My Fair Highlander Page 4

  “But—I can’t remain here . . .”

  “What would ye have of me, Jemma? Should I ride up the path toward yer brother’s fortress and hope that his archers refrain from emptying their quivers until they see our faces and not just our Scottish clothing?”

  “You might have sent me up that path once we were close enough.”

  His lips curved slightly. The doors to the first tower opened, allowing light to illuminate him from a lantern held aloft in the hand of a servant. Gordon Dwyre stared at her face for a long moment, his expression turning dark.

  “I find that there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that ye are not unattended and getting yerself into harm’s way, madam. The men that ride the border land are often intent on foul business.”

  She raised one hand without thinking to touch the side of her face. Pain shot through her the moment her fingers braised it. Laird Barras’s lips became a hard line of disapproval. She had to tilt her chin up to keep her gaze locked with his. The man was large, and for some odd reason she was very aware of it. Sensation prickled all over her skin, that flutter of excitement returning.

  “Inside with ye, Jemma. My housekeeper will make ye welcome. I need to see to my walls in case those English marauders have any comrades out there set on harming me people now that they no longer have ye to torment.”

  “I cannot stay here.”

  Jemma learned one thing about Gordon Dwyre in the next moment. He was not a man who discussed matters he felt fell beneath his authority. The man stepped forward and swept her off her feet before she realized he was bold enough to handle her. Too accustomed to Synclair, she failed to bring her hands up fast enough to ward off the huge Scot. Barras had her cradled in his arms in the blink of an eye, against his chest with one arm beneath her knees and another behind her back. Her breath hissed through her teeth with surprise.

  “You must not.”

  Her voice was too high pitched, but that didn’t even slow the man down. He climbed the stairs and carried her right over the threshold while his arms bound her to him. He spun her loose, and she retreated from his larger frame. Her cheeks flamed with temper.

  “I have and I am nae sorry for it. Fate already gave you more luck tonight than ye have any right to expect. If me men hadn’t discovered yer mare, you’d be lying dead out there.” His voice tightened, and he stepped closer to narrow the gap between them. Once again he moved with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise, his hand latching on to the fabric of her skirt near her waistband where the cartridge pleats were deepest.

  “And it would nae have been an easy death, Jemma. Be very sure of that. For all that they are yer own countrymen, they would have raped ye until ye bleed and then kept at ye until ye died beneath them, shivering and helpless. Ye will stay in this tower where the walls can offer you protection.”

  His eyes flashed with emotion so powerful, she stepped away from it. But her unconscious motion carried her back into the tower, so he released her and grunted softly before turning around. His kilt fell in longer pleats in back, and they swayed with the motion of his walking. Beyond the open doors she could hear men working to unsaddle the horses. There was low conversation and the sharp sounds of the hooves hitting the stones of the courtyard. A hush fell when their laird appeared, proving that the man was not one of the lazy nobles who enjoyed his title while sending others to do the tasks his position required. Gordon Dwyre moved without hesitation back into the night while the doors were shut and the lanterns remained inside with her.

  “I do suggest ye mind the laird.”

  “Is that so?”

  The woman holding the lantern didn’t take offense. Jemma blushed deeper when she heard her own tone, because it was surly and the woman standing in front of her was Jemma’s elder. It didn’t matter if the servant was peasant born or not, age was worthy of respect. Instead of frowning or shooting her a cutting look designed to instill some manners in her, the woman’s lips curved into a smile.

  “I am named Ula, and ye would not be the first woman to discover herself placed exactly where the laird wants ye. If ye are in fact Lord Ryppon’s sister, yer sister-in-law should have told ye a thing or two about our laird when it comes to following a course that he’s set on.”

  Jemma stiffened, but her temper did her little good. Bridget hadn’t needed to tell her about her time in Barras Castle. Her brother had been enraged when his bride fled across the border to her kin before celebrating her marriage. Her kin had promptly gifted her to Gordon Dwyre because the man was their overlord. As far as Scotland went, he was a very powerful man. With a baby wearing the crown here, lairds were more powerful than ever. On their own land, their word was law. She shivered because instead of being frightened by that fact, she took solace in it. His words echoed inside her head as the expression on the English knight’s face rose up to sicken her with just how correct Barras was.

  “My apologies for being ungrateful. I seem to have forgotten how to be polite.”

  Ula nodded her head. It was a small reminder that the woman did expect respect even if she was a servant in the castle. That was only right and something that brought shame to Jemma again. Her father would not have approved.

  Jemma sighed, suddenly feeling lost. She didn’t recognize a single face or wall; even the clothing was foreign to her gaze. Coupled with the fact that she had nothing to call her own but what she wore, the feeling of being misplaced grew until it threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Come along, lass. Let us see if yer face can’t be cleaned up a wee bit.”

  Jemma stared at the woman but nodded because it was something to do besides standing in the door frame.

  But her misgivings grew with every step that saw her going deeper into the Scottish fortress. The stories told around the winter hearth whispered across her mind with tales of women who never returned from such places.

  Gordon couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt his temper burn so hot. He was a man who knew full well that controlling his impulses was wise, but tonight he was being tested beyond everything he’d ever known.

  “Ye look ready to kill.” Beacon Barras spoke softly, but he knew that Gordon would hear him. The man was his friend, but Gordon still snarled at him. Beacon shrugged, unconcerned.

  “No one would think ill of ye if ye did. That was a right nasty bit of doing that we interrupted.”

  “I daresay the English would consider it ill if I ran those pitiful excuses for men through. ’Tis a worry we do nae need with the winter creeping down from the mountains.”

  “Is that truly Ryppon’s sister?” Beacon was watching the darkness beyond the curtain wall, keeping his gaze moving because he wasn’t as at ease as his words might make a person think.

  “Aye, and much as I like the man, I had more respect for him this morning. What manner of fool allows any woman out so late in the day? She didna go riding this morning and ’tis my thinking that she should have waited until the sun rose on the morrow.”

  Gordon clamped his mouth shut. He’d spent too much time watching Jemma. Rumors were already making the rounds that he lacked the courage to approach the lass. It might sound innocent, but any hint that he wasn’t bold enough to take what he wanted was an invitation for some clan to think his borders were easy pickings. There would be raids if that happened and blood flowing when he rode out to protect his people.

  “Well now, she’s nae a timid thing. I’d wager her brother didna give her leave to ride out.”

  That posed a very good question, one Gordon felt beginning to burn in his mind. Was the lass truly so foolish as to ride out on her own without considering that the night held dangers? Her sister-in-law had fled across the border, so maybe Englishwomen were being reared in ignorance these days.

  He hoped not.

  He’d thought the lass spirited, not foolish. The last thing he needed was a marzipan bride—a woman who was nothing but pride and pretty features. He needed a woman who could use her wits when the time calle
d for it.

  “It seems that ye have gotten yer wish to meet the lass after all.” Beacon offered him a slight nod of his head. “So I’ll bid ye good luck, Laird.”

  Luck indeed. Gordon frowned because his hope was strangling on a rope made of facts. He’d allowed his fascination to lead him astray. A bride was chosen for her family connection and gain it brought to the clan. Not because he’d become infatuated with an idea spun from his own imagination.

  It would be better to not see the lass again.

  He ground his teeth together and lost the battle to resist the urge to discover exactly what sort of female she was. Girl or woman? God help him if she was the woman he’d imagined her to be.

  Because he didn’t think he’d be able to give up such a prize now that he’d managed to bring it home.

  Jemma sat still, listening to the sounds of the tower. It was strange and yet familiar. Ula had left her while muttering about fetching warmed porridge. Jemma found herself scanning the room and noticing where the glow of the lantern ended and the shadows took control. The shapes of the walls were different, but the feeling of the stone around her one that she was accustomed to.

  Or should be.

  Yet she still felt ill at ease. Standing up, she paced to the end of the large chamber, stopping when she reached a window. The shutters were still open, allowing in the night breeze. The air smelled fresh and full of winter. But what she felt most of all was the presence of the master of the castle. Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras. Her rescuer and captor. It was truly a strange combination, one her mind toyed with while she turned to pace back across the floor.

  She gasped, her heart freezing when she discovered him standing behind her, without a sound, as though he’d been summoned by her own thoughts. Sensation rippled across her skin, leaving gooseflesh behind.

  “Evening, lass. I trust ye are comfortable in me castle.”

  Chapter Three

  The man moved too silently; there had to be something unnatural about him.

  Jemma felt frustrated with her own thoughts, finding them too somber for her liking. Men such as Gordon Dwyre were still only men; she’d felt his heart beat and his breath filling his chest. He was as real as she.

  Instead of comforting her, that thought only blew across the coals of longing that were left from being pressed up against him.

  Her gaze swept the Scot from head to toe, picking out all the details that made him so silent when he moved. Strength was etched into his body, proving that he was more a man of action than words. He still wore his kilt, but the pommel of his sword was no longer sitting above his right shoulder. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking that he was now less dangerous.

  The man embodied the idea. It was in the way he moved and the manner that he held his arms. Ever so slightly away from his body, his fingers hooked into the wide leather belt he wore. A simple wool doublet was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. A little ripple of awareness crossed her skin, and she bit her lower lip to dispel it.

  “Ula knows her craft well. She’ll not leave ye wanting beneath me roof.”

  Jemma realized that she’d been struck silent by her desire to look at him. That annoyed her because such had never happened before. It shouldn’t be troubling her now, especially when she needed her wits to convince the burly Scot to return her home. She had freedom of choice there. Here she was subject to Gordon’s will, and that knowledge sat uneasy on her. For all that her life had been a simple country one, she realized that she had never lacked freedom.

  “Yes, Ula was most kind.”

  He stepped farther into the room, his kilt swaying slightly. She noticed the garment because it was so different from everything she was accustomed to. In fact, Gordon Dwyre was unlike anything she knew, which must explain why she had difficulty mastering her thoughts when he was near.

  Of course. That made sense, and understanding would lead her to logical thinking. That was what she needed.

  “I shall remember her fondly.”

  A soft chuckle filled the room. Gordon closed more of the gap between them. “Are ye in a hurry to depart, lass? The sun will nae be rising for some time.”

  “Of course I am eager to return home. I mean no insult by such. However grateful I am for your assistance, returning to Amber Hill is my first priority.”

  His expression tightened. “Well now, lass, ye see there is our conflict. Returning ye to any place that can nae keep ye from harm.”

  “I told you, it was my own doing.”

  Laird Barras folded his arms over his chest. “I recall that very well, lass, which is why I hesitate to take ye back where ye are clearly able to work yer will over those who should be doing their duty to keep ye from harm.”

  “I made a mistake in leaving so late in the day.”

  “Ye did that, sure enough, and it nearly cost ye yer life.” There was no mistaking the judgment in his tone. Jemma bristled beneath its cutting edge.

  “It is not my normal way to challenge the rules set down by my brother.”

  “I disagree, lass. I’ve watched ye riding across that section of land too many times to count.”

  Watched me riding?

  Jemma twisted her hands in the fabric of her skirt while pacing a few steps away from him. Her belly twisted with sensation.

  He’d watched her, too many times to count?

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” There were only the candles on the table, and as she moved, she left their light behind her. The shadows felt more secure with their darkness to help conceal her emotions.

  “Nae, lass, ye should not have been out where me men and I could watch ye.”

  His voice rang with heavy judgment. It needled her pride, setting a spark to her temper.

  “I am not your concern, sir, and I was always on my father’s land.”

  He followed her, and she stood torn between the urge to retreat farther or stand fast to remain in the glow from the candles. Something flickered in his eyes that looked like approval.

  “At the moment ye are, because it was my men that I just risked to save ye. Be very sure that I do nae place me men in jeopardy for just any reason, even if ye are too foolish to be allowed the freedom yer brother has given ye.”

  Jemma gasped, caught somewhere between pride and astonishment that he would consider it his right to decide what was best for her. That desire struck her as oddly intimate, rippling over her skin like a caress.

  “Making an offer for me does not grant you the right to dictate to me, sir.”

  He uncrossed his arms and she shivered, her memory filling with how it felt to be pressed against him. A flicker of excitement returned to her so quickly she chewed on her lower lip, needing some outlet for all the churning sensations trapped within her.

  “No, lass, pulling ye off the ground before ye were raped does.” His voice cut through the air like a hot knife. There was nothing friendly in his expression, only harsh judgment.

  “I asked yer brother for the right to court ye only, I never offered for ye and I’m thinking that a wise thing at the moment. I do nae need a wife that has nae got the sense of a child.”

  His rejection stung.

  Jemma felt it traveling through her like a lash from a whip. She’d only felt leather bite into her flesh once and for the very same reason. Lack of attention to what was happening around her.

  She had been a mere ten years old and walked into a section of the training yard she had no place being. A thick, braided leather whip sliced down across her back before the men noticed that their space had been invaded. It had been her mistake to go there, and her father had made that clear with a lecture witnessed by every man training in that yard. It had been her sire’s place to reprimand her. It was a lesson she had never forgotten until her father died.

  That made Gordon Dwyre’s judgment sting even more. She was not perfect, but that did not mean she needed another man attempting to act as her parent.

  “Well then, it seems we are in agreement.
I do not belong here, Lord Barras.” She pronounced his title with an English accent to drive home just how different they were.

  The man snorted at her.

  One direct sound that communicated just how much he disagreed with her. Jemma felt her chin rise—just a tiny amount—but his attention lowered to it, noticing the stubborn motion. His eyes flashed with an equal amount of determination to see her accept his will.

  Which she would not do.

  “I will look forward to sunrise and my departure.”

  He didn’t care for her telling him what would be. Jemma witnessed the flare of resistance that lit his eyes, but he drew in a sharp breath, battling against the urge to argue with her. Jemma turned her back on him. It was a bold thing to do, possibly as foolish as riding out of Amber Hill against Synclair’s wishes.

  But the tension was becoming unbearable. She had to move, do something to force the moment to pass before she buckled beneath the strain.

  It was more than that . . .

  She dug her fingernails into her palms while time felt as though it was frozen. She could still feel Gordon behind her.

  Gordon?

  When had she begun thinking of the Scot with his first name? To be sure that was going to bring her nothing but lament. The man wasn’t interested in her, far from it. He considered her foolish and a nuisance. His judgment stung in spite of her determination to cast it aside by reminding herself that she shouldn’t care a bit what he thought. Just because she enjoyed his glances.

  And being pressed against his hard body . . .

  She stiffened, trying to force the memory aside, but it was a battle that her body wasn’t willing to lose. The tension became too much, and she turned her head to look back at him. The spot where the large Scot had stood was empty. Jemma turned and scanned the dark corners of the room but found them empty of anything except furniture.

  He did move silently. It was a pity that it was not so simple to remove his memory from her mind. Disappointment flowed through her, prickling her with a sense of loss that she cursed.