Chapter 1 #2
With her mother gone and her father buried long before, the right belonged to Rory.
A brother she hardly knew. From what she did remember of him, he didn’t seem as if he would force her to marry a man not of her choosing.
But she could not take the chance. Even if Rory could be persuaded, Hector and her cousin Argyll wouldn’t let the matter be decided without interference.
All three would be furious to discover what she’d done.
Her brothers should have known better than to try to force her hand. Though she hadn’t seen them in some time, in some ways she hadn’t changed. But perhaps they’d forgotten the little girl who hated to be backed into a corner?
Flora gazed at William again, peering through the darkness to study him a little longer, wondering not for the first time why he’d agreed to her plan to elope. But she quickly pushed aside the sudden twinge of uncertainty.
He was the perfect choice. Her brothers might even approve, she thought wryly. Not that she would give them a chance to have a say in the matter.
“You have nothing to fear,” Lord Murray reassured her, seeming to know where her mind was going. “Even if they hear of it, it won’t be in time. We’re nearly there.”
Flora arched a brow. “You don’t know my brothers.”
In the soft glow of moonlight, an odd look crossed his face. “Not well,” he admitted. “Mostly by reputation.”
Flora repressed an indelicate snort. “Then you will know that there is much to fear. My infamously fierce brothers are not men to anger.” She paused. “Though admittedly, I don’t know them very well anymore.”
“When did you last see them?”
She thought for a minute. “Quite some time ago. My mother preferred to stay at court or Castle Campbell.” The Lowland stronghold of the Earl of Argyll.
Thereby avoiding the “barbarians,” as Highlanders were considered at court, who’d caused her so much misery.
“My brothers do their best not to leave the Highlands,” she explained.
“I see far more of my cousin Argyll than I do of Rory and Hector.” Or any of the other half-siblings, for that matter.
Other than a few brief times at court, Flora had not spent significant time with anyone in her family since she was a child. Though she had eight half-brothers and-sisters—five MacLeods (sharing the same father) and three Macleans (sharing the same mother)—she might as well have been an only child.
Not that she’d minded. She’d always had her mother.
But her mother was gone.
Flora swallowed the ball that had suddenly formed in her throat. She missed her desperately.
She could only hope that in death, her mother had found the happiness that eluded her in life.
Married four times to men not of her choosing, her mother had endeavored to ensure that her daughter not suffer the same fate, and her dying wish was that Flora not marry without love.
A wish was that she’d secured with a deathbed promise.
Promise me, Flora. Whatever it takes, never marry someone you do not love.
Flora shook off the memories—and the guilt.
She didn’t love William. But how could she keep her promise to her mother?
Without her mother’s protection, Flora was left to the mercy of the men who would seek to control her.
A woman could not choose her own destiny.
Like it or not, Flora was a marriage prize.
Her duty was to marry where her brother wanted her to.
But was it her duty to have a life of unhappiness?
No. She refused to be bartered like a prized heifer. She’d made her decision.
“Did it belong to your mother?”
Startled, she turned back toward William. “What?”
“The necklace. You always hold it when you mention her.”
Flora smiled softly, not realizing she’d been clasping the amulet. The amulet that her mother had never been without but that had belonged to Flora for the last six months. Since the day her mother’s unhappiness was finally put to rest. “Yes.”
“It’s unusual. Where did it come from?”
She paused, for some reason unwilling to share the story of the necklace.
It seemed so personal somehow. Ridiculous, she knew, given that this man would soon be her husband.
The legend and the curse associated with the amulet were hardly a secret.
Still, she hesitated. “It was passed to my mother’s mother by her aunt, who …
” She paused. “Died without children. And then to my mother as the youngest daughter, and then to me. But originally, it belonged to the Macleans.”
“Your brother’s clan?”
She nodded.
They hit another bump. Flora held her breath as the carriage perched sideways for a long moment, then settled back down on all four wheels. When it came to a sudden halt, she thought they must have damaged something.
“I’ll have the coachman’s head for this—”
But Lord Murray’s threat was lost in the deafening thunder of horses and the sudden burst of loud voices coming from outside.
Her pulse shot up in an explosion of comprehension: They were being attacked.
From the quizzical expression on his face, it was clear that William had not yet realized what was happening.
He was a Lowlander to the core—a courtier, not a fighter.
For a moment, Flora felt a stab of frustration; then she chastised herself for being unfair.
She wouldn’t want it otherwise. But clearly, in this situation, he was going to be of little help.
She could hear the sporadic clash of steel against steel moving closer. They didn’t have much time. Grabbing his arm, she forced his gaze to hers. “We’re under attack.” A shot rang out, punctuating her words. “Do you have anything? A weapon of any sort?”
He shook his head. “I have no use for weaponry, my men are well armed.”
Flora cursed, not bothering to curb her tongue.
His frown returned. “Really, my dear. You mustn’t say such things. Not when we are married.”
Another shot rang out.
She bit back the sarcastic retort that sprang to her lips.
Married? They might not be alive in an hour.
Did he not understand the desperation of their situation?
Scotland was rife with brigands who roamed the countryside.
Outlaws. Broken men without clans who weren’t known for their mercy.
Flora had thought there would be some protection in staying close to Edinburgh. She was wrong.
Lord Murray was exhibiting the arrogant obtuseness characteristic of many courtiers—the confidence that rank and wealth would protect him. But a few muskets would not stop a Highland sword or bow for long. They needed something to defend themselves with.
“A sword,” she said urgently, trying to mask her impatience. “Surely you have a sword?”
“Of course. Every man at court carries one. But I did not want to be bothered with it at my side during the journey, so the driver strapped it to the box with your gown. I do still have my dagger.” He slid the blade from the scabbard at his waist and held it out to her.
From the heavily jewel-encrusted hilt, Flora could tell that it was intended for adornment and not battle.
But the six-inch blade would suffice well enough.
From the awkward way he held the blade, as if it were distasteful, it was obvious he didn’t know how to use it. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience—”
She did. “I’ll take it.” Flora slid the dagger into the fold of her cloak right before the door swung open with a crash.
And everything happened at once.
Before she could scream or make a move to defend herself, she was plucked roughly from the safety of the carriage into the viselike hold of a man. A very large man. Who from the feel of him was as strong as an ox.
She gasped from the force of being brought up hard against the granite wall of his chest. Laid out against him, the full length of her body was plastered against hard, unyielding stone.
Dear God, no one had ever dared to hold her like this.
She’d never been this aware of … anything.
Her cheeks burned with indignation and from the sudden blast of heat that seemed to radiate from him.
He’d wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed it up snuggly under the heavy weight of her bosom, making her deeply conscious of the rise and fall of her breasts against his arm.
Although she was not a small woman, her head tucked easily under his chin.
But the worst part was that with her back to his chest, her bottom was pressed directly against his groin.
Instinctively, she rebelled at the closeness. At the intimacy of being molded against the hard-muscled body of a filthy villain.
Except that he didn’t smell filthy at all. He smelled of myrtle and heather, with the faintest hint of the sea.
Furious at the direction of her thoughts, she turned her outrage on her captor. “Get your hands off me!” She struggled to wrench free, but it was useless. His arm was as rigid as steel. Though he was restraining her with only one arm, she’d barely moved an inch.
“I’m afraid not, my sweet.”
She froze at the lilting sound of the burr in his voice. A Highlander. His voice made the hair on her arms stand straight on end. It was almost hypnotic. Deep and dark, with an indisputable edge of danger.
Her blood ran cold. The direness of their predicament had just grown markedly worse. Highlanders had the morals of the devil. Unless she could think of something, they were as good as dead.