To Conquer a Highlander Page 4

  “Mount up, lads.”

  His men moved in the same moment he spoke. Their horses must have been kept off in the distance, because now there were rows of them, each one strong and unfearing of the blackness surrounding it. A younger lad brought a huge stallion closer to his laird. The animal pawed at the ground, snorting with impatience. Torin gained the saddle with one powerful motion of his large body. Shannon found herself staring at the graceful way he moved. Almost beautiful. There was nothing clumsy about him.

  He held his hand out to her. A gasp passed her lips, and her face turned scarlet as he caught her watching him. With a shake of her head, she backed up, away from that hand.

  He grunted, and a moment later her feet left the ground as his men lifted her up, tossing her rather precariously onto the back of his horse. She had to duck her chin to avoid being hit by the thick scabbard of his claymore. The horse moved and she felt herself slipping over the other side of the huge beast, the fabric of her gown making it simple to slide across the sleek hide of the animal because she wasn’t close enough to the man to share the saddle.

  Torin caught her bound wrists and stopped her. He lowered his head and eased her arms down his body until her bound wrists were settled in front of his belly. Her face was pulled tight against his back while he pushed her arms down over his chest. She sputtered with outrage, but the man simply settled her arms around his waist without any concern for her modesty. The length of rope he’d left between her hands made it possible for her to sit up once her arms were lower, but if she raised them, her face had to be pressed against his back because of how large his chest was.

  “I told ye, Shannon. Ye are bound for McLeren land with me.”

  He sent the horse up the hill in the next moment. She bounced in a jumble of fabric and legs, landing on the saddle with a harsh jolt that traveled all the way up her back to slam her teeth together.

  “Tighten yer arms around me, and grasp the horse with yer thighs, woman, or ye’ll nae be able to walk for a week.”

  Cursed Highlander.

  Yet he was right. Her only other choice, an ill-advised one, was to suffer being bounced like a sack, leaving her with an aching body, and her most tender parts would receive the most abuse. But grasping him sent a shiver through her. He was hard, his body covered in muscle that was warm beneath her hands. A strange enjoyment flooded her when she opened her fingers and laid her palms flat against his belly. The touch, disturbingly intimate, startled her, and she closed her hands quickly in response.

  But the next bounce forced the breath right out of her because she was not concentrating on keeping her jaw set. Her teeth hit each other, sending pain through her head. The motion continued down her spine, snapping her like a length of leather. Sweat popped out on her forehead, while the pain lingered. Torin never hesitated. He kept his stallion moving, keeping his word.

  Forcing her fingers open, Shannon laid them against his belly again. This time she scooted up behind him and tightened her legs around the horse beneath her. She thought she heard a sound of approval come from him but didn’t dwell too closely on it. Her pride was already suffering. She had to move in unison with him, her hips flexing forward and back in harmony with the motion of the stallion. Her arms needed to remain firmly around him to keep her seat from returning to the jarring bouncing.

  Her face turned scarlet and remained that way in spite of the chilly night. She’d spent many an hour thinking about what she’d missed on May Day, and tonight that lack of knowledge was proving difficult to bear. She’d never suspected that a man would feel so good in her arms, that holding him would send little fingers of sensation into her flesh. The hard muscles covering his back didn’t feel unyielding; instead they seemed to impart a sense of strength and protection that began a tightening in her belly. Even the way he smelled didn’t repulse her—fresh and earthy, making her achingly aware of his masculinity, drawing her attention to his body and the strength lying under her fingertips. This close, she noticed just how much stronger he was than any other man she’d met.

  She snorted at her own thoughts. Aye, stronger, and the man was her captor. Her father’s lands were considered middle ground in Scotland. Torin McLeren was a Highlander. He surpassed every tale she’d ever heard about how adept they were in the art of war and getting what they desired. Being tied about him was certainly proof enough of that. Yet so was the way he guided the stallion through the darkest hours of the night. There was no missing his skill. She’d have to be blind not to see him for what he was—a fine warrior.

  Which only opened the door to despair. While more ground fell behind them and the sun began to turn the horizon pink, she couldn’t help but feel the bite of foreboding. Even being sent off to marry hadn’t stolen so much of her spirit, because at least there was honor in becoming a wife, even one desired for nothing more than her bloodline.

  Now she was a hostage instead of a bride. She would be a McBoyd among McLerens, who had recently lost kin to her own clansmen. That promised her a chilly reception once Torin reached his Highland fortress. The rope around her wrists was a hard reminder of just what position she held now that her father’s retainers had failed to protect her. If the king truly was dead and her father sworn to following those who had helped to murder him, a dungeon on McLeren ground might be a kinder fate than she would have faced in Edinburgh. She just wished she didn’t feel so helpless. Dread dug into her belly, and she hated it. Never once had she felt so much fear. The taste of it was bitter indeed. She pushed it down, forcing herself to ignore it, but it proved a constant battle that made every minute feel longer.

  Curse men and their greed, for tonight it was costing her dearly.

  Three

  Torin raised his hand just after daybreak. His men pulled up and dismounted quickly. The horses were allowed to walk toward a small stream, where the animals lowered their heads to drink.

  Her captor lifted her hands over his head easily and lowered her to the ground with one arm. Her feet were numb and her knees wobbly, but Shannon stiffened her legs while pushing her loose gown down from where it had dried against her skin, the mud acting like glue to keep her dress raised.

  “You may relieve yerself behind that outcropping there. Go any farther, and I promise ye I’ll be right on yer tail, and for the rest of our journey ye’ll be relieving yerself with me standing beside ye.”

  Beast.

  The man was the furthest thing from chivalrous there could be, but she turned and headed where he pointed before he took offense. It was humiliating having to be grateful for the privacy, but she was.

  “And be quick, or I’ll be up there looking for ye.”

  She didn’t answer. The man wasn’t her father or even a relative, so she didn’t owe him any respect. Besides, she’d been playacting for years with her sire, making it look as though she gave him the deference the church claimed she owed him. Maybe that was why fate had turned so ugly against her.

  Shannon stood for a moment to ponder that idea but simply couldn’t force her mind to absorb it. She refused to believe she was less in the eyes of heaven because of her gender. Many would brand her a heretic for thinking such, but all around her there was male and female, and neither could exist without the other.

  The forest around her was full of sounds, the new day being greeted by birds beginning to return from their winter grounds. Patches of snow still lay beneath the branches of the trees, but it had melted where the sun shone directly on it. Spring would be arriving soon, and all the bare limbs would be sporting buds. But for the moment, the land was still held in winter’s grasp. She might run but would face freezing once the sun set tonight. Her pair of robes was not constructed from fabric heavy enough to protect her from the elements, and her arisaid was not thick enough to keep her warm. Building a fire would only serve to draw Torin to where she was hidden, and not building one would see her dying a slow death from the winter chill.


  Returning was her only real option, even if her pride balked at thinking it. Attempting escape was only setting herself on a path to death or being run down. Torin wouldn’t be an easy man to elude, of that she was sure.

  She was clumsy with her wrists still tied, making raising her gown more cumbersome than normal, but she wasn’t going to ask the beast for help relieving herself. She’d manage.

  It chafed to return, but with no better option, Shannon dragged her feet back toward the McLerens. She rounded the outcropping and jumped back a pace when she ran into Torin. Her feet landed on the back of her gown, pulling the fabric tight enough to rob her of her balance. She raised her face to his as she felt her body tumbling backward. He looked more surprised than she, his large body reacting with a jerk and a reach toward his claymore. Shannon landed on her backside at his feet, and with her wrists bound, she couldn’t keep her body from rolling all the way into the damp snow. It soaked through her robe, sending a gasp past her lips.

  Torin muttered something beneath his breath and reached for her.

  “I’ll manage myself.” She batted at his attempt to help her, slightly shocked at how easily she’d struck the man. It had been an impulse, and one that rose up so fast, she didn’t have any chance to temper it with reason.

  He frowned at her. “Oh aye, I can see how well ye are doing.”

  Her cheeks colored. “Ye’re a beast to make fun of me, considering that ye are the one who bound my wrists. I’ll wager that you would find it a bit of a strain to manage yer kilt with rope knotted about yer hands.”

  She did not worry if his pride took injury from her words. She refused to care at all about his ego. Her robes were a tangled mess around her knees now, baring her legs to his gaze. His expression darkened, a muscle on the side of his jaw twitching. He reached down and hooked her upper arms while she struggled to sit up, trying to get her feet under her in some sort of ladylike fashion, without spreading her thighs wide.

  “Are ye daft, woman? Wearing shoes out in this weather? Where are yer boots?”

  He stood her on her feet and continued to aim a hard stare at her. She had to tip her chin up to maintain eye contact with him. The urge to scoot back rose up inside her, and she clamped down on it.

  “And who struck ye?”

  Now his voice was deadly. The tone confused her, for it struck her as protective. She looked away, too unsure to continue looking at him. The man was her captor, not a friend she might look to for comfort.

  He cupped her jaw and raised her face to his once again. The contact of his fingers against her jaw was jarring. She was stepping away from him out of pure instinct, but he reached out and caught her wrists where the rope bound them to keep her near.

  “Ye’ll be telling me what I want to know, Shannon.”

  “I will not.” She jerked her chin out of his hold, gaining another frown from him. His eyes were as dark as midnight, along with his hair, two things the night had prevented her from noticing before.

  “I owe ye no obedience.”

  That muscle twitched on the side of his jaw again. Dark hair covered his chin now, but the shortness of the beard told her he normally shaved. The dark growth gave him an even harder look. But his lips suddenly twitched up into the briefest of grins.

  “Well now, I suppose I can see where ye might think that’s a fact.”

  Amusement danced in his eyes for a moment before it died and his face returned to a hard expression. “But it does nae change the fact that I will have what I want from ye. One way or another, lass. ’Tis yer choice how harshly you wish me to deal with ye.”

  He gave a tug on her bound wrists, and she tumbled toward him. Before she hit him, he bent one knee and lowered his shoulder. A startled cry that was more anger than fear escaped her lips, as the beast surged upward with her body slung over his shoulder.

  “Put me down!”

  He slapped a hand on top of the backs of her thighs instead.

  “Enough orders from you. While ye ride with me men, ye’ll be following my commands.”

  “I would be happy to be gone from the company of ye and yer men.”

  “I would not.” Firm and resolute, his tone granted her no hope that he might be softening in his intention to take her onto McLeren land.

  Her long braid swung like a tail down to the ground, pulling her hair, while he turned and covered the few paces back to where his men waited. He dropped her onto her feet without so much as a grunt to hint that lifting her was any great effort for him. In fact, she caught a glimmer of smug satisfaction in his eyes before he turned to face his men.

  “Devyn, Donald, Kevin, and Brockton.”

  His men answered instantly, moving forward to face their laird while taking quick, narrow glances at her.

  “I’ll be knowing which of ye laid yer hand across this woman’s face. My orders were clear; there was to be nothing in the way of retribution.”

  Torin’s men all moved closer; even the horses seemed to still. Shannon felt her face turn hot as every set of eyes settled on the blackened and bruised side of her face. She bristled beneath their attention, her pride rejecting such notice of something she considered insignificant.

  The men in question all frowned. Devyn spoke up first. “Not a one of us did, Laird. I’m a McLeren retainer; I do nae strike women.”

  Torin never altered his stance. His shoulders were set stiffly, his hands locked around the wide leather belt that held his kilt in place around his waist. He turned his attention to her, but it wasn’t his expressionless face that captured her attention; it was the look being sent her by the four men who had run her down last night. She saw herself in their eyes, an enemy of their entire clan, who was inflicting yet another wrong on them by angering their laird.

  “It does nae matter a bit. Think you that I am hurt? I am not. It is of no concern at all.”

  Torin raised one dark eyebrow at her tone. Surprise appeared on several of the men’s faces, but she didn’t lower her chin. Let them be aghast that she was arguing with their laird; he was not her laird.

  “’Tis a matter of my orders being followed, and I will nae have any man riding with me who does nae respect what I say. Give me the man’s name, or I’ll strip all four of them of their rank and standing as my retainers.”

  Shannon felt the blood drain from her face. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as horror flooded her. His words were harsh. What he threatened was a high dishonor for the men standing there awaiting his word. All activity froze; even the horses sensed the tension in the air. Confusion wrapped around her in a thick curtain while she stared at the hard determination on his face. There was no hint of yielding, not a single glimmer of mercy. Worse than that, behind him, she watched his men cast her angry looks. Guilt slammed down on her shoulders, threatening to buckle her knees because she knew they were innocent; she understood all too well what it was like to suffer punishment for something that you could do nothing to change. She had stood so often in front of her own laird and father while injustice was handed down to her.

  “Does something about my intentions bother ye, Shannon McBoyd? If so, speak up. I won’t give ye another opportunity to set the matter straight. Who struck ye?”

  Torin watched her intently, his gaze feeling as though it were burning right into her soul and seeing every thought that raced through her head. She wanted to refuse him, almost needed to deny him what he wanted, because of the rope binding her wrists, but the guilt was too heavy for her heart to bear.

  “Yer men have told ye the truth; none of them raised their hand against me. My father struck me, before I left his land. I would think a Highlander would know the difference between a fresh bruise and one that has been healing for a few days.”

  He stepped closer and reached for the side of her face. Shannon shook her head, refusing to stand steady for his touch. He seemed so much larger with
no space between them; her feet stepped away without any thought on the matter.

  “Ye have yer answer. Do nae touch me.”

  A soft chuckle was his response. Amusement sparkled in his eyes, and his lips rose back into that grin. He raised a hand to dismiss his men, but he stepped closer, blocking her view of them. She kept her chin raised and their gazes locked to make sure the brute didn’t think he frightened her.

  It wasn’t a lie, not if he assumed it. She thrust her fear down, refusing to spend her last day of life whimpering.

  “Ye have a stubborn nature, Shannon.” His tone still carried his amusement, but the glimmer in his eyes hardened when his attention settled on the side of her face still bearing the mark of her father’s displeasure. “But that is no reason for a man to strike a lass.”

  Surprise drew a scoff from her lips. “The church would disagree with ye, and there is nothing stubborn about not being loose. Yer hands do nae belong on me, and that’s a fact.”

  “Is it now?”

  He was toying with her. Wasn’t that just like a Highlander? They were fearsome warriors and held a notorious reputation for tossing skirts whenever they might. She shivered as the idea of having his hands on her thighs cut through her thoughts.

  Shannon shook her head, but Torin captured the rope binding her wrists together once more, keeping her in place and leaving her no defense except her words.

  “It is, and ye should know it, unless ye are as savage as I hear Highlanders are. I had thought that gossip was not to be believed.” She made sure the beast understood that she was rethinking her position on the matter.