The Rebel #2
“Then I reckon it’s something else that got prickly under your corset, because I doona believe it’s as simple as that. Yer regiment was ordered to retreat, but there ye were, leaping out from behind a rock, coming at me with vengeance in your eyes.”
Her gaze lifted. “Is that how it looked to you?”
“Aye.”
Nodding her head, feeling almost sick from the violent impulses that had plagued her on that battlefield, she curled her hands around the edge of the mattress. “I don’t suppose you have anything to numb this pain?”
He was quiet for a moment, then disappeared through the curtain and returned with a bottle of something, which he uncorked with his teeth. “Moncrieffe Whisky, the best in the Highlands.” He held it out to her.
“Do you not have a glass to offer a lady?”
He chuckled softly. “Is that what ye are now?”
Their gazes locked, and all the blood in her body seemed to rush to her head.
She swiped the bottle from his grasp, tipped it up and guzzled a few deep swigs. The spirit sizzled and burned down her throat, left her gasping for air.
“That ought to numb at least something,” the Highlander said under his breath, as he took the bottle away from her.
Elizabeth waited a moment for the spirit to flow through her body, then worked hard to relax her mind. “Thank you.”
The Highlander gave no reply. For the longest time, he simply stood patiently before her.
“Feelin’ any better?” he asked.
“Yes.” Cautiously, Elizabeth lifted her eyes again and took in the finer details of his clothing – the colours and woven textures of his kilt, his brown leather sporran, the loose-fitting linen shirt and the plaid that was draped across his shoulder and pinned with a pewter brooch.
“Where am I, exactly?” she asked. “And what time of day is it?”
There was no window in the room, so she had no idea if it was morning or night.
“Doona worry,” he replied. “You’re safe here. This house belongs to a friend. And it’s nearly ten.”
“Ten at night?” Her heart began to race. “I’ve been unconscious all day?”
“Aye. To be honest, I wasna sure ye were going to survive.”
“No thanks to you.” She laid her hand on her cheek again.
“Ye had it coming, lass. Ye said so yourself.”
Massaging her neck to squeeze out some tension, she had no choice but to surrender to the truth in his words. “I suppose I did.”
She was keenly aware of the Highlander’s movements as he approached the bed and sat down beside her. His nearness caused her senses to quiver and hum.
“Are ye going to tell me what you were doing out there on the battlefield,” he asked, “and how ye came into possession of that uniform?”
Elizabeth set both hands on the edge of the mattress, and sighed heavily. “It belonged to my brother.”
“Yer brother …” he replied with some scepticism.
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
She shot an angry look at him. “Where do you think?”
The Highlander regarded her intently, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and low. “I’m very sorry, lass.”
She scoffed. “Well! There it is at last – exactly what I was looking for. An apology from a Scotsman.”
“I dinna know your brother, so I canna apologise for anything. I was merely offering my condolences. And I doona think an apology was what you were looking for when ye tried to stick me with your bayonet.”
She looked down at his lips and could not escape a heavy sense of defeat. “No, I suppose not.”
“Vengeance comes with a price, ye know.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to ache. She wasn’t sure how she would have felt if she had actually killed a man – Scottish or otherwise.
“No, I don’t know,” she replied. “Until these past few months, I didn’t know anything about war and violence and killing, but now I’ve seen more of those things than I ever wished to see. ”
He took his time before responding. “When did your brother die?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Did ye witness it?”
Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Yes. I was a nurse, doing what I could for this war. Is this some sort of interrogation?”
“Aye.”
She recognized the steady purpose in his eyes and felt all the tiny hairs on her arms and legs stand on end. “What do you want from me?”
“I need to know your connections, lass.”
Elizabeth swallowed uncomfortably. “Why?”
“Just tell me.”
“Fine. Our father was an infantryman, but he died a year ago. My brother wanted to make him proud, and seek his own vengeance I suppose, so he signed up to follow in his footsteps and help crush this foolish rebellion.”
“Foolish. Ye think the people of Scotland fight for no good reason?” The Highlander stared into her eyes for the longest time, then he tipped the bottle back and took a drink.
Elizabeth accepted it when he held it out to her, and took another drink.
“Ye should get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “Ye canna go anywhere tonight. It’s too dangerous, especially in that uniform, and if anyone finds out what you’re hiding under it, you’ll be no better off.”
She arched a brow. “My shapely figure, you mean?”
His gaze flicked over the curve of her hip, then he turned to go. “Goodnight, lass.”
Elizabeth quickly stood. “Wait. Are we alone here, or are there others? Am I being held prisoner?”
He kept his back to her. “Aye, there are others, but for now, it’s just us. Get some sleep.”
“But I’ve been sleeping all day,” she argued, “and I’m hungry.”
He halted at the curtain, while she waited uneasily for his response, wishing she knew what he meant to do with her.
At last, he glanced over his shoulder. “Follow me, then. Ye may sit at the table for a while and have some supper.”
With that, he passed through the curtain and held it aloft, his eyes never leaving hers as he waited for her to join him.
“What’s your name, Highlander?” Elizabeth asked, wincing with pain as she used her teeth to tear meat off a chicken bone. She had to chew slowly and with great care, otherwise she might end up rolling in agony on the floor.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he asked from the opposite side of the table. “Ye look uncomfortable. Here. Take some more of this.”
He handed her the bottle of whisky again, and she welcomed the opportunity to wash down her supper. A moment later, however, she had to wrestle with an unbidden wave of giddiness and laughter. It was a potent spirit indeed.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked, setting the bottle down.
“Will it make ye reveal your secrets?”
Elizabeth wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I assure you, I have none. I’ve already told you everything.”
“I doubt that.”
She tore off another morsel of the tender, succulent meat. “And you still haven’t told me your name.”
He eyed her warily. “Nor have ye told me yours.”
A log shifted in the grate, and bright sparks of firelight flew up the chimney while they regarded each other with challenge from opposite sides of the table.
“I am Alexander MacLean,” he said at last. “I hail from the Isle of Mull.”
“Duart Castle?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Now tell me yours.”
She sat back in the chair. “I am Elizabeth Curtis, and I hail from Portsmouth.”
His green eyes narrowed. “You’re a long way from home, lassie.”
“I have no home. What remained of my family came north to fight in this rebellion, but they’re all dead now – all except for one. So here I am. Alone and … seeking vengeance, I suppose.”
“Who is this one you speak of?”
“My uncle. He is a book merchant in Edinburgh, but I have not seen him since I was a child.”
The Highlander shifted lower in a lazy sprawl, and glanced down at the knife he had given her to use with her supper. “Have ye always been so bold?” he asked. “So full of daring?”
“Yes.”
The corner of his mouth curled up in a small grin of seductive allure. “I find ye very intriguing, Elizabeth Curtis. No woman has ever attacked me with such … passion before.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Be very careful, sir. I told you I was seeking vengeance, and if I grow weary of your questions or insinuations, I may decide to attack you again.”
He spoke with a heated grin, holding his hands out to the side.
“Be my guest, but doona forget – I saved your life on that battlefield. I carried ye into the woods and stole one of your King’s horses for ye, then I held ye across my lap for mile after mile while we plodded through rivers and glades together. If anything, ye owe me a great debt.”
Elizabeth slanted a look at him. “Are you flirting with me?”
Just then, something very pleasant and unfamiliar warmed the flow of blood through her veins.
Alex leaned forward. “What if I were? Would it be enough to make ye promise not to use that supper knife on me? Or heaven forbid, that razor-sharp bayonet of yours?”
“I don’t have my bayonet,” she replied, looking around for it. “I have nothing.”
“Nay, lass, that’s not true. Ye have yer wits, and y’re moderately pleasant to look at.”
“Moderately pleasant?” She laughed again. Perhaps it was the whisky. “What a charmer you are.”
The firelight reflected in the deep green of his eyes, and she ran the tip of her tongue across her lips, wondering how she could be carrying on in such a way with a man who was her enemy and captor.
“A Highlander killed my brother,” she quickly said, her tone growing serious. “So please do not look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to carry me back to that bed and do something savage with me.”
He chuckled. “Clearly you’ve been entertaining some wayward thoughts this evening, lassie – but I must ask ye to treat me with some respect. I have no intention of becoming a slave to your lusty urges. I simply won’t have it.”
Yet again, she laughed. “You bashed me over the head today! So I quite assure you, I have no lusty urges whatsoever. Not a single one.”
“Then why do ye keep bringing it up?”