My Fair Highlander Read online

  However, many a royal match had been broken before the wedding ever took place. There was pressure from the French to see the little Queen of Scots married to their prince. Such a union was what fueled the war of rough wooing that saw the English trying to kidnap the baby queen and take her into England where she would grow up happily anticipating her wedding date with Edward.

  The games of the royals set the tone for uncertainty among their subjects. Jemma cast a look toward the green hills of Scotland. What sort of man was he—Gordon Dwyre? She should agree to meet him—quick glances were one thing, but she knew nothing else because she had never allowed the man to converse with her. Meeting him was the logical choice, the well-mannered one, and marriage was after all a matter for logical thinking not contemplation of hot glances.

  But that was what her mind dwelled on.

  She would tell Curan at supper that she had thought the matter through and decided to be introduced to the Scot. Many noble daughters never had the opportunity to even speak their opinions of their intended grooms; her brother was being kind.

  So why did she feel so torn?

  He was spending far too much time waiting on her.

  Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras, reined his stallion in and scanned the edge of his land. His retainers were fanned out behind him. They knew their places well, blending in with the land formations to make it look as though he was alone.

  Today, there was no taper of dust rising up into the afternoon air. He moved his gaze off the hills and felt disappointment sour his disposition.

  That was annoying. He’d never formally met the woman, at least not beyond watching her race across the land that was so close he might almost call it his own, or ducking into the hallways beyond the great hall where he had met her brother. His lips curved up with the memories. The woman rode with a wild abandon that drew his attention when there was much he should be investing his time in that did nae involve riding out onto the ridge to watch her. When she discovered him sitting at her father’s table, her eyes turned dark, snaring his attention in a far different manner. It was almost if the woman was daring him to come after her.

  That was something he had a great deal of difficulty ignoring. Much like coming out to see her riding in the early morning.

  There was something fascinating about the way she leaned low over the neck of her horse and let the animal surge forward with every bit of its strength.

  It also drew a frown from him. He’d admit that freely enough. The woman didn’t seem to have any fear of breaking her neck. But that idea only took him back to being enchanted with her and why she took to the hills so often. It was almost as if she was running away from something. There were times he swore he could feel her pain on the wind.

  “Well, lads, it looks like we’re going to be left wanting today.”

  Maybe that was for the better. He had a clan to look after and several smaller lairds who surrounded his land to maintain friendships with. Sitting on his stallion and watching for his English neighbor’s sister wasn’t going to accomplish any good. However much he might be fascinated by her, he needed a wife who would be his partner, not a girl who did nothing with her time but ride. That was a hard fact, and he was accustomed to facing such; he wouldn’t have lasted two months as laird if he couldn’t choose the best things for his clan. It was more logical to seek a wife other than Jemma.

  But knowing it was the best choice, the one rooted in logic, didn’t keep him from nursing disappointment all the way back to his castle.

  Jemma was late to supper. Curan narrowed his eyes until he noticed the way she walked. Her brother processed a keen sense of sight, one he’d developed while riding across hostile territory in France at the side of the king.

  “Is Bridget feeling better?”

  Her brother’s face reflected his frustration. “My wife claims that she is well and balanced, yet she cannot enter this hall without her belly heaving.”

  Jemma froze with one hand on a round of bread. “Oh . . . I see . . . oh, how wonderful. That is welcome news. Amber Hill needs a baby.” She smiled, joy filling her.

  But Curan looked far from feeling wonderful, deep concern etched into his face.

  “It is the way of it. You should take one thing at a time to her and see what does not cause her stomach upset. Then we shall know what it is that does not agree with her. I understand that all women have something that they cannot bear to smell while they are with child.”

  One of her brother’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?” His gaze went to the table, scanning the dishes that were laid out for their supper.

  “Father’s constitution was very delicate . . . when he was ill . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she broke a piece of bread off the round in her hands but discovered she had no appetite. Grief renewed its grip on her, making her ache with loneliness. “I shall take this bread to her now and see if it pleases or not.”

  Her brother caught her wrist before she rose from her chair. “I am sorry I was not here to share in the duties, Jemma.”

  She shook off his grip and picked up a wooden plate holding warm bread. Snapping a cloth, she covered the bread with it. “It was a daughter’s place, Curan, and I do not regret a moment of it, only that I seemed to be unable to resume my life once father had gone. You were correct to take issue with me this morning. I didn’t realize that I had turned my back on everything until you forced me to see it. It is time to move on with my own life. I will meet Lord Barras if you still wish to consider a union between our houses.” She lifted the plate up and offered her brother a steady look. “But I do know a bit about soothing unsettled bellies. Let us see if Bridget finds my methods of any comfort. It is time for Amber Hill to have new life again.”

  Approval shone in her brother’s eyes along with relief. For all his strength, there was a good heart buried deep inside his hardened exterior. Turning her back on him, she made her way through the corridors of Amber Hill. It was a modern fortress, one of the towers being completed even now. Her brother hoped to have the roof in place before the weather turned foul. That would allow the builders to finish the inside of the tower during the frozen months when building furniture and finishing window shutters might be done.

  Bridget Newbury was sound asleep in the huge bed she shared with her new husband. Her hair was flowing across the pillow, but her face had a pinched look that betrayed how her condition was needling her. Jemma knew well how to keep her steps light and silent. She placed the bread on the table, pulling back the cloth cover enough so that her sister-in-law might see it when she awoke. She would eat at some point and her belly would ripen.

  That was a pleasant thought.

  Jemma walked back down the stairs and turned to go toward the stable. The sun was beginning to set, the horizon turning scarlet. But there was still an hour of light, and today she had earned her riding time. That fact gave her satisfaction, and she realized that she had not felt so in a very long time. There had been nothing save worry and dread filling her, but it was beginning to drain away now, allowing her relief. She noticed the beauty of the evening sky, the manner in which the sun illuminated the drying plants covering the ground. Even the air smelled sweeter.

  Her mare let out an eager snort, dancing from side to side in the stall. There was no one about, because supper was on the table in the hall. Jemma saddled the mare herself and led her out into the yard.

  “Hold, Mistress,” Synclair bellowed at her from the battlements. He was the senior knight among her brother’s men and heir to a title as well. But he seemed to have a liking for earning his place. With expert agility, he came down the stone stairs that were set into the back side of the curtain wall, one hand on the pommel of his sword to keep the weapon steady where it hung from his hip. Synclair aimed his blue eyes at her.

  “Where are you heading, Mistress?”

  This knight always did the unexpected. While everyone supped, he was the one walking the curtain wall.

  “Just taking a short ride.�
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  “The sun will be gone soon, Mistress. Best you plan to do your riding when the morning has broken.” His eyes suddenly darted to something past her, and his expression tightened.

  Jemma turned to see Lady Justina making a rare appearance on the walkway that was attached to her tower-top chamber. Or what it should be called was a prison, for the lady was not free to go where she wished. Synclair was captivated by her, yet she seemed to avoid the knight to the point of secluding herself within her chamber; that was the one place Synclair would not venture. To do so would be to infringe upon the code of chivalry. But the lady was making her way along the curtain wall now, walking where she might be intercepted without honor being tarnished. Synclair began moving toward her without any further protests, drawn to her with a light in his eyes that made Jemma slightly jealous.

  No man had ever looked at her in such a manner, and it was the truth that she was partially to blame for such. She watched the way the knight took to the stairs that would connect with the wall Lady Justina was moving across. Silently but with firm purpose, he climbed those steps with hard motions of his legs.

  Jemma mounted her horse, taking the chance to leave the yard before one of the other knights worked up the courage to challenge her. She had done what she should, performed to everyone’s satisfaction, but there was part of her that still ached for her father. She needed a ride, even a short one, even if she knew that she had been using her riding to escape from harsh reality. Tonight, she would use the ride to soak up the life about her.

  She wasn’t escaping today, simply tempering the feelings of loss that still lived inside her. Her mare took to the open land quickly, stretching her legs out after being kept inside most of the day. Above Jemma the sky was afire with gold and crimson, the night breeze beginning to whip up around her. It turned her cheeks cold, but she only laughed. Her dress was good English wool, and on her feet was a sturdy pair of boots that kept her ankles warm even when her skirts flipped up and away from her legs.

  She crested a hill and gasped when she found herself galloping toward a body of armor-clad men. The mare let out a frightened squeal before rearing up. Fear making her skittish, the horse pawed at the unexpected arrival. Jemma battled to remain in the saddle, but it proved impossible with the mare so far up on her hind legs. Jemma’s thighs lost their grip, and she fell to the ground while the horse landed on her front feet and charged off, away from the men who had frightened her.

  Jemma lost every bit of breath in her when she hit the ground. Pain speared through her from the side of her hip where she landed first and then all the way through her body, right up into her mouth. Her teeth slammed together so fast, every tooth hurt from the impact. All the pain felt trapped inside her, building and burning while she struggled to draw in one single breath. She was powerless to do anything but suffer. Her heart felt as if it might burst, and her lungs burned for want of air. Dark spots danced in front of her eyes before she managed to force her jaw open and suck in a breath. It wasn’t large enough, but it kept her vision from darkening further. Pushing it out, she drew another one in, this time succeeding in filling her aching lungs.

  “Well now, what have we here? A wild Scot woman off to meet with her lover?”

  Men snickered all around her, the sound frightening beyond belief.

  Jemma drew in another breath and narrowed her eyes at the one who had spoken. The sound of their laughter might be frightening to someone who was easily scared, which she was not.

  I dare not fall into panic’s grasp . . .

  The men halted their horses, ringing her while they stared down at her from beneath the visors of their helmets. There were at least thirty of them, and not a single one offered to help her off the ground. Pain still maintained its grip. Her hips became numb, or there was simply too much pain for her mind to feel it all. Dragging in a few more breaths, she succeeded in restoring her sight. What she viewed wasn’t pleasant. Smirks decorated the lips of those men watching her. They were unkempt, their faces sporting several days’ worth of whiskers. The armor they wore was darkened from lack of polish, and their behavior further attested to their lawless nature.

  “I believe our fortune is looking up. Here’s a treat for us all to sample. I hear these Scottish bitches like their men rough and randy.”

  “You have no right to wear the plumes of a knight with immodest speech such as that.” Jemma pushed herself up and winced at the new pain that resulted. Her hips were no longer blissfully numb. Red-hot pain pierced them when she forced her body to stand.

  “Mind your tongue, wench, or I’ll cut it out.” He even pulled a small dagger from the top of his boot to threaten her with. The blade was dark, and a shiver raced down her spine when she realized that it was dried blood that made it so. “I don’t take orders from women.”

  “I am Jemma Ramsden, sister of the Barron Ryppon.”

  The man with the dagger spat on the ground in front of her. “You are what I say you are, and listen to me well—claiming to be noble-blooded carries a high punishment.” He swung one leg over the back of his horse and hit the ground with a thud. His gaze settled on her chest, and the tip of his tongue appeared to take a swipe along his lower lip. He reached out and struck her across her face. It was a vicious blow, one that sent her tumbling away from him.

  “Listen to me, lads, these Scots will stop at nothing to protect their thieving way of life. I have heard of Lord Ryppon, just like the rest of you, and I tell you this. No border baron would allow his gently bred sister to ride across the border land with her thighs spread over the saddle. She lies.”

  “I do not. I am Curan Ramsden’s sister. The border land is no place for weak-kneed daughters, and that is why I was never taught to shiver at the sight of my own shadow.” Jemma wiped a hand across her mouth, removing the blood trickling out of the corner. “You will keep your hands off me, sir.”

  “Hands?” He snickered again and reached down to cup his crotch with one of his mail-gloved gauntlets. “I’m planning on putting more than my hands on you. I’ve got a thick English cock for your lying Scottish flesh to entertain. We’ve been charged with finding your queen, and it has been too long since me and my men have had any fun. Ryppon would never let his sister out of his fortress this late in the day. You’re riding out to meet your lover, and I plan to help you get the tumble you came out here looking for. Get on your back if you want it without pain.”

  There were a few low grumbles of agreement that sent a chill down her back. It was icy cold and full of dread, but Jemma held her chin steady.

  “You’ll keep your hands from me, sir, and that is the last time I will tell you so.”

  “Good. I’m sick of your talking.”

  He reached for her, and she lifted her leg to plant her foot squarely on top of the crotch he’d so blatantly tried to threaten her with. Her boot pressed down on top of soft flesh before the knight let out a strangled cry. He stumbled backward a few paces, sending a surge of hope through her, but it was short-lived. With a vicious snarl he turned to glare at her. Fury lit his eyes, and he let out a foul curse while rubbing his injured flesh. Lust mingled with that anger, making her fight against the urge to back away from him. It was instinct, but Jemma forced her feet to stand firm. She refused to crumple at his feet; doing so would only seal her fate because he was the sort of man that preyed on those less powerful than himself.

  “You’ll pay for that, bitch! I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed when I’m finished with your cunt.”

  He lunged toward her, his comrades cheering him on. But his grasping hands never touched her. Instead, she heard the pounding of hooves so close she knew the horse was going to trample her beneath its deadly hooves. She stood still, accepting that fate instead of the one the unkempt knight had planned for her. Jemma actually smiled, taking in a deep breath in anticipation of the horse crushing her body beneath it.

  But no pain punctured her body. In its place a hard arm scooped her off her feet, pulling he
r up and on top of the beast that had galloped into the ring of Englishmen. The sudden appearance of that rider sent the English into a frenzy of panic. Their horses reared, and she heard the sound of their armor shifting. There were cries and curses, but most of it was drowned out by the sound of the horse she’d been tossed across. Her head went over the saddle to hang down on one side. She gained a crazy view of the ground and hooves all moving too quickly to make sense of from upside down. The fact that she had declined to eat supper suddenly served her very well, for there was nothing in her stomach to sicken her.

  A hard hand pressed her down, helping to keep her on top of the horse. A new sound rang out around her; it was a solid chanting in Gaelic.

  It looked as if the English knights had found what they were searching for—the Scots they so arrogantly believed themselves better than.

  For the moment, she prayed that the Scots won.

  Chapter Two

  The Scots didn’t need divine intervention.

  They took the English by surprise, which gave them the advantage. Streams of tartan-wearing men surged over the hill, the horses following close behind each other. The English had been ringed around her, their attention on what their leader was doing. Now their horses reared up, fear in their eyes. With no warning, the Scots chanted again, and their deep voices boomed around the startled English like thunder breaking above their heads. The fading light lent more strength to their attack for it seemed as if they materialized out of the night.

  “Hold this for me, Bryon.”

  Whoever had pulled her off the ground tossed her once more. This time she landed in a tangle of her own clothing on the ground at the feet of a small group of younger boys. Jemma snarled as she tried to get her head upright, but the bouncing of her head upside down had muddled her senses. It took several moments for her sight to stop spinning, and still more time to gain control of her body again. She kicked at her skirts because they seemed to be stuck, trapping her feet where she could not use them. A soft male chuckle drifted over her ears before she was hooked beneath her arms and lifted up.