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’Twas only on the one side, the right, that he’d been hurt, from upper thigh, across the hip and up the length of his torso. His face had been spared, but his arm and hand had seen the worst of it.
She watched him as he slowly unfurled his fingers, flexed them, then made a crude fist. He did this several times, grimacing against the pain she knew must be unbearable. ’Twas a miracle he lived at all, really. Someone had healed him—someone highly skilled.
He braced himself with his good hand, then leaned back a little and tilted his face to the sun, eyes closed. She crept forward a few steps more to study him closer.
He was handsome, almost strikingly so. His face was clean-shaven; for some reason that seemed odd to her. ’Twas strong, angular, and framed by a mass of long, fair hair. She narrowed her eyes and—aye, she was right. He had thin braids, one at each temple. Never had she seen them on a man.
She let her gaze roam over the well-muscled expanse of his chest. ’Twas lightly furred with darker hair that tapered lower. Her cheeks grew hot and her pulse quickened as she took in the rest of him.
God’s blood, what am I doing? I’ve got to get away—
He opened his eyes.
She gasped and flattened herself against the wall of the cave. Too late—he’d seen her. Oh God, what now?
He sprang to his feet and grabbed the pile of garments lying next to him. She must flee—now! But where were her clothes? There wasn’t time to find them. She pulled the plaid tighter around herself and shot from the cave. In two strides he cut her off. She whirled in the other direction then stopped short. Before her rose a sheer rock wall, impossible to scale.
She was trapped.
Eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps, she backed into the sanctuary of the cave, pulling the plaid tighter around her body. She mustn’t panic. She mustn’t! She must find a weapon, something with which to defend herself.
She turned and ran toward the fur-covered pallet and the small fire that blazed near it. She kicked up the bed-covers and rummaged through a pile of food and cooking gear—nothing! Something moved behind her. She whirled.
There he was, clothed now in a dark hunting plaid, coarse shirt and boots. A dirk was belted at his waist and she could see the hilt of his sword peeking up over his shoulder. He looked every bit a warrior. His expression was hard, unreadable, and whatever he intended she couldn’t fathom from the cool blue eyes that now studied her.
He took a step toward her and her eyes widened. He read her fear. She could see it in his face, in the way he tilted his head and arched a brow. Another step, then another.
She scanned her immediate surroundings, looking for something, anything—there! She crouched and with the back of her hand sent the spitted hare flying from its position over the coals. She seized a brand from the fire—one that glowed red-hot at its tip—and rose to meet her assailant. She brandished it before her, her gaze locked on his.
He stopped. Dead in his tracks. He looked from her to the brand and narrowed his eyes. “Put it down.”
She frowned. His voice—Something was not right. She backed up a step, and he took another toward her.
“Woman, I said put it down.” His face was rigid, his jaw set, yet tiny clues belied his confidence. She watched the lump in his throat move up and down as he swallowed hard. A fine sheen of perspiration broke across his brow.
The brand. Why, he was afraid of it! The realization sparked her courage. She lurched forward and thrust the fiery end of her weapon at him. ’Twas a mistake. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him.
Jesu! Her feet flew out from under her but he held fast, his hand a steel trap. She scrambled to regain her balance, then found herself looking up into his cool eyes.
“Let go,” he said and proceeded to squeeze her wrist.
He hurt her, the brute. She felt the sting of tears glass her eyes, but she did not look away. Instead, she pursed her lips and shot him her most defiant expression.
A corner of his mouth turned up at the edge, ever so slightly. What, did he think this amusing? His eyes warmed then, and he loosened his grip. “I willna hurt ye, woman. Ye have my word.”
His speech was strange—that’s what had bothered her. She understood him but something was not right. What was it?
“Now drop your weapon.” He nodded at the brand, which now seemed small and useless in light of his size and superior strength.
She let go, and it fell to the earthen floor. He kicked it neatly back into the fire. Only then did he let go her wrist. Shrinking backward, she pulled the edges of the plaid tighter around herself. Surprisingly, he turned and strode from the cave.
Where was he going? Before she had time to consider her options he was back. In his hand was a balled-up garment. Her shift! He tossed it to her and she caught it with one hand.
“Dress yourself,” he said.
She swallowed hard and examined the thin, white garment. ’Twas clean and dry. She started to slip the plaid from her shoulders then stopped. Her eyes met his. Oh, no.
“Hmph,” he grunted, and to her surprise he turned his back on her.
In seconds she was dressed. Well, half-dressed. A shift and a coarse, woolen plaid. Not exactly proper attire.
He turned to face her. “Now sit,” he commanded and nodded to the pallet of furs.
Her eyes widened and she took a step back. He didn’t move. It occurred to her if he meant to—to harm her, he wouldn’t have allowed her to dress. She obeyed.
He knelt in front of her and his expression softened. He was almost handsome without that scowl. “What in God’s name are ye doing here—a woman alone, and in naught but a shift?”
What was she doing here? The image of a high place, desolate and windswept, flashed briefly in her mind. Standing stones, in a half circle, reached toward a dark, starless sky.
Her head throbbed. She tried to speak, but couldn’t make the words. She ran a hand over her scalp and drew a sharp breath when she met the source of tenderness.
“Aye, ’tis a fair-size lump, but ye seem right enough now.” He reached out to touch her and she instantly drew back, her eyes riveted to his. “Hold still,” he commanded.
Her pulse quickened as he moved closer and ran his huge hand across the nape of her neck then slowly upward, seeking out her injury. Her skin warmed under his touch and she fought the strange urge to let her head roll back in his hand.
He was so close she could feel his breath on her face as he traced the bump with gentle fingers. He had a clean, male scent about him she found pleasing.
She felt strange all of sudden, confused—by him and by the muddle of emotions that erupted inside her: fear, excitement, attraction. What was happening?
Abruptly, he drew back and looked away, his face contorting, as if the exploration had been distasteful. “You’ll live,” he said, then stood.
He strode to the far corner of the cave and stooped to retrieve the spitted hare. “Too bad about this. I expect you’re hungry.” He inspected it and shrugged. “’Tis still edible. Here.” He tossed it to her and she caught it.
His manner had changed completely. He was stiff, cold. She felt a pang of disappointment. Was she daft? She had to get out of here. She must get to…where was she going? She could see the place in her mind, but—
“The storm has passed. I’m leaving now,” he said. He gathered up the scattered plaids and cooking gear and placed them in the corner of the cave. “Ye’d best do the same. ’Tis no safe here for a woman alone.” He kicked some dirt onto the fire and, before she could even get up, he was gone.
Her stomach growled. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She looked longingly at the roasted hare, then at the cave’s entrance. After a moment, the warrior appeared by the spring, leading a gray horse. She’d been right about that.
Without another thought, she ripped the hare from the spit, gathered the edges of the plaid about her, and followed him outside.
What a nuisance.
Gilchrist shook his head and urged the stallion into a trot. The woman clung to his back, a slender arm wrapped around his waist. He noticed she took great care to avoid touching his right side. She’d seen him bathing. Damn her prying eyes.
Christ, what was he going to do with her? He couldn’t just leave her here, now could he? And what was wrong with her? She had yet to utter a single word.
“Hmph.” None of this mattered as he’d be rid of her as soon as was practical. He tried to ignore her and focus on his own problems, but she made it damned difficult holding him as tightly as she did.
He guided his mount into the forest and the gray settled in at a casual pace. Sunlight streamed through the emerald canopy of larch, laurel and a few scattered pines. Everything was green, fresh, the damp ground and a few downed tree limbs the only evidence of yesterday’s storm.
Casting his head back, he inhaled deeply. There it was after all, the unmistakable scent of spring. He swore silently under his breath.
They reached the forest path in no time and he quickly reined the stallion south, away from the burnt-out clearing and toward the clan’s new demesne. The woman let go of him for a moment. She looked back, he was certain, at the charred rubble.
He issued one subtle command and the stallion lurched forward. The woman gasped and her arms flew around him. Served her right. The edges of his mouth turned up in a smile.
They rode like that for some time, the warmth of the sun and the stallion’s easy pace lulling him into a rare state of relaxation. The woman rested her head against his back, and with each footfall of the stallion he could feel the soft weight of her breasts moving against him.
For the first time in—how long?—he felt good.
He focused on the path in front of him and tried to think of something else: the clan, Alex’s almost too casual helpfulness, and Hugh’s words of advice.
A bride—a Davidson bride.
Moments later the sound of bells and the dull clanking of metal on metal snapped him to attention. He narrowed his eyes, quickly scanning the forest in all directions. The clamor originated in front of them. He urged his mount into the cover of the trees.
The woman squirmed and fidgeted behind him. Damn her! He grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it. “Be still!” She tensed, then quieted. Fixing his gaze on the path, he waited.
After a moment, a swaybacked draft horse came into view. The beast pulled a crude cart, laden with what looked to be household wares. Two men sat atop it, dressed in little better than rags.
Tinkers.
Gilchrist relaxed. He realized he was still holding the woman’s hand. He frowned and let it go, then guided the stallion out onto the path before them. The men saw him and their hands flew to their weapons.
“I mean ye no harm,” he called out to them.
The two men exchanged glances, then narrowed their eyes at him. One of them, a big, dirty-looking lout with stringy hair and bad teeth, rose from his seat. “Who are ye?” he shouted. “And what’s that ye got sittin’ behind ye?” The man tilted his head and eyed the woman.
Gilchrist nudged his mount closer, his left hand moving to the hilt of his dirk. “Who am I? I am Gilchrist of Clan Davidson and this is my land. Who are ye and what is your business here?”
The smaller man’s gaze fixed on Gilchrist’s disfigured hand. He tucked it quickly back into the folds of his plaid. “I have heard of ye,” the man said. “Ye are The Davidson, are ye no?”
“I am.”
“We are tinkers,” he said, “on our way north to Inverness.”
The big man continued to eye the woman. “And that one…who is she?”
“I dinna know,” he said. “She doesna speak.” He urged the stallion closer to the cart so the two men could get a better look at her. “Do ye know her? Have ye seen her before?”
The woman clung to him tighter as the two tinkers looked her over.
The big, dirty one grinned. “Nay, but I’d like to see more o’ her.”
The woman tensed.
The smaller man elbowed his sidekick in the ribs, then turned his attention to Gilchrist. “We’d gladly take her off yer hands. Perhaps ye’d like to trade?” He nodded to the cart full of goods.
The woman’s grasp was like steel now. If she squeezed him much harder he wouldn’t be able to breathe. He sighed. He had more important matters to tend to than the fate of a mute, half-clothed woman. He should unload her now and be done with it. He drew his mount alongside the cart.
“Go on then,” he said to the big man, “take her.”
The man grinned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. He reached out and grabbed the woman around the waist and tried to pull her from the saddle. She screamed, startling them all, and held fast to Gilchrist’s waist, struggling against the tinker’s grip.
“Oh, so ye can talk, can ye?” the man said and grinned wider.
Gilchrist could smell him now—he stank of wine and sweat. No matter. His decision was made. He swore and ripped the woman’s hands from his waist.
The tinker pulled her awkwardly onto his lap. Something about the way he looked at her made Gilchrist bristle. She fought wildly, but the tinker gripped her around the waist and clamped his other hand roughly over her mouth.
Gilchrist turned his mount abruptly and looked away. What difference did it make what happened to her? She was nothing to him. He nudged the stallion forward, down the path, but could still hear her struggles and the tinker’s low laughter. His gut roiled as he fought the ridiculous wave of emotion that threatened to overcome his better judgment.
“Ah, now here’s a pretty piece.” ’Twas the small man’s voice. “She won’t be needin’ this.”
Gilchrist turned in his saddle in time to see the man rip the plaid from the woman’s body. He swore silently to himself and spurred the stallion back to the cart. “You there, stop it!” he commanded. “Give it back to her—now.” He nodded at the plaid.
The big man smirked and tightened his grip on the woman’s mouth. Gilchrist willed himself not to look at her. “Me friend is right,” the tinker said. “She willna need it.” He moved his hand from her waist, slowly upward over the thin fabric of her shift, and cupped her breast.
Gilchrist came unglued.
Before he knew what he was doing, his broadsword was in his hand—his left hand—and pointed at the tinker’s throat. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want her back.”
The tinker’s eyes widened. His friend reached for his dirk and Gilchrist shot him a feral look. “Dinna even think it.” He was almost sorry when the small man backed off and the tinker released his grip. The woman scrambled from the cart then backed toward the cover of the trees.
Gilchrist weighed the sword in his hand. It felt surprisingly good. He itched to kill them both, the swine. Instead, he nodded at the path. “Off with you. And dinna come back this way again.”
Without a word, the small man snapped the reins, and the draft horse lurched forward down the path. Gilchrist watched them until they were out of sight, then sheathed his sword, somewhat awkwardly, as he’d never done it left-handed before.
The confrontation buoyed his spirits. Mayhap Hugh was right. He might just learn to wield a sword again. ’Twould take a bit of practice to get it right, though.
Turning his mount, he scanned the stand of larch and laurel. The woman was backed up to a tree, eyes wide. Poor lass. He approached her slowly and, for the first time, studied her eyes. They were fair strange—gray flecked with green. He’d never seen eyes like that. They held fear—and something else.
Anger.
He dismounted and retrieved the plaid that lay at her feet. “Here,” he said quietly.
For a moment she didn’t move, then she snatched the garment from him and wrapped it around her shoulders.
He felt like the lowest of dogs. “Come on, lass. Come home with me.” He offered her his hand. “I’ll no let anyone harm ye—ye have my word on it.”
Her steely gaze burned into him. As she slowly reached out to take his hand, he had the nagging feeling he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter Three
Gilchrist—a lofty name for so vile a man.
She leaned forward in the saddle and he abruptly pulled her back against his chest, his good arm wrapped around her like a steel trap.
