Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Malcolm, can I ask ye somethin’?” she began.
He turned to look at her, his eyes dark pools. “It depends on what it is. Ask me and I’ll tell ye.”
“Why did ye kiss me the other night and then just leave like that?”
There it was, the crucial question, out in the open. He looked away at the water, not saying anything for a while.
“I was wrong of me tae kiss ye,” he said eventually, his voice low. “I apologize, Catriona. I left because I kenned I shouldnae have done it.”
“But… I wanted ye tae kiss me. And I kissed ye back.”
“Aye, ye did.” There was a long pause. “And that made things even worse. I blame mesel’. I lost control fer a moment and things went too far. It cannae happen again.”
Catriona’s heart was hurting. She shook her head and frowned, bewildered. “I dinnae understand. I’ve never kissed anybody before. I’ve nay experience. Did I dae somethin’ tae displease ye?”
He let out a small groan. “Nay, nay, lass, never think that. The fault isnae with ye, but with me.”
“But why was it so wrong then? If we both wanted it, how can it be so?”
He suddenly swung around to face her, looking straight into her eyes, his arms resting on his thighs. “Look, Catriona, I wish I could turn back the clock, so it would never have happened. Can ye nae just forget it?”
“Forget it?” she echoed, the pain in the region of her heart expanding.
“Aye. I told ye, it was a mistake. A bad mistake. Look, I cannae give ye what ye want.”
“And what is that?” she inquired, bristling.
The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. He did not want her. He certainly did not love her.
“Ye’re right. It was a mistake. Me mistake, fer trustin’ ye against me better judgment.”
“It isnae that, lass,” he said, looking pained.
She felt the stabbing pain of rejection all over again, and anger rose up within her. She jumped to her feet. “Dinnae lass me!” she shouted, sending startled birds scattering upwards from the branches.
“Catriona, sit down, please,” Malcolm said as if talking to an rowdy child.
That infuriated her even more. “I willnae sit down. In fact, I’ll nae stay here a moment longer and listen tae yer poor excuses!”
With that, she ran to Matilda, stuck her foot in the stirrup, and levered herself onto the startled mare’s back, grabbing the reins between shaking fingers.
“Catriona, nay, come back here!” Malcolm shouted, running to stop her. But he was forced back as she wheeled about, and he was not quite quick enough to catch hold of the reins as she kicked up Matilda and took off at a gallop back down the track whence they had come.
Like the wind she rode, a storm of hurt and anger raging inside her, urging Matilda onward, thundering back the way they had come.
The whole time, she knew Malcolm was on her heels and would probably overtake her.
But she was not going to let him stop her, desperate to get away from him and to never have to face him again.
She kept going, past the castle to the shores of the loch behind it, where she finally brought Matilda to a stop by a stand of willow trees that partially hid them. She slid from the saddle and walked down to the water’s edge, hugging herself as she gazed miserably out over the dark waters.
A sob burst out of her, and the tears came, scalding as they streamed down her face, her whole body shaking as she cried and cried. She craved privacy, praying Malcolm would stay away, but she had only been there a few minutes when she heard the sound of approaching hooves.
She knew it was him—the last person on earth she wanted to see—so she did not turn around. Why give him the satisfaction of seeing her so distraught over him?
The sound of hooves and the jingle of a bridle came closer and closer. Still, she did not turn. She heard Malcolm pull up and the thump of boots as he dismounted. The skin on her back prickled as heavy footsteps approached… and stopped just a few feet away.
“Go away and leave me alone!” she shouted through her tears, whirling around to face him.
The man standing looking at her was not Malcolm. She had never seen him before. A small scream of shock flew from her lips.
“Och, ’tis her all right. All that red hair. Aye, the laird will be very satisfied tae finally have her,” he muttered as if talking to himself.”
Catriona stared at him aghast, taking in his rough clothing and unkempt appearance.
He was caked with dust, as if he had been riding for a long time.
The lower half of his face was covered by a matted beard of dull brown.
His nose resembled a squashed mushroom, and greasy curls stuck out from beneath a grubby tartan cap.
“Och aye, the laird will be very happy with me fer certain sure,” the man muttered, his glittering pale-blue eyes fixed fervently upon her.
A sword and dirk hung at his belt, yet it was the tartan ribbon tied about his sleeve that frightened Catriona the most. Cold dread settled in her stomach like a lead weight at the sight of it. For she recognized the colors at once.
Sinclair. He’s one of Sinclair’s men.
Knowing she had to get away from him, else she might as well be dead, Catriona forced her frozen mind to work. How could she escape? She had left Matilda under the willows, several yards away. To reach the mare, she would have to get past him. The same went for his horse.
So, she had only two choices. Plunge into the loch fully clothed and try to swim away. She quickly ruled that possibility out because although she was quite a strong swimmer, her skirts and boots would weigh her down. Even if he could swim, she would most likely drown before he could catch her.
There was no other option but to run.
The man came closer, his hands out as if gentling a horse, continuing to mutter. “What a stroke of luck tae run intae ye like this, lassie. But dinnae fash yersel’, there’s nay hurry. We dinnae havetae rush tae get ye tae Laird Sinclair if ye need a bit of time.”
He advanced towards her, mumbling soothing words, and for each step he took, Catriona stepped back. Afraid to look away from him lest he try to pounce on her, she edged her feet along the shore of the loch, terrified of losing her footing. If she did, he would be on her.
Then, she heard more hooves thundering towards them, coming closer and closer.
Hope flickered in Catriona’s breast.
Please, Lord, let it be Malcolm.
The man heard it to. Suddenly, moving faster than she would have thought him capable of, the man lunged at her. She shrieked and tried to jump backwards out of reach of his grasping hands. But in her panic, her feet slipped.
He was on her, grabbing her arm and shoving her down on the gravel so hard, the air was driven from her lungs.
“Seems like we have some company, eh? But they’ll nae bother us fer long.
” Whipping out his dirk, he waved it in her face.
With a gasp, she jerked away, but he grabbed her by the hair.
Leaning down, putting his face inches from hers, he hissed through broken teeth, “Stay there, lass,” he hissed. “I’ll be back fer ye directly.”
He positioned himself a few feet in front of her, dirk in one fist, sword in the other, clearly waiting to ambush whoever was coming.
At that moment, the willows parted and Warrior plunged from the trees onto the shore, with a thunderous looking Malcolm riding almost flat in the saddle.
Och, thank ye, Lord.
Catriona thought, tears of relief filling her eyes. He had gone from the last person she wanted to see to the only person she wanted to see.
He yanked sharply on the reins and drew Warrior to a screeching halt, then threw himself from the saddle, landing surefooted on the shore with a sharp crunch.
Catriona watched as his eyes rapidly swept the scene, taking in her assailant only briefly before they settled on her. When he saw her lying in the sand, his face darkened like a storm. His sword sang as he pulled it from its scabbard and advanced on her captor, his face a cold mask.
“Malcolm, be careful, he’s armed!” Catriona called out to him in warning, suddenly terrified of him being hurt.
Catriona was afraid to watch, yet she could not look away as Malcolm bore down on Sinclair’s man, raining blows upon him, his sword flashing as it arced and sliced through the air, wielded with deadly precision.
The sound of clashing steel ripped through the tranquil afternoon as Sinclair’s man frantically parried the lightening-fast blows coming at him from above, the front, to the side.
Malcolm’s relentless onslaught seemed almost effortless as he pushed his assailant steadily backwards towards the water, giving no quarter.
However, the man managed almost by accident to wound him on his arm, slicing through the sleeve of Malcolm’s coat just above the elbow.
Catriona’s hand flew to her mouth in alarm as she saw blood seeping from beneath the ripped material.
But Malcolm did not appear to notice the injury and pressed forward unceasingly, his greater height and reach giving him a natural advantage over his smaller opponent, which he ruthlessly exploited.
Driven back, the man splashed into the loch, frantically trying to deflect Malcolm’s unerring, unrelenting attack.
He staggered suddenly, letting out a sharp cry. The next moment, with a deft twist of Malcolm’s wrist, his blade was flipped out of his hand and sank into the dark waters.
With a fluid movement, Malcolm lunged forward and pierced the man’s throat with his sword then pulled it back.
His victim clutched at his neck, gurgling for air, then fell to his knees with a splash, before finally crashing face first into the lapping waves.
Blood billowed out, a crimson stain on the dark surface.
Malcolm wiped his blade on the dead man’s breacan and sheathed it as he turned and ran to Catriona.
She was on all fours, struggling to get to her feet, her hair hanging in her eyes.
Her body would not obey her commands, she felt so terribly weak, like a ragdoll with the stuffing knocked out of her.
“Och, Malcolm, thank God,” she murmured, trying and failing to push herself up.
“Are ye all right. Did he hurt ye?” Malcolm exclaimed urgently, falling to his knees next to her and scooping her onto his lap, cradling her in his arms against him. Relief flowed through her like a calming river.
“Nay, I’m all right, I’m nae hurt,” she sobbed, dissolving into tears, looking up into his melting, dark-brown eyes, the eyes of the man she knew she loved with every fiber of her being.
Her heart clenched in her chest to see his beloved features—still spattered with the dead man’s blood—contorted with what looked like fear.
She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, taking strength and comfort from the wall of hard muscle protecting her. Her rock. She felt his heart beating fast against her ear, just as hers was racing in her chest.
“I was so afraid, Malcolm, so afraid.”
“’Tis all right, ye’re safe, he cannae hurt ye now,” his large, calloused hand brushed with exquisite tenderness over her forehead, pushing her tousled hair back from her face, stroking it as his dark gaze raked keenly over her.
In search of injuries, she knew. She almost smiled, grateful for once for his overprotectiveness.
“I’m sorry for takin’ off like that. It was stupid of me. Thank ye fer comin’ after me, thank God ye got here in time,” her sobs finally starting to subside as she nestled against with the mighty wall of muscle surrounding her. She had never felt so safe.
But she suddenly remembered his wound. “Ye’re injured,” she told him, distressed by the sight of the blood welling from his ripped sleeve. “Yer arm’s cut, look. ’Tis bleedin’!”
He did not even glance at it, his eyes never leaving hers as he murmured, “’Tis but a scratch, of nay import.”
Before she could argue, he scooped her up and rose to his feet in one fluid motion, striding back towards the horses. He held her effortlessly, as though she weighed no more than a fallen leaf.
“We need tae get home fast. ’Tis dangerous out here,” he said.
“Aye, home,” she murmured before realizing what she had said. Strange as it was, Malcolm’s keep did indeed feel like home. Because he was there.
The dead man’s horse, a stout-limbed pony, had joined Warrior and Matilda. The three beasts were pulling at the tufts of grass beneath the willows, oblivious to the human drama playing out around them.
With the greatest of care, Malcolm lifted Catriona onto Warrior’s broad back and settled her there before swinging himself up behind her.
He caught up the reins of the other two beasts and gathered them in his fists.
Then, he clicked his tongue and Warrior moved off, the other two following, one at each side.