Chapter 2
The stubborn lass hadn’t said a word all night, not since he’d ignored her protests and set her atop his horse. She would ride with him. Where he could keep his eye on her.
Lachlan Maclean, Chief of Coll, had no doubt that it was Flora MacLeod. The bonniest heiress in Scotland. The Holyrood hellion. Take your pick. No matter the nickname, she was the most gossiped-about woman at court. A renowned beauty who left a path of broken hearts in her troublemaking wake.
Well, she’d definitely lived up to her reputation in temperament—he had the marks on his face and a gaping hole in his side to prove it. She was aptly named. Flora. The ancient Roman goddess of flowers and spring. She was a flower all right. A beautiful rose with the thorns to match.
Aye, she was a beauty. With a strong family resemblance to the MacLeods, thankfully, and not to the Maclean of Duart. Delicate oval face, wide blue eyes, tiny pert nose, lush red lips, and long silky golden hair. With a body …
Hell, with a body built for a man’s pleasure.
His men might not have seen through the dirt and sackcloth, but he’d had a better perspective. A much better perspective. He hadn’t meant to land on top of her, but he’d lunged, she’d lost her footing, and momentum had carried them both forward.
Focused on the task at hand, namely making sure she was not hiding another dirk, he hadn’t realized he was frightening her until she’d raked her fingers across his face.
Ravishment had been the furthest thing from his mind.
Had been. Until all of a sudden he’d become very aware of every well-curved inch of her.
For a moment, with that sweet red mouth merely inches away and those luscious breasts straining against him, he’d been tempted to taste the spoils.
Hell, he would have had to be a bloody eunuch not to be at least tempted.
And the memory of that incredible body writhing underneath him was brought back full force every time her soft bottom nudged against his groin when the movement of the horse caused her to slide against him.
It had been one of the longest nights of his life.
His side hurt like hell, and he was as hard as a damn rock.
You’d think he hadn’t had a woman in weeks, though it had been only a few days.
That he wanted her didn’t bother him. A pretty—nay, a lovely—face and lush body would not endear him to his task, although it might make it more palatable.
Abducting a lass, no matter how fair, was not his way.
But he had no choice; too much was depending on the wee termagant.
And Lachlan would do whatever it took to protect his clan and family, even if he had to kidnap a stubborn, headstrong lass to do so.
A burst of white hot pain fired in his side.
He gritted his teeth and waited for it to pass.
But each time it seemed to take longer for the flare of pain to ebb.
The hard ride had only made it worse. Though he’d bound the wound as best he could with a strip of linen, he was still losing blood.
Too much blood. He’d be lucky if he could stand when they arrived at Drimnin.
She’d stabbed him. It was a rare lapse. But he’d never known a woman to handle a blade with such proficiency.
Never hesitating. He shook his head, unable to believe that a lass had succeeded where many formidable men before her had failed.
Including her damn half-brother Hector Maclean, Chief of Duart.
His fiercest enemy and the source of his current troubles.
Still, in spite of his pain, he had to admit that her spirit impressed him. She knew how to defend herself. Which was more than he could say for the cowardly popinjay she’d been with. What kind of man would leave his woman to kidnappers?
Lowlanders, he thought with disgust, glad that the wretched place was behind him.
From Falkirk they’d headed west, crossing the Lomond Hills, skirting the higher peaks, entering into the rugged, mountainous terrain of the Highlands.
As dawn broke across the majestic landscape, a layer of dew sparkled across the green glens and heather-filled moors.
The land rose in gentle, rounded hills as far as the eye could see.
No matter how many times he left, returning home to the Highlands never ceased to move him.
It baffled him how the lass could choose to live in the Lowlands, forsaking her kin in the Highlands.
He knew little about Flora MacLeod, except that since the death of her father when just a child, she’d lived with her mother in the Lowlands—shifting between Edinburgh and Castle Campbell—and only occasionally traveling into the Highlands to Inveraray.
Her half-brother Rory had spoken of her a few times—usually in tones of frustration with some sort of mischief she’d gotten herself in.
Apparently, whenever he asked her to do something, she unfailingly did the opposite.
Her visits to Dunvegan had been infrequent.
Everything else he’d heard had to do with her reputation at court.
For once, in that respect, the rumors seemed to be true.
Hellion was an understatement. He had little patience for courtiers, spoiled headstrong ones even less.
Despite her efforts to sit stiffly before him, the long night in the saddle had eventually worn her down.
From the way her body sagged gently against him, and the calming evenness of her breath against his chest, he knew that she slept.
Although she wore a cloak over her dress, he’d taken the opportunity to wrap his plaid around her, creating a cocoon of warmth against the cold night air.
She was so soft and sweet like this. Relaxed.
Almost trusting. He felt an unexpected tug in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t had since his sisters were young.
He shook off the uncharacteristic bout of sentiment.
She shouldn’t trust him. He would do what he had to do for the good of his clan.
And for his family. Even if it meant using her to do so.
But in repose, the wee hellion looked almost … vulnerable. Until the pain hit again and he brutally recalled her blade.
He’d never studied a woman so closely. But after the long night, he felt his gaze falling to her face again and again, until it seemed as if he’d memorized every inch of her.
He no longer needed to look to see the long lashes fanned against the flawless ivory skin of her cheek, the soft red lips gently parted, and the long winding strands of pale blond hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
Her features seemed permanently imprinted on his mind.
More than once while she slept, he’d been unable to resist bending down, sinking his face into her hair, and inhaling the soft scent—like fresh flowers warmed in the sun.
Everything about her was dainty and sweetly feminine.
He found himself fascinated with the perfect arch of her brows and the delicate tilt of her nose.
Knowing that it would wake her, he fought the powerful urge to sweep his finger down the curve of her cheek just to see if her skin was as baby soft as it looked.
He cursed and focused on the path ahead of him. The loss of blood from his wound must have addled him to be so engrossed with the lass.
As the first rays of sunshine fell across her pale cheek, she stirred. He wondered how long it would take her to realize …
Sure enough, in a matter of seconds she jerked up straight, putting as much distance between them on the saddle as she could manage.
Aye, the lass was stubborn and prideful. That would change. A firm hand was what she needed.
They rode a little while longer, and at the north end of Loch Nell, he ordered his men to stop.
There were still many hours of riding ahead of them before they reached Oban.
From Oban, they would trade their horses for a birlinn and navigate the oft treacherous Sound of Mull to his keep at Drimnin.
Like most men from the Isles, Lachlan felt most at home on the water.
First, however, they needed to eat, water the horses, and do something about his wound. He knew of only one way to stop the bleeding.
Clenching his jaw, he slid from his mount and helped her down after him, trying to control the lightheadedness that threatened to yank his legs out from under him. He gripped his saddle, pretending to tend to his horse while he fought the pull of nausea.
It was worse than he’d feared. The lass had done some damage.
He hated any form of weakness. “Go tend to your needs,” he said roughly. “But stay where I can see you.”
She didn’t move. “Who are you? What do you want with me? Is it ransom?”
A fiery twist in his side threatened to buckle him. Was the damn woman deaf? “Not now, Flora,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You do know who I am.”
He paused, giving the pain a chance to pass.
The ground steadied a little, and taking a deep breath, he turned around to face her.
He started to order her away, but the expression on her face stopped him.
For the first time, she’d realized it was not a mistake.
He looked for signs of fear, but she appeared more bemused than anything else. “Did you think I did not?”
“I wondered that any man could be fool enough to kidnap the sister of Rory Mor MacLeod and Hector Maclean.” She gave him a long look. “My brothers will kill you.”
He caught the unmistakable gleam in her eye, and his mouth curved in a half-smile.
“I wouldn’t plan the ceilidh yet, my bloodthirsty one.
Hector has tried—repeatedly—and failed. Rory I consider a friend.
” But she was partly correct. Rory would be furious if he ever discovered the truth.
“In fact, I think he may have cause to thank me.”
She scoffed. “What for? For abducting his sister? You must be mad.”