Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Kenneth could not resist a smile as Selene emerged from the keep. She came racing down the stairs and across the courtyard as if she was being pursued by the hounds of heaven. Despite her rush, she looked every inch the fine English lady in her riding outfit of midnight blue.
She arrived beside him flushed and panting, her eyes sparkling. He had to admit, she looked altogether adorable.
“Ready,” she said, breathlessly. It was clear she could hardly wait to get going. Not surprising, he mused. Cooped up in the castle for so many days would have been far too long for such a lively lass.
Bending, he threaded his fingers together so that he could assist her into his saddle. She placed one dainty, leather-clad foot in his hands, and reached for the pommel of his saddle to lever herself up.
He considered her soft, well-made boot. Too bad it would soon be soaked in the mire and mud of the cattle fields.
It was the kind of well-tooled footwear that was meant for a lady’s gentle ride along soft English lanes, beside charming fields of grass where cattle grazed contentedly under a pale blue sky.
It was totally unsuited to the rugged, storm-tossed land around Duntulm and the untamed Scottish cattle roaming there.
He raised his hands to assist, as Selene, with an unladylike grunt pulled herself onto his huge destrier, Arvak. As she swung herself into the saddle, her skirt flew skyward, affording him a moment’s view of a swirling petticoat and a long, graceful bare leg.
Trying and failing to prevent his thoughts following that pale leg higher, his pulse raced, his groin twitched and he swallowed hard. Inwardly cursing himself for a fool.
What in the devil’s name are ye thinking, lad? Ye obviously havenae fergotten how it felt tae have her soft, warm, curvaceous body slipping and sliding against ye as ye rode with her tae the castle after coming ashore from the birlinn?
He recalled every move, only too well. And the torment it had brought him.
While it was a most practical idea for her to ride under his care – and he was a most practical man – he was now having serious doubts about his common sense.
He placed his foot in the stirrup, swung his leg over and mounted behind her. His nostrils were at once assailed by her scent, immediately taking him back to the feel of her rolling under him in the kitchen in that ridiculous escapade several nights ago.
Hell.
Was it so long past that he’d been with a lass that now he was turning into a callow youth, all agog at the mystery and beauty of a woman for the first time?
He hauled in a series of deep breaths, doing his best to ignore that way her breasts pressed his arm and her sweetly-scented hair – escaping from under her hat – strayed across his face every time his horse stumbled over a bump in the rutted pathway.
At first, she pulled herself up tightly, doing her level best to keep some distance between them.
Yet, as they plodded on, she gradually loosened until she was almost curled into his chest, her head close to resting on his shoulder.
Her hands which had clutched the pommel so determinedly slid back, so that now one rested sedately on his thigh.
The movement across his thigh at times moved dangerously close to his groin, causing him no end of anguish. Thank the Lord he had donned his britches today instead of his kilt, as one touch on his bare thigh would have brought him into a state of severe embarrassment.
As it was, he was forced to grit his teeth and remind himself of mud and slush and the stench of it in order to keep his thoughts from wandering to the touch of her hand, the smooth whiteness of her leg and how it might be to kiss those soft red lips…
There was one sweet moment when she was pressed against him and he moved his hand to clutch her to him as they mounted a steep path. As his heart lurched, he could have sworn he heard her gasp.
Mayhap he was not the only fool.
After cresting the short rise, they rode into the glen and, from there, the problem became very clear.
“Hang on tight lass,” he muttered as he pushed his horse into a gallop.
At the bottom of the slope there was a scattering of sturdy, whitewashed-stone crofters’ cottages.
Below, where the burn flowed through – usually a harmless, meandering stream – was a widening expanse of rushing water.
The storm had caused the burn to burst its banks and the ensuing torrent was now covering what had once been a grassy field where cattle and sheep roamed freely.
Now all that remained above water was a tiny scrap of land and a narrow strip leading to higher ground.
A small herd of cattle and a scattering of sheep were trapped there.
In a matter of minutes, the rising water would cover the one narrow strip of dry land affording the huddled cattle an escape route to higher ground and out of danger.
A grey-hair and three boys aged around twelve or thirteen along with one old black and white dog, were attempting to steer the cattle toward what was now little more than a fast-disappearing causeway.
As they rode into view a small group of women who were watching in dismay began waving. He gritted his teeth as a frightened voice called, “’Tis the laird. He’s come tae our rescue.”
The situation looked dire and he prayed their good faith in him was not misplaced.
Kenneth pulled up his horse and swung out of the saddle keeping hold of the reins. He turned and lent a hand for Selene as she quickly dismounted from the enormous horse with as much dignity as she could muster. Still, she had exposed far too much of her legs as she slid to the ground.
But this was not a time to be concerned about modesty.
Wasting no time, Kenneth handed his reins to a small boy, telling him to tether Arvak.
Then he divested himself of his cloak and boots, rolled up his britches and ran, barefoot, to join the men who were frantically trying to force their frightened beasts to cross the narrow strip. Callum was not far behind.
Feeling decidedly awkward, Selene took a few steps toward the gaggle of women who were all regarding her with suspicious eyes.
That was hardly surprising. After all, she was certain the local gossip trees were buzzing with the story of her rescue and then her remaining at the castle.
No doubt there would be even more whispers and rumors following her arrival at the crofts, sharing Laird Kenneth’s saddle.
And, added to all that, she was English.
A despised foreigner, into the bargain. That would surely set the tongues wagging.
Ignoring the curious, disapproving stares and swallowing what remained of her pride, she joined the women, hand outstretched.
One woman who had a small boy at her skirts and a babe in her arms stepped forward and grasped Selene’s hand. “Good day tae ye, milady,” she said softly.
Then one or two of the others came forward and in a short time she had merged with the group and, like every one, her attention was focused down the hill to the place where the men were struggling to guide the cattle to safety.
Those rugged Highland beasts were strange indeed with their straggly hair and long, long horns.
Nothing like the cows she was used to. Yet, somehow, they were strangely similar to the Highlanders themselves.
Rugged and strong, lacking altogether the superficial refinement she was used to.
She glanced at the men who, with Callum and Kenneth, were concentrating on leading their flock to safety oblivious to any danger.
She drew in a sharp breath as she caught sight of one old bull that had broken away from the rest and now stood at the edge of the grass staring into the rushing flow of water.
Clearly, he was gauging whether or not he could walk, or swim to safety from there.
Behind him trotted two cows and two tiny calves.
She pointed, drawing the women’s attention to the errant bull.
One of the older women followed Selene’s pointing finger. “Oh, dear Lord,” the woman exclaimed. “’Tis auld Fergus. The herd will follow him intae the burn.”
Another woman joined in, quickly apprizing the danger. “If he goes in, he might just be strong enough tae make it through tae the far side. But the cows and their little ones will be swept away.”
They waved to the men whose backs were turned to this new danger as they struggled to lead the cattle to safety.
Kenneth was knee deep, carrying a large sheep across to the higher ground.
As Selene watched, she saw him deposit the animal on the grassy slope where it scampered up the hill to join the rest of its flock.
But the men couldn’t hear their calling and none looked up to see the women’s frantic waving and signaling.
There was nothing for it. Selene set her jaw with grim determination as she shucked off her precious boots and hiked up her skirt to fasten it in her belt. She tossed aside her hat and turned to the others.
“Follow me.” Then she set off down the hill, running as fast as she could with the other women hot on her heels.
They splashed their way across to what there was of the field that was still remaining above water, passing the startled men who were too busy to do anything other than raise a brow or let a jaw hang agape.
By the time Selene reached the old bull he had ventured his front legs into the raging torrent. Perhaps he was gauging the depth and strength of the flow. But whatever it was that made him hesitate, it gave Selene time to wade into the water beside him.
In an effort to turn him, she grasped one of his horns.
“Come on Fergus,” she whispered. “That’s not a safe place to go.”
To her amazement he turned his head and took a step back. She tugged at his shaggy hair and continued whispering in his ear.
“Ye’ll need tae talk wi’ Fergus in the Gaelic,” called one of the women.