Eight
Constance was still a bit dazed after the fall from the horse—but Gordon’s words brought her to her senses. “I will not!” she informed him.
She was overruled as the Scots burst into cheers. “She’ll learn her lesson now,” Thomas called out. He emphasized his meaning with one of the crudest gestures Constance had ever seen.
Her temper swept aside any fear she might have felt. No one spoke of a Cameron woman in that manner. They were descended from earls, and if they weren’t, she had learned a long time ago how to defend herself.
Gordon didn’t respond to the cheers or any of the comments. Instead, he turned and began walking off, expecting her to docilely trail in his wake.
Well, he was in for a surprise, she thought, digging in her heels. She only had one moccasin on but an oak tree would move before she would.
But he’d tied her hands differently this time. The bonds tightened as he walked, painfully squeezing her wrists, and she had no choice but to follow, her first steps a stumbling skip to keep her from being pulled flat on her face.
The Scots roared with approval.
Constance hated them for that. Of course, she’d already been angry at the lot of them before attempting another escape.
Her pride had been stung by Gordon’s callous passing her off to the Reivers as if she was of no consequence.
It had felt like a betrayal, because she’d been cooperative.
She’d even reconciled herself to the idea that she would miss the Novus sailing.
Yet then he’d handed her over, dismissed her as if she meant nothing to him.
And it was that last that had made her decide to run. Of course, she didn’t want to examine her motives too deeply. She wasn’t certain if she’d decided to try and reach Edinburgh because she was a captive or because Gordon had rejected her.
But now she didn’t want anything to do with him.
Her fingers were turning red. The binds didn’t loosen just because she was forced to follow him. Then again, she thought, Gordon didn’t care. He hadn’t even glanced back.
He expected her to follow. Just as Charlotte and Miranda expected her to do as they instructed. No one ever listened to her.
The memory of the kiss rose unbidden in her mind.
He’d completely humiliated her with it, and if he thought to do such a thing again, he was wrong. She’d not go to his quarters with him. Let him be the one made out to be the fool.
Constance resisted him one more time, throwing all her weight into refusing to take one more step, and it worked. She stopped him in his tracks.
The pain shooting through her hands from the tightening rope was excruciating, but she held back. Better that the rope sever her hands than he be allowed to best her one more time.
Gordon turned. Realizing that she had made him do that gave her courage.
His eyes met hers. The Scots had gone quiet, as if holding their collective breath.
Constance didn’t know if she could continue to hold out. Her hands had gone numb—
He took a step toward her, loosening the tension in the rope.
She’d won. The thrill of victory overrode any pain.
He had backed down first.
Gordon walked toward her, stopping when they were toe-to-toe. His fingers relaxed the tightness in the rope around her wrists. Constance could have cried out in triumph and relief.
However, her pleasure was short-lived, because without preamble, without completely untying her, he hoisted her up over his shoulder and carried her through the crowd.
The Scots went wild with laughter. They danced with glee as they followed Gordon through the camp. Children skipped in front of them and the adults acted as if they were on their way to a fair.
Constance couldn’t look at them. She’d lost the will to fight. No matter what she did, how she resisted, he had superior strength, and he would use it.
She lowered her head, not wanting to see the jeering faces.
“Send her back with a bairn” was the rudest and most oft-repeated suggestion.
Their coarseness reminded her of the trappers and frontiersman back home, reminded her of what she hadn’t liked about the valley.
Their father’s drinking and often violent temper had made herself and her sisters outcasts and prey to rough characters.
But it also taught her how to hold her head high in the face of public scorn.
Gordon carried her to a tent, one that was little different from the others in the camp, and perhaps in some way a bit poorer.
His huge dog had followed at his heels, and now, tail wagging, pushed aside the leather flap that served as a door and went inside.
Gordon flipped back the same flap and ducked inside.
In one last act of defiance, Constance grabbed at the tent’s frame. It was a pitiful attempt and her fingers could not hold onto the canvas.
The crowd would have invited themselves inside except that before Gordon dropped the flap, he said to the dog, “Tad, guard.”
Tad dropped before the door, the length of his body from paw to tail blocking the entrance. Someone tried to peep in. Tad growled and the person quickly backed away. Apparently the clan had a healthy respect for Gordon’s dog.
The tent’s low ceiling brushed the top of Gordon’s head. Without ceremony, he set Constance down on her feet. She wavered a moment, regaining her balance, then raised her tied hands and attempted to strike him with all she was worth against the side of his head.
Gordon easily ducked her swing. The dog rose, barking, but not leaving his post.
“Quiet, Tad,” Gordon said, catching Constance by the waist before she fell and dumping her into a rickety chair by the tent’s center pole. The only other furnishings were a small table and a tack chest.
“Stay,” he ordered, as if she was his dog.
Constance wanted to defy him. She wanted to rise to her feet and stomp him.
However, sitting felt good, and the pain in her hands was almost unbearable. But she would not ask for quarter. No, her limbs could fall off before she begged.
Gordon’s rude voice said, “You shouldn’t have let that damn rope become so tight.” He knelt in front of her, to look at her wounds.
Constance frowned at him. “I shouldn’t? How odd. I thought you were the one who tied me up, who wanted to humiliate me, who was on the other end of the lead rope, yanking on it.”
The set of his mouth tightened. “You’d be wise to learn when to keep quiet,” he answered through clenched teeth.
He loosened the knot he’d tied. Blood flowed through her hands, making her gasp in pain. He turned to the tack chest a few feet away, but couldn’t go that far from her without stretching the rope between them.
Constance drew in a sharp breath as her binds began to tighten.
Gordon paused, saw what was happening, and swearing under his breath, came back.
He unbound her hands completely. “You won’t be going anywhere.
Not with Tad and me as guards.” He went to the tack chest and pulled out bandages and a salve for her wrists.
Returning, he dressed her wounds with efficient movements.
He then pulled out a bottle of amber liquid and poured some into a pewter tankard. “Here, drink this.”
“What is it?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Whiskey.”
“Are you attempting to subdue me with spirits?” After witnessing her father’s weakness for drink, she usually avoided strong spirits of any sort.
“Would it work?”
She shook her head.
He sighed. “I didn’t think so. But it will ease the pain.”
Constance drank.
The whiskey didn’t taste as she imagined it would—but then it hit her stomach. Her whole being revolted, throwing her in to a coughing fit.
Gordon was completely unsympathetic. Still kneeling in front of her, he rested an arm on the table. “Next time, sip it.”
She nodded. She couldn’t speak. She pushed the tankard toward him.
He smiled, his expression grim. “Finally. You have nothing to say. ’Tis a blessed moment.”
If looks were daggers, she would have cut the smile from his face.
This time he laughed with true amusement. Then he used the salve and bandages to doctor her wrists. The salve burned slightly, and as her eyes watered from the pain, she was glad that she’d had that bit of whiskey. As if to cool the salve’s sting, Gordon blew softly on her wrist.
For a second her heart seemed to stop. She looked down at his blond head bent over her hands. His touch was gentle, caring…kind. These were not words she would have applied to a man before, especially a warrior. Then again, he was a warrior who noticed even trapped doves.
He glanced up as if noticing her shock. “I could say it is your own fault,” he said. He made a rueful gesture as he reached for the bandages and began to carefully wrap her wrists, his gaze returning to his work. “The truth is, I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”
If the earth had suddenly opened beneath her into a huge gaping hole, Constance could not have been more surprised.
Men didn’t apologize.
Except this one had…and in her mind, he was more manly for it. He was crusader and king, humble and yet, if need be, ruthless. He could fit anywhere in the world and survive.
Walls around her heart that she’d never noticed before seemed to melt away. His touch did that. His simple kindness had challenged everything she’d thought about her world.
She watched him tie off the knot of her bandage, wondering if he was experiencing what she was…and knowing it was not so.
If ever there was a reason to escape, this was it. These tender, new feelings for him made her vulnerable, and she didn’t like being vulnerable.
Gordon finished knotting off the second bandage and then rose. He poured himself a draught of whiskey into the tankard and downed it, without any sputtering. His gaze met hers. “’Tis good.”
She shuddered her distaste. It was a way to hide the turmoil of her true feelings and to exert some semblance of control over herself.
He laughed and put the cork back in the bottle. “I’m going out. When I return, I’ll see you fed. In the meantime, you will wait here.”