The Highlander's Outlaw Bride (5 page)

“Going somewhere?” He swung down from his saddle, towering over her. “Given yer ability to get lost crossing a burn, ye would do better to stay close to the trail.”

She slapped his hand away and rose, dusting her bottom with one hand as she limped to Embarr’s side. Without a word, she endured his assistance as she mounted, keeping a wall of indignant pride between them as he climbed up behind her. He reined Embarr back up the trail to where the others waited. Ignoring Bray’s raised eyebrow, he urged them on with a curt nod.

His eyes drifted downward, past the rumpled fabric of the lass’s shirt. He wondered why she hadn’t fought him, why she had yielded after only a token fit of anger. She swayed with Embarr’s movements and her back brushed his chest, setting him ablaze. He burned to slide his hand along her curves, push aside the coarse linen leine. See her undressed and passionate in his arms. But he had no right to her. He had no right to anything but her well-being. There were many more important things to occupy his thoughts. Days, perhaps weeks would pass before he could satisfy his curiosity about the young woman he was about to deliver to the king, and no certainty he would ever see her again. He wasn’t sure he liked it. In fact, he was fairly certain he didn’t.

* * *

Brianna eased back against the laird’s broad chest, trying to deny the thrill running through her as their bodies touched. For hours she’d ridden literally in his arms, and though she’d escape in an instant if given the chance, she was no longer ill at ease with the man. Quite the opposite, in fact. She found him fascinating.

She liked his joking comradeship with his friends, so different from her dead husband’s blustering attempts to best everyone around him, and was growing used to his teasing way with her as well. She admired the way he sat his horse, the calm authority he portrayed. He had also proven himself honorable, unlike Laird MacLaurey’s absent son who assuaged his purportedly broken heart amid foreign skirts and taverns. Thanks to his lack of concern, several months had passed since Laird MacLaurey and her da had signed the betrothal, with no sign of him honoring the contract. Not that she wanted to be the unfortunate woman who married the
loun,
but since the laird died and all help cut off, she understood the need for a strong alliance.

This man was different. Though her goal, should she ever marry again, would be to establish a bond with another clan that could offer Wyndham a measure of protection against reivers, not with a self-assured young ass who would disrupt her life. Perhaps a doddering auld laird in his cups and too far gone to accomplish more than drool in her presence would suffice if the coffers were deep enough. She was finished with irresponsible men and had no patience for prattle about love. And her betrothal to Conn MacLaurey? As far as she was concerned, the
loun
could rot far away from Scotland’s shores and she’d not shed a tear.

I can run Wyndham with none the wiser to have a woman in charge. With my help, Jamie and Da will never have to worry. I willnae marry again unless ’tis my choice, and I will only wed to benefit Wyndham.

Confidently affirming her silent vow, she turned her thoughts again to the man she rested against. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew their hooded, impenetrable stare. Her back was to him, but she remembered his chiseled features and the way he showed his displeasure with a simple quirk of his brow. And he’d been displeased with her from the start. Despite the kindness he’d shown her, she knew he was unhappy with her for some reason she’d yet to discover.

She shivered at the feel of his strong arms curved protectively around her, awakening a throbbing deep within her she’d thought long dead.
’Tis a shame he doesnae hold land near Wyndham. I wonder what it would be like to wake in his arms?

Her thoughts flew immediately to the way his bare skin had felt against hers. She heated to remember the sight of him as he wrapped her in his plaide.
I havenae seen a naked male other than wee Jamie since Mungo died, and even then I dinnae know what I was missing.
A brief comparison of the two men, and Mungo’s ghost was quickly discarded for the lean muscle and bronzed skin, the soft furring of hair on the laird’s chest trailing down…
Oh my!
She squirmed to remember where her surprised gaze had lingered, and her insides melted in a manner she’d never experienced before.

Rein it in, lass. This man isnae for ye. He doesnae like ye, and ye must remember Wyndham.
Brianna’s gloomy reflection cooled her interest. Gillis and Bray’s banter buzzed around her like verbal midges—noisy and unwelcome and downright pesky.

The laird turned his stallion down a narrow trail and his arm brushed against her breast. Brianna swallowed her gasp of surprise. St. Andrew help her! This would never do! She didn’t even know his name, and unlikely was to learn it as long as she stubbornly clung to her refusal to give him hers. Neither her identity as Lord Wyndham’s daughter nor as the outlaw wanted by the sheriff held any appeal to her at this moment. She felt much safer being an unknown.

With forced cheerfulness, Brianna chattered away the afternoon. Partly to deflect the bickering between Bray and Gillis, partly because she enjoyed Bray’s wide-ranging opinions. The laird said little, but each time he spoke, his voice slid like warm honey down her spine, and his breath on the back of her neck warmed her from her ears to the tips of her toes.

“We willnae make it to Troon before dark. May as well set camp here and ride in tomorrow.”

Startled, Brianna’s pulse quickened as he lowered her to the ground. “Can we not ride a wee bit farther? I know I will see a landmark—”

The laird landed beside her. “I willnae leave ye beside a stone or a tree of yer choosing. Ye need family, protection, and since we have ridden all day with nary a sign of yer kin, I have decided to turn ye over to the king.”

Her heart skipped a beat.
The king isnae at Troon. Only the sheriff’s men.
She took a breath against the sudden fear racing like fire through her veins.

“But the king isnae at Troon.”

The laird, pulling loose the saddle girth, paused. “How do ye know this?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Och, the king left Dundonald Castle weeks ago, and who knows when he will return?”

He gave the saddle a tug and pulled it from his horse’s back. “Dundonald is the king’s favored residence and he is seldom gone long. But even if he isnae there, his man will give ye respite until he returns.” Giving her a crooked grin, he continued with his chores. “I suspect a sweet lass such as yerself will find no trouble fitting in at court. Once ye get proper clothing, that is.”

Brianna sputtered, not knowing which insult to address first. “I am not a courtier, and I had clothing—which we left behind.” She took a step toward him, biting her lip as her ankle protested sharply.
He called me a sweet lass? But he doesnae like me
. Befuddled, she hobbled to a fallen log several feet away.
He cannae take me to Troon. If the sheriff’s man has spoken with the king’s steward, he may turn me over to him.
Her pulse quickened as she glanced about the little clearing as the men set about their chores.
I cannae tell them this. I am no more than a burden to them now. I willnae become a hostage.

She must escape. But how? Riding with the men had been a sensible thing earlier in the day, but the laird’s plan to turn her over to the steward at Troon changed everything. It was apparent she was not yet clear of the hangman’s noose. Dangerous though it might well be, she must slip away during the night, though surely they set a watch?

Gillis grumbled as he prepared the cook fire and a glimmer of an idea stirred. As he mixed a bit of water into a portion of dried oats, she sighed.

Bray sank beside her on the log. “What is wrong,
mademoiselle?
”

She shook her head, doing her best to appear long-suffering. “’Tis a shame we have nothing to add a bit of flavor to the bannocks.”

At Gillis’ glower, she waved her hands in a placating manner. “I am not complaining. And ’tis a wee bit late to be setting traps for trout or salmon.”

“Or a
petite
rabbit?” Bray flashed white teeth in a roguish grin.

Brianna delicately twitched her nose. “If ye like. I prefer fish.”

“You and I think alike,
mademoiselle.
Gillis’s bannocks may fill the stomach, but they do nothing to excite the palate.”

Grateful for her ma’s lessons in herbal lore and praying she could find what she needed, she carefully curbed her growing excitement. The look she turned on Bray was genial, almost kind. “Mayhap I can help.”

“Indeed? Then I am much obliged. What do you have in mind?”

“Och, I am sure there are herbs and lettouces near the burn that could be used to flavor the bannocks. Are ye interested?”

“Laird, stay young Gillis’s hand.
Mademoiselle
and I will be back in a trice.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “Lead on,
cherie
.”

She hobbled to the shallow burn, its banks wide and marshy. Plants crowded there in abundance, and she discarded each one as she sought one specific plant.

“Here. Take yer knife and cut it like this.”

A white liquid spurted from the cut stalk. “Careful! ’Twill make the bannocks softer—not so dry.” She bit her lip against the lie. Bray gathered a handful of the lettouces and she plucked a few leaves from another nearby plant. “Let us hurry before Gillis decides to make his plain oatcakes again.”

Bray turned the leaves over in his hands. “What do we have,
mademoiselle?
”

Brianna waved her fingers airily. “Och, a wee bit of lettouce, and this one will add a bit of nuttiness to the flavor.” She noted a flirtatious smile stopped his questions, so she bestowed her brightest on him. He grinned back at her and cupped her elbow in solicitous help as they made their way back to camp.

She offered Gillis the herbs and part of the lettouces, then gently mashed the rest of the leaves amid the white liquid. Taking a fresh bannock, she dipped it in the resulting sauce and presented it to Bray. “The fruit of yer labor, so to speak,
monsieur
.”

He took a bite and nodded. “Not bad for a quick trip to the burn. Had we time, mayhap we could create something entirely special.”

A rudely male snort from behind caused Brianna to jump, heat infusing her cheeks.

“A bit of leaves in yer food is all it takes to proposition the lass?” The laird stalked to the fire and snatched a handful of bannocks. Brianna gave him a crestfallen look when he ignored the mashed leaves.

“At least try it.” Bray’s reproving voice had its desired effect. The laird scooped a pile of the green pulp onto his oatcakes and munched them noisily. Brianna glanced from one to the other. She needed all of them to eat the prepared mash. The thick, milky substance from the lettouce stem was known to induce a soporific effect, definitely a help to her if she was to escape this night. The added assurance the men would sleep soundly would come as a boon. She could not allow him to turn her over to the king’s man—she could not risk it.

But she didn’t understand the laird’s hostility toward Bray. The man only helped her.
Mayhap he isnae as indifferent to me as I thought
. Intense gratification warmed her, filled her with delight. The urge to escape warred with the possibility of lingering. Again she wondered what it would be like to wake in the laird’s arms, but the thought faded with the memory of the worn rope dangling from the scaffold’s jutting arm.

Chapter 6

Brianna watched stealthily, huddled deep in the laird’s plaide. Bray and Gillis snored gently by the fire. The laird kept watch, his back to the glowing embers, staring into the dark forest beyond. Again, she wondered who he was, wishing her life less complicated.

If I stay, I will have a few more hours’ time with him, mayhap even learn his name—if I asked Bray. I could make up a name for myself and mayhap a plausible story that the king’s steward would believe. But how many other young women are lost in the area? If the sheriff’s man still hunts me, I will be held for him to identify.

She gave a snort and shook her head, angry with herself
. What draws me to him that I would risk hanging? This makes no sense. I will escape tonight and never see him again.

Impatient now to execute her plan, she steeled herself to wait for the laird to join the others in sleep. Would her plan work on him? Though tired, she was too full of nervous anticipation to indulge in a nap to pass the time, and somewhat afraid she would oversleep. She tried concentrating on the soughing breeze and the flickering embers of the fire. But she found herself reflecting instead on the way it had felt to spend the day in the laird’s arms.

She cut her gaze to him. His shoulders slumped forward and his arms, resting on his knees, cradled his head. She drew a slow, deep breath. At long last, he’d apparently fallen asleep.

Cautious, and a wee bit regretful, she slipped to her feet, one small movement at a time. She stood motionless, scarcely breathing, testing his alertness. Satisfied when he did not move, she edged the shadowy perimeter of the fire and padded noiselessly into the woods. Rounding the trunk of a large tree, she leaned against its shaggy bark, blood pounding in her ears. From this point, were she caught, she could plead a moment of privacy. Once she moved deeper into the woods, the laird would be harder to convince. Why must he insist on turning her over to the king? Explaining to him why that struck terror in her might strengthen his resolve to release her to royal custody, believing the sheriff’s reach not long enough to snatch her from beneath the warden’s nose. Of course, if she was wrong about the laird’s sense of honor, he could just as easily see the benefits of claiming the bounty on her head. She did not want to believe it of him.