Chapter 8
There was no telling when sleep finally came for Victoria.
She did not sleep well, but she knew that she must have rested at least a little bit because one moment the sky was dark, and the next the sun was filling the room with a warm light through the small window in their room.
Somebody had rekindled the fire at some point in the night, and she had been oblivious to that part, too, it would seem.
“Arran?” she croaked, sitting up.
She was alone in the room, his place by the door abandoned.
Did he light the fire? Is he coming back?
Her face was still sore from crying, her lips still tingling from where the Laird had kissed her… and there was a warmth between her thighs that said she must have been thinking about that kiss for far longer than she realized. Dreaming of it.
What is that? She turned her wrists over, noting the fresh layer of cream. It had dried some, but there was more there than she had applied.
“Arran?” she called a little louder.
She attempted to sit more upright, her body sorer than she anticipated from the long ride yesterday. The blankets felt heavier on her legs… oh, but it was not blankets after all.
A dress was resting on top of the bedding where her legs had just been.
She could not help smiling at his thoughtfulness.
She supposed that if he needed to prove his point about being a man of his word, this was a very good step in the right direction for that.
But it was strange to her how a man could be so sweet and such a brute at the same time.
It was a very pretty dress, shades of tan and brown in a thicker material that would be best suited for traveling.
Elements of green throughout the pattern reminded her of Arran’s eyes.
Had he chosen this color on purpose? Did he think that it would just look best on her?
Perhaps it was just the first thing that he had found, and she was giving him entirely too much credit?
She did not wish to think that this was the case.
Eyeing the door, she tiptoed closer to it, pressing her ear against the wood and listening for signs of life.
All the noise seemed to be coming from downstairs.
Though there was no telling if it was breakfast or lunch that they were having.
Her stomach growled uncomfortably, and she was forced to realize that she had missed dinner the night before.
In all the excitement and stress, she had not eaten any of the stew that the innkeeper’s wife had brought up.
But at least it was unlikely that she would be interrupted while changing at this rate. Slowly, she undressed, exchanging Arran’s light shirt for the weight of the dress, taking her time.
I could run. This might be my chance. It was unlikely that she could slip past the stairs without being noticed; that was true, but perhaps she could slip from the window?
She did not like pain and certainly did not relish the prospect of the fall from this height, but it was unlikely to kill her… at least she assumed so.
If she returned, then she would be stuck with the Earl, which would be awful, but at least she knew that her sister would be safe.
If Charles had already returned home and found her missing, then her father’s estate was going to be the very first place that the Earl went looking for her, demanding answers.
But her father deserved whatever was coming to him.
If she went with Arran’s plan and allowed him to take her to Scotland…
she would be responsible for a man’s death, and her family’s name and reputation would be ruined.
The scandal sheets would relish the story of how a bunch of brutish Scotsmen kidnapped me on my wedding day.
Although, I do wonder what they would say about my betrothed fleeing like the coward he is.
Still, Charles would not suffer. Men usually emerged from scandals unscathed.
He would, of course, play the victim and rally as many men behind him as he could muster.
Though that part of the plan troubled her the least. She did not think that he would be able to hold a sword in Arran’s presence. Or any of Arran’s men, for that matter.
In either case, one thing was certain—she should not kiss the handsome highlander again. He was her kidnapper, for god’s sake!
Yet, she found herself bringing her fingers up to her lips, pressing against the soft pad of her full bottom lip and remembering what it felt like, the rush that it had given her.
There was no way that she would be able to deny that.
At least not to herself. Out loud, she would say whatever it was that she needed to say.
It was almost worth being kidnapped for, she mused, smiling at the vivid memory of his mouth on hers, his body hard against hers, the urgency of it.
The door opened, and Victoria nearly jumped out of her skin. She felt as if she had been caught red-handed doing something highly inappropriate and could not seem to steady the way that her heart thudded erratically against her ribcage.
“Ah, ye are awake. Good, the dress fits,” Arran said bluntly, looking anywhere but where she was standing.
Was he avoiding her? It almost made her think that she had dreamt the whole thing.
There was something about his entire demeanor that hinted that he was not the same man now that he had been last night.
But perhaps she was reading too much into it.
What was she expecting—that he would come in here and scoop her up into his arms?
Had she not just told herself that this was something that could not be allowed to happen?
He placed a small knapsack on the bed. Though it was then that she noted he was wearing a wholly different shirt under his tartan. He scooped up the one that he had allowed her to borrow and wadded it up in his hands.
“There’s somethin’ for ye to eat in there. We have time for ye to have some tea before we leave, but we need to get movin’ as soon as possible.”
Right. She supposed that made more sense than handling this like the exchange that it was. She could see it for that now, even if it did not settle right within her bones.
“Right, of course,” Victoria answered, not even fully realizing that by picking up the knapsack that he had placed on the bed for her with travel supplies, she was agreeing to his plan and making her choice. It was not as if he would have allowed her to get far from him anyway, right?
“It took some time to get a smaller horse for ye, but the men are saddlin’ her up right now… it will be a long ride until we reach the docks. I do hope ye rested a bit.” Arran spoke matter-of-factly.
“Docks? Where on earth are we going?” She wanted to step in front of him, if only to force him to look at her—to really see her.
She wanted to see it on his face that this was the right choice for her to make, that she could actually trust him. But only time would be able to actually answer that question for her… she did know that.
“It’s quicker than ridin’ the whole way,” he replied. “If ye daenae think ye can ride, speak now; ye can ride with me.”
She was tempted to feel the closeness of him once more, before she remembered her promise to not let anything happen again.
“I can keep up,” she answered flatly, feeling somewhat hollow.
Arran nodded curtly and turned to leave the room, not even bothering to close the door behind him as he left. “We’ll be waiting for ye downstairs then. Daenae tarry, lass.”
She waited until he was out of earshot to start down the stairs slowly, her thighs already protesting the movement from yesterday’s ride and her fitful sleep. “Could not even if I wanted to.”
Just when she thought that she knew what she was getting herself into, the rug was ripped out from underneath her yet again.
“Nae long now,” the man-at-arms declared, stretching out his arms with the casual air of a man who was well accustomed to riding horses… and sailing on rough seas. “Can ye smell that, M’Laird? That’s the scent of home!”
“We are almost there?” Victoria asked weakly.
Her assertion that she “could keep up” was the second greatest regret of her life, behind agreeing to marry Charles. The journey had gone by in one long, painful blur, with a harrowing bout of seasickness thrown in for good measure.
The man-at-arms chuckled. “Ye’re lookin’ a wee bit green there, lass.”
“I feel a wee bit green,” she mimicked, swallowing uncomfortably.
Although, she could not deny that the beach they had landed on had been breathtaking. She would have liked to admire it more, but running off to expel the contents of her stomach had taken precedence.
Still, the forests and moorlands and jagged cliffs and rugged coast that had revealed themselves since were equally beautiful, the colors unlike anything she had seen in London or Bath or in the English countryside.
Indeed, the English landscapes were not nearly so dramatic, in her humble—and somewhat sickly—opinion.
“I bet ye’ll never want to go back,” the man-at-arms said. “Once ye’ve gotten used to Scottish air, ye’ll never want anythin’ else.”
“As long as I never have to journey on a boat again,” she muttered.
The relatively small band of a dozen men chuckled at her remark, all but Arran. And, despite herself, she felt a little smile tug at the corners of her lips. Lips that had been kissed not so long ago.
As the traveling party finally arrived at the Laird’s keep, she found herself almost feeling comfortable with those around her.
Something that she certainly never thought that she would ever have been able to say about a bunch of men with accents so thick that it was oftentimes hard to understand them. Never mind their… habits.