come to ye.”

She stiffened in his grasp, then relaxed, letting her head fall back onto the soft pillow of heather. Oh, God, ’twas all true then!

The warrior held her hands in his, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs. Against all reason, she was not afraid of him. In truth, she felt strangely comforted by his presence. She felt…

Safe.

With a start, she remembered her pursuers. She bolted upright and scanned their surroundings for signs of the riders. “Where are they? What—”

“Shh…Dinna fash.” The warrior coaxed her into lying back down. “We’re well away from the soldiers and they willna follow us here.”

He revealed a square of damp cloth, hesitated for a moment as if to gauge her response, then pressed it to her brow. She lay still and let him do it.

His face intrigued her. ’Twas thoughtful yet strong, with finely chiseled features, and framed by a mane of deep brown hair. One thin braid strayed from his temple, and he absently pushed it back from his face. His expression was intent, and his eyes—those eyes—from where did she know them?

Jesu! He was sponging the rise of her breasts with the cloth. She sat up and batted his hand away.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “The blood. Let me—”

“Nay!” She pulled the edges of her tattered gown together, covering her half-exposed breast. A flash of heat rose in her face, and she knew her cheeks blazed crimson. “’Tis…not my blood.”

With revulsion she recalled Reynold Grant’s hands on her. Their brief meeting had gone from bad to worse once his intentions were made clear. Why in God’s name did he wish to wed her? ’Twas unfathomable. She was nothing, no one. He was laird and could have any woman he wanted.

He wanted her.

And used her parents’ vulnerability to ensure her compliance. Did she not wed him on Midsummer’s Day, he’d turn them out. Without the clan’s protection, with no way to make a living, they’d perish.

Jesu, what had she done?

When she’d refused Reynold, he came at her and she’d panicked. In her struggle to get away she’d done something stupid. She’d cut him. On the face. Her dirk was in her hand before she’d even known what she was doing. ’Twas raw instinct, self-defense. Any maid would have done the same to preserve her virtue. She’d fled the keep and bolted into the forest on the waiting gelding. She didn’t think, she just rode, faster and faster until—

The warrior’s intense gaze pulled her back to the moment. He sat back on his heels, allowing her some space. “Have they…did they…harm ye, lass?”

His eyes beamed concern, and her heart fluttered. “Nay, I’m well. Truly.” She pulled the gown tighter across her breasts, crossing her arms in front of her.

He leaned forward and offered her the damp cloth. “There’s no need to fear me. I willna harm ye.”

She accepted the square of plaid and wiped it across the curve of her neck, remembering with a shudder the soldiers who’d pursued her.

The warrior retrieved a leather bladder from the saddle of his horse and offered it to her. “Here, drink this. ’Twill calm ye.”

Eager to slake her thirst, she took a long draught from the waterskin and nearly choked. “Wha—what is it?” she sputtered, and started to cough.

The warrior laughed. “A wee libation my brother concocted.”

“’Tis terrible.” She tried to catch her breath as the drink burned a path of liquid fire down her throat.

“Aye, ’tis.” He chuckled. “But it’s kept me warm on many a night in the rough.”

She cleared her throat and felt a pleasant heat spread throughout her chest. She relaxed a little and handed the skin back to him.

He sat beside her, cross-legged, and she noticed for the first time his powerful physique: broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. Her mind drifted. She imagined the well-muscled chest and arms that lay hidden beneath his plaid and rough woolen shirt. He caught her staring, and her cheeks flushed hot. Quickly she looked away.

“So,” he said. “What did ye do to incite a dozen Grants to run ye to ground like a rabbit?”

Her gaze flew to his, and she caught his half smile. “I did nothing! And I was not run to ground like a rabbit. I was doing just…fine.”

“Aye, and I’m the king o’ Scotland.” His blue eyes flashed amusement. “Another moment and The Grant would ha’ been on ye.”

“If my horse hadn’t faltered, I’d have outridden them easily.”

The warrior put a hand to his chin and stroked a twoday growth of stubble. “Your horse? Ye are a Grant, then.”

“Nay! I am not.” The question unnerved her and instinct compelled her to shield the truth from him. For now, at least. “Were I Grant, think you I’d flee my own kinsmen?”

“Oh, so ye were running away.”

“Aye—nay!” He was twisting her words. She felt herself panicking. “I didn’t say that.”

The warrior leaned closer, his face inches from hers. ’Twas as if he stared right into her soul. “So, what were ye doing, then?”

“I was—I was—Wait! Who are you?”

The moment the words left her lips she knew.

He wore a common hunting plaid of muted browns and greens. As the last rays of the sun glinted off his clan brooch she recognized the emblem: a wild cat, reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.

The warrior did not give his name. No matter. His face, those eyes—She would know him anywhere. He was Iain Mackintosh, her childhood love.