Highlander's Sword (21 page)

   Warwick cuffed the lad on the back of his head. "Get moving," he growled in his rough voice. Warwick kept a tight rein on his men and expected immediate obedi ence. He was a gruff, sour sort of man, one who lived his life like he had never left the battlefield. MacLaren looked carefully at the Master of Arms; he could slit a girl's throat without thinking twice. Pitcairn the Steward, on the other hand, was fastidiously picking leaves off of his clothes while a young lad saddled his horse. He was efficient and clever, good qualities in a steward. MacLaren shook his head. Both Warwick and Pitcairn seemed loyal to Graham. And how could any of Graham's men benefit if McNab inherited Dundaff? It didn't make any sense.

   On the other side of camp, Aila was sitting on a fallen tree branch. She had her arms wrapped around her and her head bowed. MacLaren regretted his harsh words. He felt an odd desire to comfort her, though he knew he was in the right. Her actions and words were a puzzle. Why had she delayed their union? Was she trying to get back to McNab and waiting for her lover to rescue her? MacLaren remembered Aila's scream with the knife to her throat. It had wrenched his insides. Clearly, she had not wanted to go with him. But could MacLaren really trust her?

   MacLaren tore his gaze away from his wife and turned back to Chaumont. "Tend the wounded, pack the dead. Let's be away from this place."

   She sat back on the log, defeated. At one point last night her husband had shown some affection, but that was gone. He hated her now. She was tired, hungry, dirty, and discouraged. She wanted to retreat back into her tower and never leave it again.

   A horse's frantic cry drew her attention away from self-pity. Shadow was upset. Two men were trying to prepare him for travel and had taken off his caparison, the large decorative horse blanket, and were attempting to saddle him

   "Let him alone. That's no' how to handle him," she called as she ran toward the young men trying to place the saddle.

   "Hold there, m'lady," called Rory, following along behind and catching her by the arm.

   Aila turned on the older man. Barrel-chested, Rory reminded her a bit of her father. Frustration, fear, and doubt gave way to anger, and she stood tall, looking the warrior straight in the eye.

   "Unhand me," she said coolly.

   "Aye, m'lady," said Rory, taken aback and releasing her immediately.

   "Am I to be my husband's prisoner?"

   "Nay, m'lady."

   "Then unless I'm about to fall off a cliff, ye'll ne'er grab me again."

   Rory stood in stunned silence. His surprise matched her own. What had she just said to this man? Years of listening to her mother's rants, and now she was acting like her. She had always cringed at her mother's anger and sarcasm, yet now those words felt surprisingly good. Turning back to the men, she said with a strange sense of authority, "Stop that, immediately."

   The men stopped. She grabbed the reins of the frightened horse and gentled him with soft words. As the horse calmed, she nodded to one of the soldiers, who was then able to saddle her mount.

   "Now," she announced, "I am going home." She stood beside her horse, glaring severely at the men who looked blankly in return until they realized her intent. With a shrug, one man steadied her mount and another knelt beside her and assisted her into the saddle.

   "Hold there!" called MacLaren's loud voice as he and Chaumont rode up to where Aila was now situ ated on Shadow. "What do ye ken ye're doing?"

   At the sound of his voice, Aila's heart started to pound, yet she turned to him directly. She would not let this man control her or make her cower. She would give no man that power. In an instant, she understood her mother better than she ever had. If her mother could stand up for herself, so could she. "I am returning to Dundaff," she said defiantly.

   "Aye, but ye'll no' be riding off again," said MacLaren. "Gilbert, take the reins," he commanded the soldier still standing beside her.

   "Ye'll do no such thing," Aila told the man. Gilbert looked from MacLaren to Aila, confused.

   "Come here, Gilby," called Rory, his arms folded across his massive chest and a hint of a smile on his face. "'Tis a domestic quarrel. Best no' get in the middle." Gilbert nodded and strode away to find his own mount. MacLaren glared at Rory before turning back to Aila.

   "Get off that horse now. I'll no' have ye running away again."

   "I'm no' running away. I've told ye where I go. Ye can go where e'er it suits ye, but I'll be taking myself home now." Aila turned her horse sharply and bolted into the thicket.

   "Spurned by the ladies again, I see," Chaumont said with a droll smile. "Given your experience in France and here, I must say the marital state does not seem to agree with you."

   MacLaren turned to give Chaumont the benefit of a ferocious glare. Chaumont was unimpressed. With a growl, MacLaren spurred his mount into the bush after Aila, leaving Chaumont's laughter behind. MacLaren loathed to be mocked, but somehow Chaumont had the ability to say things that would get another man killed. Most likely because Chaumont had saved his life more than once. Apparently, enduring his teasing was the price of friendship.

   Lost in his own musings, MacLaren followed Aila's trail halfheartedly. He was riding Torrent, a black stallion known for strength and speed. MacLaren was confident he would catch his bride in short order, so he was surprised when he reached a clearing and caught only a glimpse of Aila as she entered the forest on the other side. She was fast! Somehow this all felt familiar. MacLaren kicked Torrent and gave chase to his errant bride.

AILA RACED INTO THE FOREST, FREEDOM SURGING through her. She was well aware that by defying her husband in front of his men, this would probably be her last ride, though she doubted he would have let her ride free anyway. At least she would get one more ride, one more taste of independence before facing the reality of her life. She had rarely ridden during the day and never at top speed. To her delight, she found riding in daylight was a good deal easier, allowing her to race even faster. Reaching another clearing, she flew across the meadow, tingling with the sheer exhilaration of speed.

   Upon reaching the other side, she slowed to glance behind her. She inhaled sharply when MacLaren entered the meadow, riding hard on his tall black horse. Her skin tingled with admiration. He was a fast rider, skilled and sure. His plaid flew behind him as he rode, and she caught her breath, remembering the night before. Perhaps being caught by this Highlander might not be so terrible. She had a sudden desire to run to him, to wrap her arms around him once more. She shook her head to dispel romantic notions of her husband and turned to spur on her mount, remem bering that MacLaren did not want to make love to her. He looked like he wanted to kill her.

   Entering the forest, she urged Shadow forward. She was in familiar territory, heading back to Dundaff, and she was enjoying the ride and the chase. At one point, he seemed to be gaining on her, and she pushed the horse even harder than before, jumping fallen tree trunks and winding through the trees. At the heath, she let Shadow have full rein, since she knew the safe paths through the treacherous bogs and rode with confidence and speed. Despite her current situation, she laughed with sheer enjoyment. They pounded through another glen of trees until coming to a small loch. Shadow was beginning to labor, and she knew she had come to the end.

   Aila pulled up by the shores of the loch and waited for MacLaren to arrive. Better to be punished here in private than at her father's gates for all to see. Before she could dismount, MacLaren charged to her, grabbing her reins and looking flushed with the exertion of the ride.

   The sun sparkled on the clear blue water and bright green trees swayed gently in the soft breeze. She knew she was a sight, her mass of red curls flowing free, her clothes dirty and torn, but she didn't care. She was exhilarated and excited; she had never felt so wonderful. MacLaren looked stunningly handsome after their chase, and she beamed at him. MacLaren was breathing hard. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but continued to gaze at his bride, their eyes locked.

   MacLaren scowled and shook his head. He dismounted and hauled Aila off her horse with ease. Aila reached for him willingly and slid down the length of his body. When she finally reached the ground, MacLaren still held her tight. Her arms were around his neck, holding him just as tightly. He leaned down toward her slowly. She stood on her toes, arching up to him.

   "What am I going to do wi' ye?" he murmured.

   She didn't know what he would do, and she couldn't wait to find out.

   MacLaren touched his lips to hers, sending a shock wave through her. She wanted more, and he was moving much too slowly. She pressed into him, deepening the kiss. He made a growling, hungry sort of noise and responded with equal vigor. He pulled her down to the grassy bank of the loch until he was covering her body with his own. Her pulse raced, and she dug her fingers into his back, holding him closer to her. She had never wanted anything more in her life. She was not about to stop him this time.

   "Damn it, no!" roared MacLaren and rolled off of her. He sat next to her, gasping for breath. Aila lay there, stunned. What had she done wrong? "I winna let ye use yer body against me. I winna be manipulated again, ye ken?" MacLaren glared at her.

   Aila felt her bottom lip tremble and she sat up, looking away. She squeezed her eyes tight and concen trated on her breathing. The wind gently rustled the tall grass, the sound comforting and familiar. Gradually, the shock of his rejection dulled, and she wondered what he meant by being "manipulated again."

   MacLaren stood and walked to the horses, which had ambled down to the loch for a drink, checking on them, busying himself with their care. When there was nothing left to do, he stood by the water, staring out across the loch. He bent and picked up a stone, flicking it over the water, the stone skipping five times before going under. He turned and trudged back to her.

   "Honestly, Aila, I dinna ken where to start wi' ye. Where on earth did ye learn to ride like that?"

   "My brother taught me."

   "That woud'na happen to be his horse?"

   "Aye," said Aila, busying her fingers with a blade of grass.

   "Is it possible I've chased ye afore on St. John's Eve?" MacLaren's voice was rough, and Aila dared not look up at him, simply nodding in response. She had hoped to avoid this topic. She had made enough confessions lately without discussing her early morning equestrian habits.

   "Damn it, Aila, ye would try the patience o' Job. Explain yerself, now."

   Aila stood up, still concentrating on the blade of grass in her hand. "My brother and his friend Duncan used to go riding in the early dawn. Will used to love to ride." Aila glanced up at MacLaren, and he nodded. No one could best Will Graham on a horse; everyone knew that. "Well, when Duncan died of an unfortunate accident in the lists, I begged Will to let me go wi' him, and he taught me to ride… fast. After he left, I continued riding in the early morn on my own." There, that sounded reasonable.

   "Yer father allowed ye to ride at night alone?" MacLaren was incredulous.

"I… well… I ne'er asked him."

"How did ye get out o' the castle?"

   "Through the secret passage Will found in the stable," Aila said in a small voice, examining the muddy tips of MacLaren's boots. MacLaren started to pace up and down the bank.

   "So ye dressed in men's clothing, snuck out at night wi'out yer father's knowledge, and went riding off on yer brother's horse. I dinna believe it. I seen it wi' my own eyes, but I still dinna believe it." He stopped and shook his head. "My men thought ye were the ghost of Robert the Bruce.

   "The Bruce?"

   "Aye. Now I ken why there are so many ghost sightings. People have been seeing you."

   "Oh." Aila had never thought anyone had seen her, let alone mistaken her for a ghost.

   "And ye were going to be a nun?"

   Aila felt heat creep up her neck and burn her cheeks at the shame of his words. Looking at it from his perspective, she supposed she had been deceitful and sneaky. "I apologize for my faults."

   MacLaren walked up to her. Despite her initial determination to stand her ground, Aila took a few steps back, but MacLaren closed the distance.

   "I thought ye might be different. But nay, ye're like every other deceitful female, rotten to the core." Aila opened her mouth to protest but closed it again, realizing there was nothing she could say to this man. His words stung, and she felt the fatigue of the past few days. "Come now, let's get going."