Entrapment
Alec swung into the saddle in an unusually thoughtful mood. A day. A day, and he’d ensnared the lass, he could tell it by the way she’d melted against him.
The Alec of yesterday would have spurred his horse after hers to spin a deeper web. Aye, he would have wiled the hours away in lighthearted flirtation—and most likely succeed in enticing her into his bed within the week.
But the Alec of this day was abhorrently loathe to follow that path.
Instead, he studied Sorcha from under his lashes.
Her slender delicate form and the fall of her auburn hair would capture the attention of any man.
But was it more than that? Why did he want to see exactly what was hidden in the depths of those remarkable, violet-ringed eyes?
Why was he certain it would be something he’d never encountered before?
He sat there, grinning outright as he watched her struggle with her mutinous pony, jerking its head toward a tasty tidbit. On the fourth try, she succeeded in coercing it back onto the muddy road.
Suddenly, he became aware that he was gaping like a lovelorn fool. A huff of self-deprecating laughter escaped his lips and an unbidden question of ‘just who had entrapped whom?’ flashed across his mind.
Shaking his head, he redirected his attention to the journey that lie ahead.
Upon reaching the crossroads on the crest of the hill, half a mile away, their only way across the Clyde lay to the east, to Glasgow, and the only bridge spanning the river for miles.
But the long night’s rain had now threatened even that path.
Most likely, they would find that road impassable as well.
At his side, the massive draught horse lurched, its muscles straining to jolt the cart into a begrudging roll. But scarcely two yards into the effort, the crates lashed to the front suddenly teetered to one side.
With a “ho there!” to the driver, Alec arrived just in time to prevent the lot from sliding into the mud. His reward? A protruding nail which scored a cut across the palm of his hand.
He swore. Loudly.
“Margaret’s a rump-fed puttock of a Cunningham!” he roared. “One more hindrance and I swear I’m sending this accursed bed straight back to Mugdock!”
It took a moment to notice the silence, and when he did, it took longer still to recall his own words.
Remembering, he cast a swift glance at Sorcha. Aye, her thin-lipped expression betrayed the fact she hadn’t missed the Cunningham jibe and as their eyes met, she turned her pony’s head towards the crossroads, tendrils of mist eddying around her as she trotted away.
“Did ye happen upon a misfortune, cousin?” Taran asked, reining his dark gray battle charger beside him.
Alec looked up, a frown of annoyance pleating his brow.
“’Tis nothing,” he grated, wriggling his fingers.
Although the cut bled profusely, it appeared to be nothing more than an irritant.
Yanking a small strip of cloth from his saddlebag, he wrapped his hand to staunch the flow of blood and slid back into the saddle.
A pronounced sense of mortification settled over him like a pall. He hadn’t meant to offend the lass—particularly after what she’d shared the night before. Habit, that’s all it was. Simple, ingrained habit of cursing the Cunninghams, carried down through the generations for nigh on a hundred years.
Taran’s calm voice broke into his mollifying thoughts. “I dinna speak of your hand, Alec. Did ye crack your head? A fall in the dark perhaps?”
The words gave Alec pause, and he cocked a curious brow at his brooding cousin, keeping pace at his side. Aye, the solemn, straight-faced expression on the man’s face was quite normal, but the fact that he’d initiated conversation assuredly was not.
“Mayhap ‘twas ye who fell?” Alec offered, somewhat puzzled.
Taran tilted his head to one side. “Ye seem uncommonly distracted of late. Angry, even.”
Still curious, Alec nodded at the lumbering cart squelching through the mud ahead of them and grunted readily enough, “Aye, and I am. Margaret’s a daft, selfish fool of a hag, sending a feeble man at death’s door and two wee lasses into such peril for the sake of a bed, no?
If we hadna stumbled upon them, Seton would most likely have Sorcha in the stocks by now. ” The thought made his blood boil.
“Aye,” the highlander granted thoughtfully, but then his deep voice dropped lower. “She’s not a lass I’d see ye trifle with, cousin.”
There it was. The heart of what the man wanted to say. Alec’s head rounded to face him, squarely. “Do ye think to warn me away now?” he asked, raw jealousy seethed through him like a bolt of lightning.
Taran’s dark brow lifted. “She’s a decent lass. Not the kind ye sport with.”
A flush crept over Alec’s cheeks. “And I’m unworthy in your eyes, aye?” he retorted, nettled.
The highlander didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. With a grim clench of his jaw, Alec dug his heel into his horse’s flank and pushed ahead. Aye, his cousin’s words rankled … perhaps because he feared the truth of them.
Annoyed, he broke into a canter, overtaking the cart and then Sorcha riding between Gellie and his brother. He didn’t acknowledge them as he passed, but then, he didn’t ride far.
At the crossroads, he came to an abrupt halt.
The shifting mists had parted, enough to afford a glimpse of the road ahead, and it was as he’d feared. The river had overrun its banks, turning the open, rolling meadow below into a muddy, churning loch. With a long sigh, he leaned forward and crossed his arm over the pommel of his saddle.
He didn’t turn around as the others checked their mounts beside him. He merely said, “’Tis settled then. Seamus will take the cart north to Mugdock. If Margaret wants to sleep in that accursed bed, she’ll have to swim back to Mugdock herself, aye?”
Gellie was the first to object. “Nay, but ye canna ask us to set foot in Lainshaw without it, I beg ye,” the apple-cheeked lass protested. “Ye dinna ken the woman. She’ll have our heads!”
“Aye,” Sorcha chimed in, alarmed.
“’Tis my head, not yours, and I’ll tell her myself,” Alec pledged.
He did turn then, his gaze sweeping over Sorcha’s distress and falling to her squat pony.
Aye, ‘twas time to rid himself of all burdens. “These beasties canna match the pace of ours and we must hasten to cross the Clyde ere the bridge is washed away as well. I canna fail to reach Lainshaw.” No. Not anymore. He had to be certain Robert received his message. His eyes snagged on Sorcha’s red plaid.
Aye, and he had to travel right quickly, especially now that his heart feared Auld Bertha’s words held more than a grain of truth.
“But what of us?” Gellie was gasping, wringing her hands.
Alec nodded at his younger brother. “Tie the ponies to the cart, Andrew. With our horses, we should reach Lainshaw on the morrow, I’d think. The lasses can ride pillion.”
There was no doubt in his mind over just whose horse Sorcha would share. Before she could even react, he’d sidestepped his mount alongside her pony and plucked her off its back with a quick, sure arm, pulling her straight into his lap.
Startled, his horse shied back, but with a swift wrench of the reins, he brought the beast under control. His bandaged-hand throbbed at the sudden exertion, staining the binding a fresh red, but with the perfume of Sorcha’s hair fanning around him, he scarcely noticed.
“I can ride pillion,” Sorcha balked, her back as stiff as a rod. “Behind ye.”
He didn’t answer—with words, anyway. Tightening his grip about her waist, he wheeled his mount to lock gazes with Taran lolling lazily in the saddle behind him. He expected to see a challenge in the man’s eyes, but there was only a cool, detached reserve there instead.
“I dinna ken what’s to be done,” Gellie was wailing as Andrew caught her pony’s bridle. “We were to bring her bed and make her chamber ready afore she arrived from Aiket.”
“She’s a fool to think ‘twas possible in this deluge,” Andrew snorted, tying the pony to the cart.
“Aye, then.” Gellie sighed.
The glance she sent Taran was one of outright naked hope, but he quelled her unspoken question with such a frosty, unwelcome glower that she scrabbled up the back of the cart with deflating shoulders and climbed behind Andrew instead.
With both ponies tied securely and a hasty farewell, the cart rattled away north under Seamus’ steady hand, and the remainder of the party turned their horses’ heads to the flooded east.
For the most part, they skirted the rising waters by climbing to higher ground, threading their way through thistle and ferns, their fronds, brown and broken. And at times, there was no way forward other than to splash through the muddy water swirling past the horses’ knees.
Alec rode in silence, keeping his arm firmly anchored around Sorcha’s waist, and while he was keenly aware of her soft curves, slender and deliciously feminine, his thoughts dwelt more upon his own slurring of the Cunningham name.
Just what did the lass think of him? Did she find him callous? Uncouth? Aye, even heartless?
Raking his bandaged hand through his hair, he finally apologized into her ear. “I beg your forgiveness, lass. I dinna mean to offend ye with ill-thought slander. ‘Twas, eh, habit, nothing more.”
She stiffened. He felt her stomach spasm under his forearm, and he winced.
Ach, he’d brought her to tears.
He opened his mouth to apologize again, but she interrupted with a sort of gasp.
“Nay, I confess, even given the little time I’ve known her, I find ‘rump-fed puttock’ a fitting name for the woman, be she a Cunningham or no,” she replied, snorting with mirth.
“I’ll not see her again without thinking it. ”
Laughing. She was laughing.
Relief coursed through him, followed by a quick flash of admiration. “I’m sure ye’ve said plenty of Montgomerys yourself, aye?” he teased, feeling unexpectedly lighthearted.
“Aye,” she admitted gamely. “My mother often called them half-witted fools.”