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‘Don’t even think about it. My hand still smarts from the bite you inflicted on it last night. That was the first time you drew my blood and ’twill be the last,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘No woman has ever bested me and none ever will.’
Twisting the fingers of his other hand in her hair, he snapped her head back. Half-stifled, her head reeling, she found her lips sealed by a hard demanding mouth that bore down relentlessly on hers. His lips were meant to punish, and Lorne was too stunned by what he was doing to react. When he raised his head the only sound was the burbling water and their rapid breathing as they gazed at each other. The air crackled with emotion.
‘What a pity you are a McBryde and I have to miss the chance of making love to you,’ he drawled. ‘You are made for it. Were you any other wench, I might well be tempted.’
Outrage exploded in Lorne’s brain. Her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment and shame, she glared at him, her eyes spitting venom. ‘You rate yourself too highly. You are arrogant in your assumption that you are some magnificent gift to womankind. I would sooner bed down with a ravening beast than bed down with you.’
Iain’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you always such a shrew?’ He gave her a long-suffering look, as if she were being unreasonably difficult. Reluctantly he released her, feeling a desire to kiss those lips again—but this time to feel those lips respond and return the kiss.
‘A shrew!’ Lorne gasped, appalled that he had kissed her so brutally. ‘How do you expect me to behave? You have your men kidnap me—threaten my life—you insult and degrade me every time I am in your presence—and now you have the gall to kiss me. My reputation might mean nothing at all to you, but it certainly does to me. When this is over and word gets out that I have been with you, there is bound to be a scandal over it,’ she berated him with bitter scorn. ‘I will be despised for something that isn’t my fault.’
Iain stared down at her irate face in shock and amusement. ‘Reputation? Since when did Highlanders concern themselves with young ladies’ reputations?’
Lorne seethed. There was nothing more definable than this man’s clear and absolute self-possession. He had no understanding of what it was to be tormented, afraid, alone, to hope for salvation in the form of someone he knew, someone close. These things belonged to another breed, and in that he held nothing but contempt.
‘For the past seven years I’ve been away from the Highlands, living in England with my grandmother.’
Iain’s eyes danced with mirth and his teeth flashed white from between his parted lips. ‘Why? What did you do? Are you so unmanageable and undisciplined that even your own father cannot control you?’
Her eyes clouded. ‘I didn’t do anything. He—he thought it best to send me away after—after that day. My grandmother lives near York. From an early age she instilled into me a moral code—and you, Iain Monroe, have violated that code by abducting me and kissing me. In my grandmother’s world the reputation of an unmarried young woman matters.’
Iain looked at her hard, his expression becoming thoughtful. He knew she had visited her relatives in England several years ago, but he had no idea she had lived there for so long. However, he found it ironical that she should be so concerned about her reputation, for he recalled the scandal that had erupted when she had been caught philandering in the most intimate manner with a strutting young rake by the name of Rupert Ogleby. Normally London society wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at such an incident, but because the young lady in question was just fifteen years old and Lady Barton, her grandmother, a well-respected member of society and highly thought of by King William himself, the incident had been sensationalised.
Hearing the little catch in Lorne’s voice and suspecting that she must have been deeply affected by the scandal, and having no wish to remind her of the incident, he kept the fact that he knew about it to himself. He realised how his actions and those of his men had humiliated and hurt her. She suddenly seemed so very young and vulnerable that he felt a twinge of conscience. Deep within him the wall of ice he’d kept around his heart for seven years suffered its first crack.
‘I’m sorry,’ he capitulated on a gentler note. ‘I didn’t know. What I don’t understand is that if your father sent you away—ignoring you for seven years—why do you want to protect him?’
‘Because whatever he is guilty of in your eyes, to me, first and foremost, he is my father to whom I owe allegiance and am duty bound—and I hate you. I hate you all for kidnapping me and giving him no alternative but to rescue me. It’s a coward’s way of capturing his enemy and unworthy of you.’
Iain stared at her, caught somewhere between anger and amazement at her defiant courage. ‘You might see it that way, but it doesn’t change anything. I agree that I’ve broken all the rules of etiquette where you are concerned, but the fact remains that you are my hostage and I intend keeping you with me—if only for your own protection. Considering the mood my fellow companions are in, there is every possibility that you will suffer if I let you go—so I advise you not to try anything foolish or bold. You might just as well relax and accept the situation.’
‘Relax?’ she flared. ‘Is that what you expect me to do? How can I relax in this Godforsaken place with no clothes and no friends—and with just a bunch of heartless vengeance seekers who look ready to draw my blood at any minute?’
Iain’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘One word from me and they will do just that,’ he warned in a silky, ominous voice.
Lorne recoiled from the hard glitter in his eyes. She did not doubt that one glance from this arrogant, noble lord, and every member of the hunting party would be more than happy to do his bidding. ‘Tell me, Lord Monroe—is there a dungeon beneath this ruin you intend to incarcerate me in until you finish your hunt?’
He considered her for a moment. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am not entirely heartless. My friend Sir Hugh will continue with the hunt without me and those in my party. I have decided to return to Norwood today. I can promise you ease and comfort there.’
‘If you intend that to be a kindness, it isn’t. It’s a curse,’ she flung at him with stinging scorn, her mind already ranging far afield in its search for some avenue of escape. Tossing her head imperiously, she turned to negotiate the rocks she had clambered over to get here. Automatically Iain reached out to help her, but she jumped out of his reach, avoiding his touch as she would the plague. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she warned him. ‘You may have made me your prisoner, but understand this. You keep your hands to yourself.’
When she had clambered over the rocks and her feet were back on the green sward running alongside the burn, she strode off without a backward glance. She realised she was famished and those oatcakes were suddenly very appealing. When she’d eaten she would think of a way to escape.
Rolling up his shirtsleeves and tucking the hem into the waistband of his breeches, Iain watched her go, admiring the flowing, long-legged grace of her stride and gentle sway of her slim hips, and the way her hair tossed in the breeze. He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the change he had made to his plans to return to Norwood early, but after his brief encounter with his hostage and the taste of her lips, and remembering how his starved senses had wanted to feast on them again, he was more inclined to dwell on the amazing quirk of fate that had caused Lorne McBryde to reappear in his life. No longer a child, but a woman full grown—and still a McBryde, a woman bearing a name that had insinuated itself into his soul from an early age, a name that stirred his hatred and mistrust.
Lorne sat quietly on a grassy knoll on the edge of the courtyard close to the trees, watching the proceedings as some of the men prepared to escort her and the trophies of the hunt back to Norwood. Preceded by a dozen or so hunt-servants, whose duty it was to find the deer and drive them towards the hunt, under the leadership of Sir Hugh, it was a rather reduced number of sportsmen who were preparing to start out for a final day’s pursuit of the red deer and wild boar.
Lorne’s eyes were alert, watching Archie, who was supposed to be guarding her, but had left her side for a moment to saddle his horse close by and away from the rest. She observed Iain, clad in a dark brown leather doublet, black breeches and knee-high boots, moving among the men. He never looked her way once, and anyone would think he had forgotten her existence, but of course he hadn’t.
He was the most handsome, fearsome man Lorne had ever beheld, bent on coldly and unemotionally capturing her father and destroying her family, and she ought to hate him. But she could not. He had just cause to despise every one of the McBrydes, herself included, and for that she felt profound regret.
Her gaze shifted to Archie, who was tightening the girth on his horse’s saddle. This done, he looped the reins over a wooden post and went to assist in securing the carcass of a splendid young deer over the back of a sturdy garron. It proved awkward. Attracting the attention of the others, Iain included, they went to help, their attention momentarily diverted from their captive. Lorne glanced at Archie’s horse. The opportunity was not to be missed.
She found herself getting up and walking slowly towards the mount, trying to keep her nerves under control. If Iain should look towards where she had been sitting and find her gone, she was too afraid to imagine what he would do. On reaching the horse, she glanced towards her captors. No one had noticed she had moved. The sun vanished as she led the horse into the dense woods. Out of sight, she brought the mount around and climbed into the saddle, digging her heels into its flanks and setting off through the trees. Her route lay east and she headed towards it.
Satisfied that the carcass of the young deer was well secured over the back of the garron, Iain stood back and smiled when Hugh rode up to bid him farewell.
‘I go to London in a few weeks, Iain—before the hard weather and dark days of the Scottish winter begin. Come with me. The company would be appreciated—and I know for a fact…’ he chuckled, with a conspiratorial lowering of his lids ‘…that the fair Mistress Fraser is to be in town. Couldn’t keep your eyes off her the last time you were together. Come, what do you say? It might be just what you need.’
‘I’ll let you know, Hugh. I confess the idea is appealing and the thought of meeting Maria Fraser again extremely tempting, but this latest development might take longer to settle than I care for.’
Iain’s gaze unconsciously sought out Lorne where she had been sitting on her grassy knoll, her hands clasped around her knees and a long lock of golden hair hanging heavily over one shoulder.
Finding the place empty, he froze. He was momentarily unable to believe she wasn’t there, his gaze ricocheting from the place where she had been sitting, around the courtyard and back again. He thought he could never be as angry as he had been last night when he had come face to face with her, but the explosion of rage and foreboding surmounted even that. Immediately he turned his blistering gaze on Archie.
‘Where is she?’ he thundered. ‘Your primary job was to guard her. God damn the woman! Where the devil has she gone?’
Archie looked around in consternation, afraid that his master was losing his hold on that precarious temper of his. His gaze was drawn to where he had left his horse. ‘My horse—it’s gone! She—she—’
Rage continued to explode in Iain’s brain. ‘Must have taken it,’ he bit out in a soft, murderous voice.
Striding swiftly towards his horse, he felt his emotions veer crazily from apprehension to fury. Apprehension because she had obviously gone careering off into the forest where she might get lost or meet with an accident, and fury because where most men would quake in his presence, this chit of a girl had openly defied him. As a demonstration of headstrong defiance, disobedience and rebelliousness, it was supreme. He had foolishly believed she would be too afraid to try escaping in this inhospitable countryside—but she was a McBryde, he reminded himself bitterly, who would dare anything.
Cursing her to perdition, within seconds he had swung himself on to his horse and was in hot pursuit, correctly assuming she would go in an easterly direction. His men followed, some dispersing in other directions.
Lorne had deliberately avoided looking over her shoulder as she picked her way amongst the hollies, the birch and the alder, but, coming to the end of the wood, she glanced back. She was unable to see the rider who pursued her, but heard the thunder of following hoofbeats becoming ever louder and nearer.
Emerging out of the trees into the full glare of sunlight, she rode like the wind. There was nothing ahead of her but a wide expanse of forest and sunwashed heather-emblazoned hills, and no sign of life. Her face set, her eyes blazing, she urged the horse to greater speed.
Behind her Iain saw a girl whose golden, unbound hair streamed out like a silken flag. She was a good horsewoman, riding in a way that would have done credit to her father and brothers, and in that unlikely moment he was overwhelmed with admiration.
Suddenly, from somewhere not far away, came the long, ululating blast of the hunting horn and the baying of hounds. Panicked, Lorne’s already excited, panting and sweating horse instantly reared and bolted. Struggling to bring it under control and at the same time outrun her pursuer, Lorne clung on in desperation. Ahead of her there loomed a narrow plateau with a steep incline on either side, the ground littered with outcrops of loose stones. Unable to turn and take a safer route, she found herself riding along it, trying not to look down the steep slopes to her right and left. All she could hear was the horse’s laboured breathing and the hollow thud of hooves.
Suddenly another blast of the hunting horn caused the horse to balk, pitching her over its head. The fall knocked the breath out of her body and she lay still, dazed and disoriented and fighting for air, while her horse galloped away. Through a haze she saw a rider appear along the plateau. Her heart almost stopped when she recognised Iain on his huge white hunter, riding low over its neck and looking like an ominous spectre of doom. Terror and rage and an acute sense of fear overriding everything, recovering her senses and getting her breath back, she scrambled to her feet, and, as quick as a harried fox, took flight.
Iain flung himself off his horse and gave chase. Lorne turned and looked back, trying to remain upright on the loose stones. Iain almost stopped in his tracks when he beheld her face and saw her eyes sparking with green fire. She was like a tempestuous goddess, wild and beautiful in all her fury, and alive with hatred as she courageously tried to outrun her enemy, refusing to be broken. She was truly amazing, and in that moment Iain thought she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
When he was close he snatched at her, jerking her back, his fingers digging cruelly into her arm. She whirled round, stubborn and unyielding as she tried to get free of his iron hold.
‘Damn you,’ he bit out savagely, trying to prevent her nails from raking his face. ‘Stop fighting me, you little hellcat. It’s plain to see you share the blood of the McBrydes.’
Lorne continued to struggle against him as if her life depended on it. She saw his face, terrifying in its rage, his jaw clenched tight and his silver eyes as hard as granite. A cry broke from her lips when suddenly she lost her footing and began to fall, taking him with her. They hit the ground, tumbling and rolling over and over down the steep incline, a shower of dislodged stones accompanying them to the bottom.
Lorne found herself pinned beneath Iain’s powerful frame, unable to move, her chest straining in her need for air. His head was buried in the hollow of her neck and he was breathing hard. In breathless tension she waited for him to move, wondering if he was hurt.
With blood welling through his beard from a cut on his cheek, slowly he raised his head and looked down at her, his face just an inch from her own, his breath hot on her face. Their eyes became locked in a mesmerising web, and the fire that swept through Iain at having her womanly body pinned beneath his almost deafened him to any resistance. Immediately he recollected himself. Angry frustration ran rampant through every fibre of his being, as his argument was about to burst forth in a torrent.
Taking note of the taut set of his jaw and the undiluted fury blazing in his eyes, tendrils of fear coiled in the pit of Lorne’s stomach and her pulse accelerated wildly. Never had she encountered such cold, purposeful rage in her life—not even from her father and brothers.
Levering his body off hers, Iain got to his feet. ‘Get up,’ he snapped. Without waiting for her to obey he reached down and grasped her arm, jerking her roughly to her feet. Lorne winced when a pain shot up her forearm into her elbow, realising she must have hurt it in the fall, but Iain was so furious he was blind to her discomfort. Again he grabbed her injured arm in a powerful grip. She gasped in protest at feeling another shooting pain, but he was dragging her in his wake towards his horse, which had made a more dignified descent than its master. Placing his free hand on the saddle, Iain loomed over his captive, his gaze a cold blast, his expression intense.
‘How far did you think you’d get alone and defenceless, you little idiot? Is it that you are hell bent on self-destruction, or merely out to thwart me?’
Without waiting for her to reply, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her effortlessly on to his horse, before hoisting himself up behind her and wrapping his iron-thewed arms tightly round her waist in a grip that was meant to hurt and retaliate.
‘I will give you a warning, Lorne McBryde—just one,’ he said in a low, savage voice close to her ear. ‘If you ever try anything like that again or do one more thing to exasperate or anger me, I will personally see to it that you await your father’s arrival at Norwood in my deepest, darkest dungeon. Do you understand?’
Lorne swallowed convulsively and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, glad when his arms relaxed their iron hold.
‘I have your word?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’
‘You have my word.’
Chapter Three
Silence lay heavily between them on the ride back to the castle, but each was conscious of the closeness of the other. With her back moulded to the hardened contours of Iain’s body, Lorne was more shaken by what had happened than she had let him see. Her throat ached and her eyes burned, but she would not cry.
They rode into the courtyard where a knot of men stood around waiting for them to return. Iain swung himself on to the ground and roughly pulled Lorne down after him. When she took a step back, his hand clamped down painfully on her forearm. Her face contorted with a new wave of pain, but Iain had his head turned away and didn’t see.
Archie rushed forward, relieved that Lorne appeared to be unhurt, but the same could not be said of his master. ‘My lord, your face is bleeding. It must be tended.’
Iain wiped his beard with the back of his hand, scowling when he saw the blood. He directed a single look at the woman by his side, his rapier-sharp gaze holding hers. ‘It will be tended, Archie, but not by you. Take someone with you to look for your horse. It bolted on hearing the sound of the horn.’
Still gripping Lorne’s wrist and forcibly pulling her behind him, Iain strode with long purposeful strides across the courtyard, through the trees and down to the burn. Once there he let go of her wrist and looked at her coldly. Lorne set her jaw and tried to fight the sudden fear that threatened to engulf her. She knew the folly of her escape effort, and retribution in the form of Iain Monroe had come swiftly for her foolishness.
‘Stay there,’ he snapped, knowing he would have to guard her carefully in the days ahead. She was impulsive and headstrong, and so unpredictable that he never knew what she would do next. Kneeling on one knee, he bent over the water and washed the blood from his beard. Standing and then resting his hips on a large boulder, which brought his face on a level with hers, he produced a small dirk from his belt, testing its sharpness with his thumb. His eyes were merciless when they settled on Lorne.
‘Come here.’
Mutely she obeyed and moved to stand in front of him, her eyes riveted on the knife. When he handed it to her, she took it with trembling hands. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Shave me.’
Her eyes widened until they were two great green orbs, and her soft lips parted in disbelief. ‘Shave you? But—I—I can’t,’ she whispered shakily. ‘Oh, no. Certainly not. I won’t do it.’
‘You can and you will.’
‘But—I’ve never—’
‘Now is the time to learn,’ he bit back, refusing to let her off the hook lightly. He noticed her shaking hands and his eyes narrowed. ‘And if you draw a single drop of my blood you must be prepared to suffer the consequences.’
Lorne’s eyes snapped to his, stormy once more. His tone threatened terrible consequences should she commit such a crime a second time. She did not know him well enough to discern what thoughts and intentions his face was reflecting, and she was unable to imagine what form his reprisals would take. However, hurt that he might believe she truly intended to harm him had the effect of subduing her nerves and reverting her to her former state of proud rebellion.
‘Are you not afraid that I might use this knife to slit your throat?’
Despite the stubborn tilt to her chin and her rebellious tone, there was a tiny quiver of fear in her voice, and when Iain heard it his heart softened. She had shown so much daring and amazing courage, so much indefatigable spirit in running away and fighting him so relentlessly, that he’d actually thought she was fearless. Now, however, as he looked at her, he saw the strain of the last twenty-four hours on her face, the mauve smudges beneath her eyes and her pallor.
‘No. I trust you,’ he said gently, deciding that helping her to relax while she held the knife was in both their best interests. ‘Just stay calm and you’ll do just fine.’
The soft words coming on the heels of his sudden change in persona from captor to carer took Lorne by surprise. It sounded nice, but she continued to glare at him in furious silence.
‘Now—come closer.’
Amazed by his unflappable calm, Lorne moved to stand to one side of him, intending to perform the dreaded task with as little contact as possible between them, but Iain had other ideas. Gently but firmly he took hold of her hand, drawing her closer so that she stood directly in front of him between his thighs. Placing his hands on her hips to prevent her moving away, his eyes laid siege to hers. In the circle of his arms he could feel the alert tension of all her muscles. Her stillness was like that of an animal poised for flight.
‘I want you where I can see you. Now—stop glaring at me and start shaving.’
Conscious of his hands holding her firm, with a militant look in her eyes she tipped his head back with her finger and began to ply the blade carefully to the lean contours of his jaw. Shaving the uninjured side of his face first, she passed the blade over his cheek, wiping it after each stroke on a kerchief which Iain provided.
‘If you cooperate, life will be much easier for you when we reach Norwood,’ he told her, his eyes tracing the classically beautiful lines of her face, thinking that she really was extraordinarily lovely, her skin fine and soft.
Lorne sighed, feeling inclined to do just that. For one thing she was in no fit state to continue sparring with him—not that she wanted to. She was also physically exhausted and her arm was hurting.
‘Have you never shaved your brothers?’ Iain asked conversationally, liking the feel of having her close. His gaze was able to dwell on her hairline, on the fine bloom of pale blonde hair, which was like a newborn babe’s.
Preoccupied with her task and gnawing on her bottom lip in deep concentration as she carefully applied the blade to that vulnerable area beneath his nose, she shook her head slowly. ‘I told you, I was sent to England to live with my grandmother. I haven’t seen either of my brothers for seven years.’
She paused in her task and frowned irately when she felt his hands slide further around her hips and tighten slightly on her bottom with the practised ease of a born seducer. The movement shocked her to the depths of her virginal innocence and made her heart pound in her chest.
‘I think you’re beginning to enjoy this. Do you have to hold me in quite that way? Please remove your hands,’ she said, meeting the enigmatic gaze of the man who was nine years older than her in years but centuries older than her in experience, who had done and seen everything there was to do and see, and who knew exactly the effect his intimate hold was having on her.
Her prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to Iain’s lips and urged him to draw her a bit closer, settling her thighs intimately against his loins, the action flicking a fiery brand across his senses. ‘Not a chance. Not until you’ve performed your task to my satisfaction. I don’t want you taking off before you’ve finished removing my beard,’ he murmured teasingly, his warm breath touching her face.
Lorne began again, oddly relaxed by the low timbre of his voice and the steadiness of his gaze. ‘Do you always wear a beard?’ she asked softly.
‘No. Only when my military duties keep me away from home for any length of time—or when I’m hunting, as now. I find it tedious always having to shave.’
‘You have a manservant. Couldn’t he do that?’
He chuckled at that. ‘I wouldn’t trust Archie anywhere near my face with a sharp blade. I prefer to do it myself—unless there happens to be a pretty maid with a steady hand willing to perform the task for me.’
The softening of his voice caused Lorne’s heart to skip a beat. ‘I seem to recall you gave me little choice,’ she replied, avoiding his eyes by wiping the blade once more. ‘You—you are a soldier?’ she asked, not really surprised, for there was an aura about him of a man who had often confronted danger—and derived pleasure from it.
‘Was. When peace was restored between England and France, I returned to Norwood and vowed to live an untroubled life running my estate and pursuing life’s simple pleasures—which I was doing nicely until you came crashing into my life with all the force of a tribe of Highlanders. Unfortunately, peace at Norwood will not be restored until this business with your father is settled.’
‘I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,’ she retorted sharply. After a moment’s silence in which she was uneasily conscious of his eyes perusing every detail of her face, she said, ‘During the war with France, did you serve in Flanders?’
‘I did.’
‘Robert, my brother, was there, too.’
Iain scowled with derision. ‘I know—fighting for King Louis.’
Lorne was quick to defend her brother. ‘To be fair to Robert, he fights for what he believes to be right—just as you do—and his prime concern is for the Highlands and the Highlanders’ way of life. But I remember what you said when you came to Kinlochalen that day. You spoke the truth when you said the Highlanders were enmeshed in the ways of the past, settling scores by the old methods. You also said that the world is changing, that Scotland is changing, but Robert’s obstinate and independent spirit will never accept change.’
