Читать книгу Traitor or Temptress - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 10

Archie showed Lorne into the small chamber where she was to sleep, bringing her a candle, a blanket and a straw mattress to sleep on. When she rejected his offer of a bowl of game stew he left her, feeling the warmth of her smile when she thanked him for his kindness. Despite knowing who she was, he considered her to be the fairest maid he had ever seen—and the bravest, for anyone who had the courage to withstand his master—whose presence on the field of battle struck terror into the hearts of his enemies—was brave indeed.

When Archie had left her, and feeling the cold, Lorne took to the mattress and wrapped her cloak about her beneath the blanket, curling her body into a tight ball. The men were in good spirits now she had left them, and as she listened to the low rumble of their laughter penetrating the thick stone walls of her chamber, never had she felt so isolated, miserable and alone. Would her brothers come to her rescue when they learned what had befallen her? Mrs. Shelly would be out of her mind with worry, wondering what had become of her. No doubt she would go on to Edinburgh to meet James tomorrow when she didn’t appear.

Chafed and bruised and exhausted by fear and rage, she closed her eyes tight, recovering from the physical effects of her abduction, but not from the shock of it. In a fairly uneventful life at Astley Priory, no one had purposely hurt her, and tonight’s events made her feel ill and frightened. When she had mentioned David Monroe, his brother had looked close into her eyes, and just for a moment something had stirred in their silver depths. It was gone in the blink of an eye, but she did not want to see it again.

Iain was preparing to bed down with his horse when Hugh came striding across the moonlit, cobbled yard in search of him. The two men were close friends, and there was a buoyant, sprightly manner between them that was the result of long association. Their families had always been close. Like the Monroes, the Glovers were ardent Protestants and had acquired army distinction at home and abroad on behalf of governments of their own religious persuasion.

‘You’ve talked to John?’

Hugh could see his friend was greatly troubled. He nodded gravely. ‘I would no more interfere in your business than you would in mine, Iain. But there isn’t a man or woman in these parts who doesn’t remember what happened to your brother and those men escorting him from Oban that night, and it is clear to me that the men in there,’ he said, indicating the castle with a jerk of his head, ‘in particular those who lost friends and kin, want appeasement. I don’t envy you, my friend. But you should return Mistress McBryde to her brothers. Whatever grievance you have with her father, it is inevitable that you will be brought to account for abducting her.’

Iain’s sigh was one of profound frustration. ‘I know that, Hugh. That’s what worries me. But as much as I would like to, I can’t let her go. If I release her, I’ll have a full-scale insurrection on my hands—especially from my own servants, who remember David well and had a fondness for him. They’re good and loyal men. I can’t let them down. Nor do I forget that John Ferguson—my own mother’s cousin—has a creditable knowledge of Highland robbers and murderers. When he was a lad, his entire family was wiped out in one night when the Galbraiths and the McBrydes made a raid on his village to collect old debts. Make no mistake, Hugh, John will go to any lengths to lure Edgar McBryde out of his lair, and if it takes holding his daughter hostage to do it—then so be it.’

‘Then have a care. Do not be over-confident,’ Hugh advised. ‘I have heard of Edgar McBryde, and it is said that he is a difficult man. You must recognise this—and I urge caution.’

‘I’m hoping that when he learns we hold his daughter, he will surrender without a struggle. The last thing I want is for blood to be shed over this.’

‘Then with any luck the redcoats will get to him first.’ Suddenly Hugh grinned, lightening the moment. ‘Still—the wench is a beauty and extremely desirable and no mistake. On reaching Norwood, I don’t reckon much to your chances with so much temptation lodged beneath your roof.’

Hugh laughed in the face of his friend’s glower. ‘Unless you lock her away out of sight, I’ll wager that within one week you become so tormented by insatiable desire that it won’t matter a damn to you who sired her,’ he taunted good humouredly before going off to seek his own bed, little knowing that his words, spoken glibly, would come home to roost. Nor did he realise that for a hot-blooded male like Iain Monroe, with the legendary Monroe charm evident in every one of his lazy smiles, and whose handsome looks and blatant virility compelled the attentions of women, it would take less than twenty-four hours.

Looking up at the stars through the hole in the stable roof, his hands behind his head and covered by a single blanket, Iain considered the unexpected turn of events and the disruptive influence the presence of Lorne McBryde would be sure to have on his men.

Like Robert McBryde, Iain had fought in the war against Louis XIV, but whereas Robert had served France, Iain had served William III. He had returned to Scotland on the restoration of peace, and now he was content to indulge in the simple pleasures of hunting and fishing and running his vast estate of Norwood. He was a battle-hardened warrior who thought he was up to dealing with most things life threw at him, but nothing had prepared him for Lorne McBryde.

When he awoke, his rest had done much to soothe and cool his ire. The presence of the aforesaid young woman was very much on his mind. He had an undeniable curiosity to see his hostage in the morning light—to see if she looked as lovely as when he’d first set eyes on her last night, before realising who she was. Her comeliness had been a vision worth remembering.

Was her hair really as shining and golden as it had looked in the candles’ glow? he mused, trying to imagine how it would look unbound, how it would feel to run his fingers through the thick tresses. And were her eyes really that captivating shade of green that made him think of dew-soaked grass? He remembered how soft and creamy her skin was, how angular her cheekbones, which gave her eyes an attractive, feline slant. In contrast to these delicate features her nose was small and pert, and there was a stubborn thrust to her round chin.

His lips broke in a wicked grin, for Lorne McBryde had attributes enough to pleasure a man into eternity. Pity, though, who she was, he thought with a certain amount of regret. Whistling softly, he jauntily made his way to the burn to wash, feeling a strong desire to feast his eyes on his captive once more.

With a thin watery light filtering through the tiny window—a window which was too small and narrow for the object of Iain’s musings to climb through, otherwise she would have attempted to escape—Lorne awoke shortly after dawn. It took a moment for her to convince herself that she wasn’t trapped in some terrible dream, but gradually memories of the previous night’s happenings emerged from the mists of sleep.

Archie appeared in the doorway, feeling shy and a little awkward in the presence of Lorne McBryde, and sorry that she had been subjected to a lack of respect on what had probably been the most fearful night of her life.

‘John has instructed me to ask you if you would like to refresh yourself. There’s a burn close by and enough seclusion to offer you some privacy.’

Gratefully, with a warm smile, she thanked him. With frank, earnest eyes, rust-coloured short-cropped hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose, Archie seemed a pleasant youth—he was also the only one in the party who had shown her kindness. Lorne followed him into the main hall. In jovial spirits, those present fell silent when she appeared. In daylight they looked a rumpled and unkempt lot with grizzled countenances as they sat about eating bannocks and porridge and supping draughts of ale. Their eyes followed her across the hall. Muttered comments were made, and knowing they were anything but complimentary, Lorne raised her head imperiously and met their stares with a cold defiance. Some instinct deep within her drove her to defy these men and she found comfort in this. John was standing by the door.

‘Keep a close eye on her, Archie. Don’t try to escape,’ he said to Lorne.

She glared at him. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No. Just don’t make me have ta come looking for ye.’

Head held high, Lorne followed Archie outside. She had never been afraid of any man—not even her father—and she refused to be intimidated by these Lowlanders. She was greatly relieved to find there was no sign of her tormentor of the night before among the men milling about in the courtyard. Already a number of the gentlemen and servants and falconers were assembled, saddling their handsome steeds, and several were leaving to begin the day’s hunt.

The chief huntsman holding the hunting horn sat his mount apart, and leashed, lithe and graceful deerhounds strained against their collars in excitement, smelling the air for their quarry, alert and impatient to be off. It was a scene Lorne had become accustomed to during her time at Drumgow, when her father and brothers would often disappear for days on end into the Highlands to hunt the red deer.

Taking stock of her surroundings as she walked beside Archie, she saw the castle was a small, squat drum tower covered in ivy, supported by a complex arrangement of crumbling walls.

‘The castle used to belong to Sir Donald Ramsay until the Civil War,’ Archie told her in answer to her enquiring gaze.

‘What happened?’ she asked, relieved to speak to someone who wasn’t hostile towards her.

‘It suffered the same fate as others whose owners supported the King. You might say it’s just another of Cromwell’s legacies,’ he grinned. ‘Impoverished by the war, the family couldn’t afford the expense of rebuilding, so they moved to Stirling. Now the castle is used as a resting place for drovers and hunting parties who venture far away from home during the deer-stalking season.’

‘I see. This seems to be a large party.’

‘Sir Hugh’s party makes up the largest part. After partaking of his hospitality at his home two nights ago, he joined us on the hunt. Ours is just a small selected party of gentlemen and servants from Norwood.’

‘When do you intend returning to Norwood?’

‘That depends. Probably tomorrow. The weather has been good and we are on our way to getting a good quota of stags. Come—and please watch your footing,’ he said, following a path down a steep incline. ‘The burn is this way.’

Breathing deep of the tingling fresh morning air, Lorne gazed at the still and peaceful gently rolling landscape. Low mist lay in the valley bottom, which on this autumn morning had not had time to disperse. The burn was deep and fast flowing. It gurgled over protruding rocks, plunging and roistering in the pools, before disappearing round a bend in the hill to follow a hidden course.

Archie stood guard behind a tangled screen of willows and bushes to wait for Lorne to complete her ablutions.

Removing the pins securing her hair, she combed out the long thick tresses with her fingers, wishing she had a comb to do it properly. Kneeling by the side of the burn, she shivered when the ice cold water touched her face and neck, but it was invigorating, and when she dried herself she felt refreshed in spite of her situation. Sleep and the crystal-clear water had revived her spirit and imbued her with a reckless determination to escape her captors at the first opportunity. She would find a way. She must.

Having completed her ablutions and calling to Archie that she was almost done, daringly she walked along the green sward, hoping against hope as she clambered over a group of rocks that it might provide her with a way of escape.

It didn’t. Instead it led her into a situation she would rather have avoided.

With his breeches rolled up to his knees, Iain was washing himself in the burn. Surprise widened her eyes and her mouth formed a little circle as she sucked in her breath sharply. There was no escaping the fact that Iain Monroe was a magnificent, virile male—things she’d been too young and naïve to take in before. He strode out of the water, the lean, hard muscles of his thighs flexing beneath the tight-fitting breeches. His thick, curling hair was damp and shining, and prisms of water trickled down over his skin and the mat of black curling hair on his imposing chest, which swelled magnificently, narrowing to his flat, muscled belly. His taut muscles rippled as he reached for the towel and dried himself, before slipping his arms into his shirt and shrugging it across his broad shoulders.

Cautiously taking a step back, Lorne silently cursed when she startled a cock pheasant in the tall reeds. Irate at being disturbed, the splendid bird rose from its cover with a ferocious flapping of wings and flew off, squawking its complaint. The noise brought Iain’s head jerking up and round. Seeing Lorne watching him, he came towards her with the swiftness of an animal, like a stalking wolf, graceful as a gentleman should be. With dark brows raised in question, he propped his shoulder casually against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her in insolent silence.

‘Well?’ he enquired at length. ‘Have you had an edifying look, Mistress McBryde?’

Trying to ignore the treacherous leap her heart gave at the sight of his bare chest exposed beneath his unfastened shirt, feeling trapped like a rabbit in its own snare, Lorne gazed helplessly into those inscrutable eyes—silver or dove grey, she couldn’t decide which. Wishing she could hide her pink cheeks she said hastily, ‘I—I was just—’

‘Running away?’ Iain caught the spark that ignited in her eyes and the temper behind them. She looked so young, innocent and wild. An inexplicable, lazy smile swept his face as he surveyed her from head to foot. The wind ruffled her hair, which he saw really was as gold as a sunburst, and her slanting emerald eyes were fringed with absurdly long and curling black lashes. Without her cloak her gown revealed an alluring womanly form with ripened curves in all the right places. The bodice of her dress was low cut, which afforded him a glimpse of the thrusting fullness of her breasts pressed tightly against the fabric. He looked down at her dewy skin—tinted with roses after its brush with the cold water—and soft mouth, feeling a hunger he had not felt in a long time.

The intimate smile that appeared on his firm lips during the silent, searching interval caused Lorne’s flush to deepen and her eyes to flash indignantly. ‘Can you blame me for wanting to escape my father’s enemies?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Do you defend him?’

‘He is my father.’

‘Don’t equivocate. That was not what I asked.’ His eyes became probing, questioning. ‘I asked if you defend a murderer—a man who considers the lifting of his neighbours’ cattle and the burning of their cottages to be an ancient and honourable Highland profession. Have you no pride when it comes to the truth of the matter? Doesn’t what he did flaw his character in your mind? Does he not shame you to the core?’

A sudden coldness crept up Lorne’s spine and her stomach churned. In fury she faced away, unable to look at him lest he saw the truth. No, she did not defend her father, but she would not betray any of her kin by saying so to this stranger—her father’s enemy. But Iain Monroe was right, she was ashamed—deeply so—and since that day when his brother had been murdered, she had been like a ship adrift on a storm-tossed sea, having no security wherever she was, but having no escape from it either.

‘I am not obliged to discuss my family with you, Iain Monroe. You can go to hell,’ she snapped.

Iain’s laugh was low and scornful and infuriating. ‘Nay, Lorne McBryde. That particular abode is reserved for the devil and those he spawns—men of your father’s ilk.’

‘You beast,’ she hissed, incensed. Acting on pure instinct, she spun round and her hand came up to deal him a slap, but he caught her wrist before she landed the blow. His hold was inescapable, his eyes as hard as granite.

‘Don’t even think about it. My hand still smarts from the bite you inflicted on it last night. That was the first time you drew my blood and ’twill be the last,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘No woman has ever bested me and none ever will.’

Twisting the fingers of his other hand in her hair, he snapped her head back. Half-stifled, her head reeling, she found her lips sealed by a hard demanding mouth that bore down relentlessly on hers. His lips were meant to punish, and Lorne was too stunned by what he was doing to react. When he raised his head the only sound was the burbling water and their rapid breathing as they gazed at each other. The air crackled with emotion.

‘What a pity you are a McBryde and I have to miss the chance of making love to you,’ he drawled. ‘You are made for it. Were you any other wench, I might well be tempted.’

Outrage exploded in Lorne’s brain. Her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment and shame, she glared at him, her eyes spitting venom. ‘You rate yourself too highly. You are arrogant in your assumption that you are some magnificent gift to womankind. I would sooner bed down with a ravening beast than bed down with you.’

Iain’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you always such a shrew?’ He gave her a long-suffering look, as if she were being unreasonably difficult. Reluctantly he released her, feeling a desire to kiss those lips again—but this time to feel those lips respond and return the kiss.

‘A shrew!’ Lorne gasped, appalled that he had kissed her so brutally. ‘How do you expect me to behave? You have your men kidnap me—threaten my life—you insult and degrade me every time I am in your presence—and now you have the gall to kiss me. My reputation might mean nothing at all to you, but it certainly does to me. When this is over and word gets out that I have been with you, there is bound to be a scandal over it,’ she berated him with bitter scorn. ‘I will be despised for something that isn’t my fault.’

Iain stared down at her irate face in shock and amusement. ‘Reputation? Since when did Highlanders concern themselves with young ladies’ reputations?’

Lorne seethed. There was nothing more definable than this man’s clear and absolute self-possession. He had no understanding of what it was to be tormented, afraid, alone, to hope for salvation in the form of someone he knew, someone close. These things belonged to another breed, and in that he held nothing but contempt.

‘For the past seven years I’ve been away from the Highlands, living in England with my grandmother.’

Iain’s eyes danced with mirth and his teeth flashed white from between his parted lips. ‘Why? What did you do? Are you so unmanageable and undisciplined that even your own father cannot control you?’

Her eyes clouded. ‘I didn’t do anything. He—he thought it best to send me away after—after that day. My grandmother lives near York. From an early age she instilled into me a moral code—and you, Iain Monroe, have violated that code by abducting me and kissing me. In my grandmother’s world the reputation of an unmarried young woman matters.’

Iain looked at her hard, his expression becoming thoughtful. He knew she had visited her relatives in England several years ago, but he had no idea she had lived there for so long. However, he found it ironical that she should be so concerned about her reputation, for he recalled the scandal that had erupted when she had been caught philandering in the most intimate manner with a strutting young rake by the name of Rupert Ogleby. Normally London society wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at such an incident, but because the young lady in question was just fifteen years old and Lady Barton, her grandmother, a well-respected member of society and highly thought of by King William himself, the incident had been sensationalised.

Hearing the little catch in Lorne’s voice and suspecting that she must have been deeply affected by the scandal, and having no wish to remind her of the incident, he kept the fact that he knew about it to himself. He realised how his actions and those of his men had humiliated and hurt her. She suddenly seemed so very young and vulnerable that he felt a twinge of conscience. Deep within him the wall of ice he’d kept around his heart for seven years suffered its first crack.

‘I’m sorry,’ he capitulated on a gentler note. ‘I didn’t know. What I don’t understand is that if your father sent you away—ignoring you for seven years—why do you want to protect him?’

‘Because whatever he is guilty of in your eyes, to me, first and foremost, he is my father to whom I owe allegiance and am duty bound—and I hate you. I hate you all for kidnapping me and giving him no alternative but to rescue me. It’s a coward’s way of capturing his enemy and unworthy of you.’

Iain stared at her, caught somewhere between anger and amazement at her defiant courage. ‘You might see it that way, but it doesn’t change anything. I agree that I’ve broken all the rules of etiquette where you are concerned, but the fact remains that you are my hostage and I intend keeping you with me—if only for your own protection. Considering the mood my fellow companions are in, there is every possibility that you will suffer if I let you go—so I advise you not to try anything foolish or bold. You might just as well relax and accept the situation.’

‘Relax?’ she flared. ‘Is that what you expect me to do? How can I relax in this Godforsaken place with no clothes and no friends—and with just a bunch of heartless vengeance seekers who look ready to draw my blood at any minute?’

Iain’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘One word from me and they will do just that,’ he warned in a silky, ominous voice.

Lorne recoiled from the hard glitter in his eyes. She did not doubt that one glance from this arrogant, noble lord, and every member of the hunting party would be more than happy to do his bidding. ‘Tell me, Lord Monroe—is there a dungeon beneath this ruin you intend to incarcerate me in until you finish your hunt?’

He considered her for a moment. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am not entirely heartless. My friend Sir Hugh will continue with the hunt without me and those in my party. I have decided to return to Norwood today. I can promise you ease and comfort there.’

‘If you intend that to be a kindness, it isn’t. It’s a curse,’ she flung at him with stinging scorn, her mind already ranging far afield in its search for some avenue of escape. Tossing her head imperiously, she turned to negotiate the rocks she had clambered over to get here. Automatically Iain reached out to help her, but she jumped out of his reach, avoiding his touch as she would the plague. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she warned him. ‘You may have made me your prisoner, but understand this. You keep your hands to yourself.’

When she had clambered over the rocks and her feet were back on the green sward running alongside the burn, she strode off without a backward glance. She realised she was famished and those oatcakes were suddenly very appealing. When she’d eaten she would think of a way to escape.

Rolling up his shirtsleeves and tucking the hem into the waistband of his breeches, Iain watched her go, admiring the flowing, long-legged grace of her stride and gentle sway of her slim hips, and the way her hair tossed in the breeze. He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the change he had made to his plans to return to Norwood early, but after his brief encounter with his hostage and the taste of her lips, and remembering how his starved senses had wanted to feast on them again, he was more inclined to dwell on the amazing quirk of fate that had caused Lorne McBryde to reappear in his life. No longer a child, but a woman full grown—and still a McBryde, a woman bearing a name that had insinuated itself into his soul from an early age, a name that stirred his hatred and mistrust.

Lorne sat quietly on a grassy knoll on the edge of the courtyard close to the trees, watching the proceedings as some of the men prepared to escort her and the trophies of the hunt back to Norwood. Preceded by a dozen or so hunt-servants, whose duty it was to find the deer and drive them towards the hunt, under the leadership of Sir Hugh, it was a rather reduced number of sportsmen who were preparing to start out for a final day’s pursuit of the red deer and wild boar.

Lorne’s eyes were alert, watching Archie, who was supposed to be guarding her, but had left her side for a moment to saddle his horse close by and away from the rest. She observed Iain, clad in a dark brown leather doublet, black breeches and knee-high boots, moving among the men. He never looked her way once, and anyone would think he had forgotten her existence, but of course he hadn’t.

He was the most handsome, fearsome man Lorne had ever beheld, bent on coldly and unemotionally capturing her father and destroying her family, and she ought to hate him. But she could not. He had just cause to despise every one of the McBrydes, herself included, and for that she felt profound regret.

Her gaze shifted to Archie, who was tightening the girth on his horse’s saddle. This done, he looped the reins over a wooden post and went to assist in securing the carcass of a splendid young deer over the back of a sturdy garron. It proved awkward. Attracting the attention of the others, Iain included, they went to help, their attention momentarily diverted from their captive. Lorne glanced at Archie’s horse. The opportunity was not to be missed.

She found herself getting up and walking slowly towards the mount, trying to keep her nerves under control. If Iain should look towards where she had been sitting and find her gone, she was too afraid to imagine what he would do. On reaching the horse, she glanced towards her captors. No one had noticed she had moved. The sun vanished as she led the horse into the dense woods. Out of sight, she brought the mount around and climbed into the saddle, digging her heels into its flanks and setting off through the trees. Her route lay east and she headed towards it.

Satisfied that the carcass of the young deer was well secured over the back of the garron, Iain stood back and smiled when Hugh rode up to bid him farewell.

‘I go to London in a few weeks, Iain—before the hard weather and dark days of the Scottish winter begin. Come with me. The company would be appreciated—and I know for a fact…’ he chuckled, with a conspiratorial lowering of his lids ‘…that the fair Mistress Fraser is to be in town. Couldn’t keep your eyes off her the last time you were together. Come, what do you say? It might be just what you need.’

‘I’ll let you know, Hugh. I confess the idea is appealing and the thought of meeting Maria Fraser again extremely tempting, but this latest development might take longer to settle than I care for.’

Iain’s gaze unconsciously sought out Lorne where she had been sitting on her grassy knoll, her hands clasped around her knees and a long lock of golden hair hanging heavily over one shoulder.

Finding the place empty, he froze. He was momentarily unable to believe she wasn’t there, his gaze ricocheting from the place where she had been sitting, around the courtyard and back again. He thought he could never be as angry as he had been last night when he had come face to face with her, but the explosion of rage and foreboding surmounted even that. Immediately he turned his blistering gaze on Archie.

‘Where is she?’ he thundered. ‘Your primary job was to guard her. God damn the woman! Where the devil has she gone?’

Archie looked around in consternation, afraid that his master was losing his hold on that precarious temper of his. His gaze was drawn to where he had left his horse. ‘My horse—it’s gone! She—she—’

Rage continued to explode in Iain’s brain. ‘Must have taken it,’ he bit out in a soft, murderous voice.

Striding swiftly towards his horse, he felt his emotions veer crazily from apprehension to fury. Apprehension because she had obviously gone careering off into the forest where she might get lost or meet with an accident, and fury because where most men would quake in his presence, this chit of a girl had openly defied him. As a demonstration of headstrong defiance, disobedience and rebelliousness, it was supreme. He had foolishly believed she would be too afraid to try escaping in this inhospitable countryside—but she was a McBryde, he reminded himself bitterly, who would dare anything.

Cursing her to perdition, within seconds he had swung himself on to his horse and was in hot pursuit, correctly assuming she would go in an easterly direction. His men followed, some dispersing in other directions.

Lorne had deliberately avoided looking over her shoulder as she picked her way amongst the hollies, the birch and the alder, but, coming to the end of the wood, she glanced back. She was unable to see the rider who pursued her, but heard the thunder of following hoofbeats becoming ever louder and nearer.

Emerging out of the trees into the full glare of sunlight, she rode like the wind. There was nothing ahead of her but a wide expanse of forest and sunwashed heather-emblazoned hills, and no sign of life. Her face set, her eyes blazing, she urged the horse to greater speed.

Behind her Iain saw a girl whose golden, unbound hair streamed out like a silken flag. She was a good horsewoman, riding in a way that would have done credit to her father and brothers, and in that unlikely moment he was overwhelmed with admiration.

Suddenly, from somewhere not far away, came the long, ululating blast of the hunting horn and the baying of hounds. Panicked, Lorne’s already excited, panting and sweating horse instantly reared and bolted. Struggling to bring it under control and at the same time outrun her pursuer, Lorne clung on in desperation. Ahead of her there loomed a narrow plateau with a steep incline on either side, the ground littered with outcrops of loose stones. Unable to turn and take a safer route, she found herself riding along it, trying not to look down the steep slopes to her right and left. All she could hear was the horse’s laboured breathing and the hollow thud of hooves.

Suddenly another blast of the hunting horn caused the horse to balk, pitching her over its head. The fall knocked the breath out of her body and she lay still, dazed and disoriented and fighting for air, while her horse galloped away. Through a haze she saw a rider appear along the plateau. Her heart almost stopped when she recognised Iain on his huge white hunter, riding low over its neck and looking like an ominous spectre of doom. Terror and rage and an acute sense of fear overriding everything, recovering her senses and getting her breath back, she scrambled to her feet, and, as quick as a harried fox, took flight.

Iain flung himself off his horse and gave chase. Lorne turned and looked back, trying to remain upright on the loose stones. Iain almost stopped in his tracks when he beheld her face and saw her eyes sparking with green fire. She was like a tempestuous goddess, wild and beautiful in all her fury, and alive with hatred as she courageously tried to outrun her enemy, refusing to be broken. She was truly amazing, and in that moment Iain thought she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

When he was close he snatched at her, jerking her back, his fingers digging cruelly into her arm. She whirled round, stubborn and unyielding as she tried to get free of his iron hold.

‘Damn you,’ he bit out savagely, trying to prevent her nails from raking his face. ‘Stop fighting me, you little hellcat. It’s plain to see you share the blood of the McBrydes.’

Lorne continued to struggle against him as if her life depended on it. She saw his face, terrifying in its rage, his jaw clenched tight and his silver eyes as hard as granite. A cry broke from her lips when suddenly she lost her footing and began to fall, taking him with her. They hit the ground, tumbling and rolling over and over down the steep incline, a shower of dislodged stones accompanying them to the bottom.

Lorne found herself pinned beneath Iain’s powerful frame, unable to move, her chest straining in her need for air. His head was buried in the hollow of her neck and he was breathing hard. In breathless tension she waited for him to move, wondering if he was hurt.

With blood welling through his beard from a cut on his cheek, slowly he raised his head and looked down at her, his face just an inch from her own, his breath hot on her face. Their eyes became locked in a mesmerising web, and the fire that swept through Iain at having her womanly body pinned beneath his almost deafened him to any resistance. Immediately he recollected himself. Angry frustration ran rampant through every fibre of his being, as his argument was about to burst forth in a torrent.

Taking note of the taut set of his jaw and the undiluted fury blazing in his eyes, tendrils of fear coiled in the pit of Lorne’s stomach and her pulse accelerated wildly. Never had she encountered such cold, purposeful rage in her life—not even from her father and brothers.

Levering his body off hers, Iain got to his feet. ‘Get up,’ he snapped. Without waiting for her to obey he reached down and grasped her arm, jerking her roughly to her feet. Lorne winced when a pain shot up her forearm into her elbow, realising she must have hurt it in the fall, but Iain was so furious he was blind to her discomfort. Again he grabbed her injured arm in a powerful grip. She gasped in protest at feeling another shooting pain, but he was dragging her in his wake towards his horse, which had made a more dignified descent than its master. Placing his free hand on the saddle, Iain loomed over his captive, his gaze a cold blast, his expression intense.

‘How far did you think you’d get alone and defenceless, you little idiot? Is it that you are hell bent on self-destruction, or merely out to thwart me?’

Without waiting for her to reply, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her effortlessly on to his horse, before hoisting himself up behind her and wrapping his iron-thewed arms tightly round her waist in a grip that was meant to hurt and retaliate.

‘I will give you a warning, Lorne McBryde—just one,’ he said in a low, savage voice close to her ear. ‘If you ever try anything like that again or do one more thing to exasperate or anger me, I will personally see to it that you await your father’s arrival at Norwood in my deepest, darkest dungeon. Do you understand?’

Lorne swallowed convulsively and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, glad when his arms relaxed their iron hold.

‘I have your word?’

‘Yes.’

‘Say it.’

‘You have my word.’