Wicked Highland Ways Page 12

  “I am no’ foolish enough to think ye have no’ had yer share of mistresses,” Brenda replied.

  “Gunn land is no place for things such as mistresses,” Bothan informed her. “Me tower is no’ like the Grant stronghold. Ye will find few luxuries inside it. For certain there is no’ enough room for any woman who makes her place through her position in me bed alone.”

  Brenda liked what he said. Oh, she had no right to enjoy knowing he didn’t have a mistress, and yet she couldn’t deny that she did. At least to herself. She bit her lip to keep her mouth closed. Bothan grunted after a moment of silence between them. He reached out and caught her wrist. He pressed a stick with a generous portion of roasted meat on it into her fingers.

  “Get some rest,” Bothan told her firmly. “It’s full moon now, and I will no’ be taking a chance on the Campbells finding us again. As soon as the horses are ready, we’ll take to the road.”

  He left her with the roasted rabbit. It wasn’t really hunger that made her lift the stick to her mouth. No, it was more of a sense of respect for Bothan and his men to ride longer hours than she had ever done before. They were hardened, and she wasn’t going to be the weakest member of their group.

  So she ate and lay back, pulling the cloak around herself and over her eyes so she might lock out the last of the sun and rest while she could.

  * * *

  It was later in the week when they heard riders again. Bothan had them traveling at night to make use of the full moon and the cover of darkness. Brenda heard the sound of the hooves approaching and felt her shoulders tense.

  Only men with a purpose traveled at night, ones who didn’t want anyone knowing what they were about. Sometimes it was as simple as lifting a few head of cattle from a neighboring clan. Rivalry between clans was common, but it often turned into feuds.

  Brenda listened intently, gauging the number of horses—more than ten, she was sure of it—and in the next few minutes, she knew there were at least twenty.

  But they were in a bad spot. On one side of the road the earth rose up above their heads, and on the other it dropped away steeply. The road had been cut through the slope. There was nothing to do but go forward and right into whoever was on the road.

  The Gunn retainers drew their swords.

  Bothan made for the place where the slope gave way to open land. It wasn’t forestland where they might hide easily, but at least it was better than where they were.

  Brenda clamped her thighs tight around the saddle, leaning forward to make certain she stayed on the back of the mare. Bothan dug his heels in, and they surged forward. In the distance, Brenda caught a glimpse of their company. Whoever it was, they had been taken by surprise. She heard their horses recoiling from the sight of other horses coming toward them.

  The turmoil gave Brenda and the Gunns the time to make it off the slope. Bothan’s men galloped up onto the open space, forming a hard line against the other men while Brenda found herself firmly pressed behind them.

  Bothan didn’t intend to run, though. He faced his unknown adversary, sword in hand. The moon was full, but the clouds were thick. They shifted slowly, moving out from in front of the moon so silver light illuminated them all.

  “Bothan Gunn?”

  Brenda gasped. She knew her cousin’s voice. Symon Grant lowered his sword and nudged his horse forward. It was enough for the moonlight to show his features clearly.

  “Symon,” Brenda declared. Relief surged through her as the Gunns replaced their swords.

  “Riding in the dead of night is dangerous, Laird Grant,” Bothan said as he dropped off his horse to give the animal a rest. He slid his hand along the animal’s neck before walking forward to offer Symon his hand.

  Her cousin Symon clasped Bothan’s hand, the two men closing their fingers around each other’s wrists.

  “I had news ye were riding north with Brenda,” Symon said, “so I wasn’t about to waste time sleeping when there was a full moon to ride by.”

  Her cousin looked past Bothan to where Brenda was. Maddox and two other men had planted themselves in front of her.

  “Christ in heaven,” Symon declared as he looked back at Bothan. “I’m grateful to ye, man.”

  Brenda pushed on Maddox’s shoulder. “Allow me to greet me cousin.”

  Maddox didn’t budge until Bothan turned and nodded toward his captain. It was a blunt reminder of who held the authority over her. But Brenda didn’t dwell on it because Maddox turned to the side, allowing her to slip past him. She grabbed the front of her skirts so she could run and barreled toward Symon.

  Her cousin caught her, clasping her so tightly her ribs ached.

  Brenda didn’t care. Tears eased from the corners of her eyes as she held on just as tightly to him.

  When Symon released her, Brenda discovered her knees were weak, but her shoulders felt so much lighter.

  It was finally over.

  The last few months of turmoil were finished at last. She turned and smiled at Bothan.

  “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Chief Gunn,” she said after she managed to drag a deep breath into her lungs.

  “Aye,” Symon Grant agreed. “I know I argued with ye, man. When the King decreed Brenda must go to England.”

  “As I said at the time, Laird Grant,” Bothan replied, “it had to be me, and I would no’ fail to retrieve her.”

  Brenda felt lament shifting inside her. Bothan had faced a challenge he wasn’t required to in riding after her. Life was often hard and unfair. When royals became involved, more than one of their fellow lairds had discovered personal choices had to give way to the decrees of the monarch. Many would have told Brenda to do her duty and make the best of it.

  She’d intended to do so.

  Yet she was so relieved to discover she didn’t have to.

  “We have much to be grateful to Chief Gunn for, indeed,” Brenda added.

  Something inside of her was threatening to break loose. A need that would undermine her choice to be her own woman. She found herself torn and completely baffled by the realization of not being content in what she’d decided she wanted for the rest of her life.

  Yet she had made her choice back when she went to Bhaic MacPherson’s bed. There were a dozen others she might have taken as a lover. The truth was she’d used a fellow laird in order to make her name notorious.

  There was no going back.

  Bothan locked gazes with her for a long moment. In the darkness, she wasn’t certain what she saw, but there was something shifting between them.

  Bothan looked at Symon. “Ye say ye’re grateful.”

  Symon turned to contemplate Bothan. They were both hardened men, but Bothan was larger. Not that Brenda expected her cousin to back down simply over a few inches. Still, she discovered herself noticing the difference between them.

  “Aye,” Symon said. “Ye’ve done me a service I can no’ repay.”

  “Ye can,” Bothan replied. “Get back on yer horse, and ride for home. Leave Brenda with me.”

  Silence hung between all three of them for a long moment. Brenda felt her heart accelerating as her cousin Symon remained silent, clearly weighing the idea.

  Brenda shook her head. “I would return to Grant land with ye, Symon.”

  Bothan didn’t look away from Symon. “I kicked yer arse once when ye needed it.”

  Symon stiffened. He reached down and curled his fingers around his wide belt.

  “Brenda is me wife,” Bothan declared firmly. His tone dared anyone to argue with him.

  Once more, Brenda discovered herself shocked by the way Symon appeared to be contemplating Bothan’s idea. It was as if the earth beneath her feet was crumbling and falling away. She stiffened, her temper coming to her aid in a flare. She wasn’t going to let anyone dictate her future. Symon had given her his word.

 
Brenda stepped back and looked at Bothan. “I will nae go north with ye.”

  Symon’s men were watching their laird, shifting in their saddles as they witnessed the confrontation. But Symon hadn’t moved. He was still staring at Bothan, taking his measure. Both of them were ignoring her, thrusting her into the role she’d so often been forced to endure because of her gender. Brenda struggled to breathe. Helplessness was something she couldn’t bear, and having it thrust upon her by Symon was the worst form of betrayal.

  “Ye claimed yer own wife, Symon,” Bothan reminded her cousin. “And I feel as strongly about Brenda. Go home. Brenda and I need time together.”

  Symon looked toward her. Brenda felt her eyes widening as she realized her cousin was being persuaded. Her cheeks were on fire, as every man riding with Bothan and her cousin was privy to the conversation. She wanted to keep the matter private, but there was no way to do so unless she simply bit her lip and let Symon believe she was amenable to the idea of going home with Bothan.

  “Ye gave me yer word, Symon,” she reminded her cousin.

  “And ye agreed with me last year when we both admitted to needing to start living again,” Symon responded gravely.

  Symon drew in a deep breath. Brenda watched his features settling into a hard mask. She knew the look, had seen it take over Symon’s face when he was facing a decision and felt he was correct even if the circumstances weren’t to his liking.

  She shook her head. “I will…nae…go north.”

  Bothan reached across the space between them and captured her wrist. Brenda turned her attention to him. But the look in his eyes stopped her for a moment. Determination was glittering in his eyes. She recoiled from it.

  Bothan made a sound under his breath. A moment later, he’d bent over and lifted her up and onto his shoulder.

  “Put me…down!” she hissed.

  His hand landed on her bottom instead.

  “Go home, Symon.” Bothan turned back to address Symon Grant. “Ye’ve seen that I’ve brought yer cousin home safely.”

  Brenda tried to straighten up, pushing her hands against Bothan’s hard back. He turned and headed toward his horse. She caught a glimpse of Symon watching her being carried off like a sack of grain before her cousin muttered something under his breath and turned his back on her.

  Leaving her completely alone with her fate.

  Betrayal cut through her heart as surely as a sword thrust through her chest. The only rights she had came from the men around her. She might have been promised her freedom, but without Symon ensuring it, Bothan would have his way.

  Over her dead body…

  Brenda renewed her effort to be free. Bothan grunted and dropped her onto her feet. She recoiled as he withdrew his dagger, the blade sharp and polished.

  “Christ, woman,” Bothan declared harshly. “Do nae look as though ye suspect me of doing murder to ye.”

  He grabbed the front of his kilt where the fabric was overlapped. A quick motion from his wrist and he’d neatly sliced into the wool fabric. He shoved the dagger back into the sheath tucked into his belt and yanked on the piece of wool. It tore down his front, leaving him a wide strip.

  Brenda gasped, realization coming too late. She should have run while he was cutting; now he reached out and caught her wrist, turning his body to pull her toward him while he wrapped the wool around her wrist.

  “Ye’re coming north,” he said as he tied a firm knot and reached for her other wrist.

  Brenda held her arm away from him. It was a doomed motion, but she couldn’t resign herself to surrender.

  Bothan’s eyes narrowed. He cupped the back of her neck instead, bringing her up against his body and sealing her protest beneath a hard kiss. It stole her breath, smashing into her resolve to deny him. The collision sent a shudder through her, one that felt bone-deep. The shock of it had her rebelling, shoving at his shoulder with her free hand.

  A moment later Bothan broke off the kiss, transferring his attention to her free wrist. She realized her error too late. He’d wrapped the wool around her free wrist and knotted her hands together before she’d finished hissing at him.

  “Yer choice is this.” Bothan cupped her chin and locked gazes with her. “Stay on yer mare or I will take ye up behind me.”

  Resistance was still boiling inside her. Betrayal fueled her temper, but Bothan’s eyes were full of determination. He pulled her closer so he could lower his tone.

  “Do us both a favor, lass, get on yer mare,” he warned her softly. “If I have ye too close, I fear we’ll be stopping so I can take the challenge blazing in yer eyes. Yer spirit is what drew me to ye. I’ve followed ye all the way to England, so do nae test me here. I promise ye I will have ye here on the trail as me men wait if ye do nae see the wisdom in granting me a wee bit of space right now.”

  Brenda grunted, trying to push away from him. Bothan held her fast, doing precisely what he’d just promised her he would.

  Take her challenge.

  But she was still trembling from his kiss.

  “I’ll ride the mare.”

  The words were past her lips without her ever realizing she’d decided to bend. Well, perhaps bend wasn’t precisely the correct word.

  Compromise.

  She needed to choose her battles, and with Bothan, it appeared selecting the time was going to be her only freedom. It wouldn’t be the first time she faced bad odds, though. It was a long way yet to the upper Highlands. Bothan would discover how much trouble she was before they arrived.

  The burly Highland chief could bet on it.

  * * *

  “She’s planning how to murder ye.”

  Bothan turned his head and eyed Maddox. His captain was twisting the ends of his beard as he stretched out on the ground.

  “Well,” Maddox started up again, “she might”—he lifted a finger into the air—“be contemplating how to castrate ye because ye’d have to live with the pain of no’ having yer—”

  Bothan growled at his captain, cutting off his last word.

  Maddox waggled his eyebrows.

  Bothan was weary but wide awake. He opened his eyes a few moments later, frustrated by the way sleep eluded him.

  Having her wasn’t enough.

  His mind was turning that fact over and over, trying to decipher it. One more fact to join the odd ones that accounted for his fascination with Brenda. Knowing he’d been choosing her because she was unlike any other woman he’d ever met hadn’t prepared him for the strange way she affected him.

  Tonight he wanted to discover more about what it was he was seeking in her.

  She had beauty.

  Red hair and a pleasing form most men would have praised her for. His member stirred at the sight of her, and yet what he was recalling about her most right then was her scent and how much he wanted to have it filling his senses.

  Longing…

  There was another idea Brenda stirred in him.

  Wanting to bed a woman, well, he’d encountered the need before. With Brenda it was stronger because she was brazen enough to face off with him and had been from the moment he met her. It was more than a show to entice him. With Brenda, he’d seen in her eyes the spark of determination to push him away. Just as she had on their wedding night.

  Only she’d sealed her mind against him once he’d become her husband.

  Bothan sat up, the idea of her shutting him out too much to bear. It was like lying back on the point of a dagger. He felt it pricking at his skin, making relaxing impossible. The only solution was to stand and move closer to the thing occupying his mind so completely.

  Brenda was lying on the ground near a large rock face. It would be the warmest spot for the night because the wind would be cut by the stone. But that wasn’t to say it wouldn’t be cold. The weather might be fine by day, but at night, it was still chilly.


  * * *

  Brenda should have been asleep.

  She wasn’t, though, and she couldn’t even claim fear was keeping her from getting some much-needed rest. She opened her eyes and caught sight of her bound wrists.

  Ye should be afraid…

  Well, she wasn’t. That fact in itself was a puzzle her mind seemed far more interested in solving than gaining some rest to help her make it through the next long day of riding.

  Ye’re a fool when it comes to Bothan Gunn.

  Aye, she was certainly that!

  Bothan had used a strip of wool from his plaid to secure her wrists. The wide length of fabric didn’t cut into her skin. The result left her somewhat limited in what she might accomplish with her hands but not helpless.

  Thank Christ…

  Brenda felt a wave of true despair wash through her. She couldn’t be helpless again. Too many memories already crowded her mind from times when she had been bent and unable to help herself. For all that she claimed to be able to stand up against those memories, the truth was when she was alone and in the dark, she wondered if insanity wouldn’t take her away if she was forced to face one more moment of pain.

  “Ye’re awake.”

  Brenda stiffened. Her eyes opened out of instinct, affording her a view of Bothan on his haunches beside her. There wasn’t much light, making him appear to be carved out of the fabric of midnight itself.

  He nodded slowly before reaching out to brush some hair back from her face.

  “I can do that meself,” she told him.

  “Aye.” He looked down at her wrists. “I made sure to bind ye so ye can see to yerself.”

  “Are ye expecting me to thank ye for it?” she asked.

  Bothan appeared to contemplate her question for a long moment. She watched the way his eyes narrowed before he came to a decision.

  “Ye’re correct, Brenda, we’re strangers,” he said.

  He reached for the section of his plaid that went across his shoulder and raised it up and over his head. She realized he would not take his kilt off, not here on the trail where he might have to roll onto his feet and face an impending threat. Bothan wouldn’t place his comfort over his ability to defend his men.