Highland Obsession (40 page)

All four men swiveled in his direction. Good. If he diverted their attention away from his helpless family-to-be, perhaps he could keep them safe. He focused on the bastard whose filthy, callused hands wrapped around Elizabeth’s tiny waist.

“Release her!” he snarled, leveling the pistol at the man, though he didn’t dare risk shooting and injuring Elizabeth.

Astonishingly, the man obeyed. He shoved her to the side of the road. She stumbled backward, tripping over her voluminous skirts and into a gorse bush blooming with a flower that complemented the yellow silk of her dress. The villain glared at Cam as the three others on horseback turned toward him. Someone tossed the man on foot the reins of a riderless horse, and he mounted quickly.

Looked like they all intended to come after him. Good. He’d draw them away from Elizabeth and the duke.

Garbled shouting came from inside the carriage, and Cam’s attention snapped to the rig. The coachman, gazing wide-eyed over his shoulder, raised the reins.

“Ho! On with you, then!” the man shouted, whipping the animals into a frenzied gallop. The carriage lurched forward, leaving Elizabeth stranded in the bush.

None of the highwaymen pursued the carriage or paid attention to the bright yellow flurry of Elizabeth’s skirts—all four focused solely on Cam. It was him they wanted, he thought grimly.
So much the better.

But they were closing on him.

He aimed his pistol at one of the bandits and fired. The man toppled from his horse, but the rest lunged closer, weapons drawn. Three guns aimed directly at him.

Turning away from them, Cam bent low over the mare’s elongated neck and dug in his heels. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder.

Air streamed through his hair as the mare leap smoothly over a fallen tree. Brilliant, he thought with pride. Another excellent acquisition from his trip to England. As with Lady Elizabeth, he hadn’t spent a fortune on this animal for her beauty alone.

A man shouted behind him, and his enemies’ horses drew nearer. Cam unsheathed his sword with a whoosh of steel against leather.

He had been on the move for the greater part of the day. It was the only reason their horses could outrun his. As one approached his rear flank, Cam held out his sword as if he were jousting. He yanked on the reins, turning in a tight circle only a well-trained and well-bred horse could manage. The abrupt motion sent the animal just behind him catapulting past. The weapon skewered the man, jerking him off his horse. Cam yanked his sword away, and the man fell to the ground, screaming hoarsely, blood pouring from the tear in his tattered black coat.

The second bandit was suddenly upon him. This one Cam jabbed in the shoulder. The horse shied, and the man hunched over in the saddle, clutching his wound.

The final man chasing him had time to slow his mount, and Cam caught a glimpse of the barrel of a musket pointed at him. Again he made a tight turn and spurred his horse, leaning low. The animal leaped ahead, passing through a thick screen of greenery.

Just as he decided he was safe, the loud report of a gunshot shook the trees, and fire exploded in Cam’s body. He jerked, yanking on the reins, and the mare reared. He toppled from her sleek back. Bracken and moss softened his fall, but he felt nothing, really, besides the all-consuming pain.

God help him. Finally, just as he was about to turn his life to rights, he’d been killed. And worst of all, he’d left the sheltered, innocent Lady Elizabeth all alone in the wild Highlands of Scotland.

 

Elizabeth crawled from the awful, thorny bush, praising God her uncle couldn’t see the ungainly way in which she performed the awkward action. In fact, she thought as she yanked her sleeve from a bramble and grimaced at the screeching sound of fabric tearing, she’d like to see him attempt to accomplish the feat with more grace. First she’d strap him in her stays and her stiff stomacher, and then she’d watch in satisfaction as he floundered helplessly in the thorns.

Finally straightening on the dirt path, she shook out her skirts and gazed regretfully down at her dress. Only moments ago, it had been a beautiful yellow silk sack gown, pleated at the shoulders, trimmed with lush embroidery and the finest lace, but now the nasty leaves and branches had snagged the expensive material, tearing her skirts and leaving lace bits to dangle haphazardly from her bodice and bell-shaped sleeves.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and glanced up and down the path. Thank God Cam had driven those awful men away. Heaven forbid he see her in such a state.

She sighed. Her thoughts just went to show how jaded and dissolute she truly was. If she were truly innocent, if she were truly a lady, she’d be terrified. She’d be a shaking lump, utterly petrified by fear. Instead, she worried about her dress.

It was sad, really, that a masked stranger had pulled her from her uncle’s carriage and could have killed her, and she couldn’t bring herself to feel the requisite terror. She tilted her head to search her emotions, but they were a blank slate. At this moment, she didn’t feel a bit of fear—or much of anything else, for that matter.

She was no fool. If another soul stood nearby, she’d put on a show of it, just so they wouldn’t grow concerned for her sanity. But since she was all alone, there was no need to school her actions. She could be herself.

She could thank Uncle Walter for her strange, improper reaction, she supposed. Had this been his goal? To eradicate her ability to feel? To eliminate the instinctual response to fear for her life?

And then she did feel a little something. A tiny flicker of fear. Not of the highwaymen, though, nor for her life. Of Uncle Walter himself.

A bird cackled nearby, and she cast an acerbic glance in the creature’s direction, then scoured the edge of the path until she found a sharp stick to use as a weapon. Who knew what kinds of wild beasts could be roaming this wild place?

Perhaps this was where she belonged, after all. It was wild. Just like her. She smiled a little at the thought.

Suddenly, the clomp of a horse’s hooves sounded behind her. Gripping her stick tightly, she stilled, not knowing whether she’d face her husband-to-be or one of the criminals come back to ravish her. Or hold her for ransom. Or both.

It was neither. A tall, dark-haired man approached her on horseback. He wore one of those Highland plaids that gave the men in this region such an untamed, scandalous appearance. Young Scotsmen in their plaids always made her stomach tighten with pleasant appreciation. Even this one, who wore a tartan of a most appealing shade of blue but was particularly wild-looking, made her stomach flutter, when instead she should be scared to death—or at the very least on her guard.

Instinctively, she knew he wasn’t involved with the attack or the highwaymen. She couldn’t imagine how she could know such a thing. Perhaps it was in his bearing, or in the horse he rode—a much finer animal than the short, skinny Scottish hags the highwaymen had ridden.

As he came closer, she straightened her spine, lowered the stick, and took position in the center of the path, adopting her Lady Elizabeth look. Her uncle approved of this particular air she affected—said it made her look as haughty as a queen. Over the years, she’d refined and polished it until it shone like one of the golden Roman statues adorning the Duke of Irvington’s foyer. Until it solidified into stone, as hard as one of the Greek alabaster statues in the library.

The horse’s back legs sprayed mud as it halted before her. For a long moment, the man’s light brown eyes perused her. Assessed her. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Who are you?”

His rumbling accent sent a chill of awareness down her spine, but she hid it, knowing full well her visceral reaction to him was utterly ridiculous.

She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, doing her best to look down her nose at him, though his position on the horse put him several feet above her. Anyone who knew anything about manners would have dismounted before speaking to a lady of her status.

“I am Lady Elizabeth Grant. The Earl of Camdonn is my intended. My carriage was attacked by bandits. Surely you heard the gunshots.”

The man quickly scanned the area. Finding nothing, he asked, “Where are they now?”

“The earl chased them away,” she said primly.

The man seemed to do a rapid mental calculation, then he dismounted smoothly. An expert horseman, she deduced. Not a peasant, certainly. She imagined the majority of the population of this poor country had no idea whatsoever how to handle a horse.

He bowed his head. His hair was dark—the color of coffee with just the barest touch of cream—but not as dark as Cam’s. “Robert MacLean.”

She nodded coolly. Keeping her stiff composure, inwardly she indulged in a brash smile. Here she stood in the wilds of Scotland with a scandalously torn dress, alone on an abandoned path and at the whim of a young and handsome stranger, and they were exchanging introductions. Days ago, she could never have imagined such an absurd scenario.

Robert angled his head at the horse. “It is my duty to deliver you safely to Camdonn Castle, then. You’ll ride with me.”

She was surely mad. Any of the girls back home would be terrified, but Elizabeth . . . no, again she wasn’t frightened in the least.

“I will not,” she huffed. “I shall walk. I do not know you, and I do not wish to. Camdonn Castle is not—” Before she had the opportunity to command he return the way he had come to find Cam, his hands encircled her waist, lifted her, and set her upon the horse. Then he mounted and settled behind her in the saddle. The rough wool of his plaid scraped the delicate silk of her gown, and when she inhaled she smelled him. Clean hay and leather. Shockingly, deliciously close.

He adjusted the reins and wrapped one hard arm around her waist, presumably to keep her from toppling off the animal.

She looked over her shoulder, directly into Robert MacLean’s eyes. Not quite brown, not quite gold, they reminded her of autumn. No, of caramel, the most deliciously sweet caramel she’d ever tasted. She found them as absorbing as a whirlpool. He didn’t meet her gaze; instead he stared steadily ahead. Nevertheless, she read something in the dark gold depths. Dislike, perhaps.

She turned forward again and stared straight ahead at the rutted path as Robert coaxed the horse into a walk. It didn’t matter. As delicious as he appeared—coffee hair and caramel eyes, indeed!—it was certainly for the best if he didn’t like her. In any event, she wasn’t a very likeable person. From her uncle to her frivolous peers to her lady’s maid to the lowest scullery maid, nobody much seemed to like her. Which was perfectly fine, really.

Cam, however, did seem to like her. He was infinitely polite, infinitely solicitous in her presence. But did he like her as a person, as a human being, as a woman, a future companion? She thought perhaps not. Maybe someday he would. That would be ideal, of course, but ultimately she didn’t care. As long as Cam didn’t hate her, nothing else mattered.

All she wanted was freedom from her uncle.

But what if one of the gunshots she’d heard had hit Cam? Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and pictured Cam with a hole torn open in his chest. Taking gasping, wheezing breaths as his lifeblood drained from him . . .

She would be sent back to England with Uncle Walter.

She turned to Robert MacLean. “Stop immediately. You must go back to search for Lord Camdonn. I’ll continue on foot to the castle and inform them that the earl’s missing. But if he’s in dire need, you might find him first and save him. If we delay any longer, we might be too late.”

Robert MacLean didn’t respond. He didn’t even deign to look at her—instead his eyes focused unerringly on the uneven surface of the path.

“Stop at once. I insist.” She pushed at the arm clasped round her waist, but it wouldn’t budge.

“No.”

She sat in rising frustration as the horse plodded forward. When she arrived at Camdonn Castle, Uncle Walter would have taken control, and she would be impotent as usual.

Desperation surged through her. She didn’t trust her uncle to help Cam. If Cam was hurt, the Highlander sitting behind her was her only hope.

When she spoke, it was with her quietest, most lethal voice. The voice that made her servants at home blanch in fear. “You must obey me.”

“Why?” He seemed mildly amused.

“Because I am the niece of the Duke of Irvington, of course.”

“Aye, and the soon-to-be wife of the Earl of Camdonn. You’ll find the high-and-mighty titles to mean a wee bit less to Highlanders.”

Highlanders.
The word rolled off his tongue carnally, and her stomach fluttered even as she clenched her fists in her skirts. How dare he dismiss her order so lightly? She ground her teeth, hating him, hating even more how her body responded him. Still, her desperation to help Cam overwhelmed it all. Tears pricked at her eyes.

“I could have you horsewhipped.”

The threat sounded as though it came from the mouth of a petulant child—no, she sounded as horrible as her uncle, and shame thundered through her like a flashflood.

If Robert MacLean hadn’t hated her before, her words certainly sealed the impression. He didn’t make any move to obey her; instead, his arm stiffened about her waist, and an angry steam seemed to billow from his body. He was so warm, she struggled not to sink into him like the softest of down quilts. Even though he was hard as stone.

They continued down the mountain in rigid silence. All along, the raw strength of Robert MacLean simmered behind her, and regret for her rash, childish outburst bit through her like scampering mice.

A group of guards eyed them warily as they approached the castle, but then relaxed when they recognized the man riding behind her. They called to Robert in Gaelic, regarding her with a glimmer in their eyes that curdled in her stomach.

Robert dismounted and cocked his head in her direction. He spoke in English, likely for her benefit. “This is Lady Elizabeth Grant, his lordship’s intended. I found her on the road back a ways.”