Two

 

Most of her body ached from fighting the muddy road, but sleep remained elusive. How could it not? When had the world gone insane? Shannon stared off into the night and heard the wind whistling through the hills as it had always done. But tonight the sound didn’t bring a smile to her lips. Instead it sounded cold and forbidding. Lying on her back in the bed of the wagon, she didn’t even find comfort in the stars above her. Thick clouds covered their twinkling light, wrapping the night in dampness. She could smell the water in the air. By tomorrow there would be rain to further clog the road.

She would not lament that. There was no hurry in her heart, even if it meant a fire to warm her toes by in Edinburgh. She would rather suffer the chill than join the swirling plots at court.

The wind whistled more strongly, but something else teased her ears as well. A soft gurgle and a crunch of gravel. Both were barely audible. Like whispers. Wrapped in the moonless night, she questioned if it was real or the product of her imagination. The Highlands could do that sometimes. The older generation claimed it was the ghosts of the past.

Another crunch and Shannon rolled onto her side. Her heart accelerated, and she clamped her lips together to remain silent. Pushing her head up, she peered over the side of the wagon where she’d left the cover turned back. Meager light drifted up from Fergus’s tent, where lanterns burned. Just a fleeting bit of light that washed over the forms lying on the ground. She stared at them, her mind refusing to absorb what their positions meant. With arms flung out and knees buckled, they lay in unnatural positions, their long pikes several feet from their open hands.

Another crunch of gravel and this one was directly beneath her nose. The sound sent fear through her, her breath freezing in her throat, her hands pressed against the hard surface of the wagon bed. Her view of the bodies was cut off as a shadow rose in front of her. Huge and black like the night, she smelled more than saw him. Every muscle tightened and bunched, and energy pulsed through her in a flood. It was instantaneous. Without giving herself time to think, she pushed her body away from the looming shape and back across the wagon bed. Her fingers clawed at the bundles, seeking anything heavy enough to throw. Instead she was trapped with the cover tied tightly on the opposite side of the wagon.

“Alarm!”

That single word confirmed what she already knew. Horses screamed from behind Fergus’s tent, and the night was suddenly filled with the sound of running. A soft word came from the man watching her. So soft, but that didn’t disguise the frustration with which it was uttered.

“Do nae make a fuss—”

Her hands closed around a chest, and she heaved it toward him before he finished his warning. She would not go quietly to her death. The chest smacked against his body with a very satisfying sound. Noise was all around her now. The harsh sound of metal meeting metal. The grunts of men fighting and the unmistakable sounds of defeat. Soft, gurgling sounds of bodies being run through or the heavy thump of blows landing on human flesh.

It was sickening. Her body surged away from the cursing form watching her. He snarled and knocked the chest aside. One huge hand curled around the top edge of the wagon, and the entire bed rocked as he vaulted over the side. Shannon frantically shoved against the cover, and it gave way with a tearing sound. Her body was pressed against it when it split, dropping her onto the ground in a heap. Pain raced through her legs and hip from the hard landing, but the need to escape overrode it. She kicked at the fabric of her gown and scrambled away from the wagon. The main battle was clustered around Fergus’s tent now, the few McBoyd retainers left to keep her inside the wagon lying on the ground where they had fallen.

The horses were still standing near the front of it. Shannon tore a feed bag off the muzzle of one and gained its back before any of the men around her noticed. She tried not to look behind her but couldn’t resist a quick peek. She fumbled with the leather strap securing the horse to its teammate when she caught a look at the man trying to get to her.

He was a demon from hell.

He had to be. Men didn’t grow that large, not without help from the devil. He swept the remains of the wagon cover aside with one motion of a thick, muscled arm. The light from Fergus’s tent cast him in a shimmer of light, his silhouette sending horror through her mind. He jumped to the ground and landed on two perfectly placed feet, his legs bending to absorb the impact before he straightened to a height taller than any of the men she knew. With a toss of his head, his hair settled over his shoulders, and he stared straight at her. His hands came up, the fingers open and grasping, but the strap connecting the two horses came free, and Shannon dug her feet into the sides of the surprised steed.

The horse jumped forward but stopped, nervous from the attack surrounding it. The animal was bred for its strength, not for speed, so it had never been trained for warfare. Its back was wide, making it hard to grasp with her thighs from her astride position. Hooking her fingers in its mane, Shannon dug her heels in once again.

“Come on now. Let’s be gone from here.” She leaned down across the animal’s thick neck, hoping her voice would penetrate the fear holding the horse in a nervous side-to-side prancing.

“Go on now. Make for the forest…”

Another dig with her heels and the horse didn’t need any further coaxing. It shot forward, using all its strength to speed up the rocky incline toward the trees. Shannon remained down across its back for fear of being tossed. For the moment there was no hope of directing where the animal went, since it took all her strength to remain on its bouncing back. Each time its hooves came down, she clung tighter as her stability was threatened, but then it would dig into the rocky ground and surge forward with a power that left Shannon in awe, leaving a tingle of excitement invading her belly, even given the dire circumstances.

They made the tree line and the horse slowed, forced to temper its pace as the number of trees increased. Her heart was racing too fast, her breathing a harsh panting that made it difficult to hear. Forcing her mouth closed, she turned her head, searching the dark shapes of the trees for shadows that moved. The need to flee pounded along every muscle, but she forced herself not to panic. The horse was nervous enough. Smoothing a hand along its neck, she kept her heels pressed into its sides to urge it farther away from the attack behind her.

“There she is!”

Shannon gasped, whipping her head around to see who had followed her. She heard more than saw them, the hard pounding of their horses’ hooves telling her that they rode stallions trained far differently than hers. But she refused to give up. Life was suddenly too sweet, too precious to surrender.

“Come on now. Ye can do it.”

In the darkness it was impossible to tell where the next threat was coming from. The night was pitch-black, and the sound of riders bounced off every tree and rock. The thunder of hooves was nearly deafening and almost enough to snap her control over her emotions.

Unanswered questions flittered through her head. Who was attacking the camp below? Did they mean her any harm?

But she didn’t have time for such ponderings. She couldn’t take the chance that all they wanted was Fergus and his group of traitors. They might consider her guilty simply by her apparent association with those who had murdered a king.

A strangled cry escaped her as she was dragged from her horse. Hard hands pulled her over a saddle, and her cheek smacked against the warm flanks of the animal, its scent filling her senses. She pushed against it, rising up, refusing to lie docile.

“Here now. Have a care, lass. It’s a long way to the ground.”

Her captor tried to push her head back down, but he didn’t credit her with much strength, using only a single hand in an attempt to control her. Shannon twisted, attempting to sit all the way up. Bare tree limbs raked across her face. Icy and frozen, they sent pain through the exposed skin of her face and neck, but she pushed on, struggling against the hand that latched onto her arm. She slid right down the flank of the horse, her legs crumpling when she hit the ground. Tucking her chin against her chest, she rolled, trying to escape the sharp hooves of the animal.

“Damned McBoyd.”

She landed in a heap, her thin gown soaking up the melted snow. It was icy cold, making her shiver, but there was no time to worry about that as she fought to free her feet from the tangle her gown had become. Shannon pushed to her feet, frantically searching for any place to hide.

“What’s the matter, Devyn? Cannae ye keep hold of a wee lass?”

“She’s stronger than she looks. And she has a wild temperament.”

Her pride stung, her temper heating up enough to make the wet spots on her gown unnoticeable.

“We’ll be seeing about that. Spirit or no, I’m no returning to me laird without the prize he’s wanting.” Smug and arrogant, one of her would-be captors wasn’t interested in what his comrade thought of her.

She dived away, but too late. The words brushed her ear right before two solid arms clamped around her, the strength in them bruising. He squeezed the breath right out of her, but she kicked and bucked in spite of the spots that began to dance in front of her eyes.

“At least she’s no’ a screamer.”

Shannon angled her head down and sank her teeth into the arm trapping her own against her chest. Her captor growled, but his grip lost its iron hold, and she dived away from him. She hit another hard body. This one wrenched her arms behind her back and shoved her face-first into the muddy ground.

“We’ll be seeing, will we? What I saw was her getting loose from you.” The man on top of her chuckled. “She’s a feisty one, all right.”

“Aye, well, let’s keep hold of her. The laird is nae going to be too happy about how far she made it.”

A hard knee jabbed into her back, right between her shoulder blades. Another man pressed her down on her bottom. Her face turned scarlet, but she was helpless beneath their heavier bodies. Something rough was looped around her wrists and pulled tight.

“Now, I was nae going to tie ye up, lass, but ye gave me no choice.”

“No choice? Ye’re mad!” she snarled. “Whatever yer quarrel is with Fergus, I am no’ part of it. Get yer hands off me!”

They pulled her off the ground with an ease that stung her pride even more. Dead leaves and chunks of muddy snow fell off her, making soft plopping noises when they hit the ground. A shiver shook her frame, the chill of the night too much for her temper to fend off.

“Me laird thinks otherwise, lass. So ye are going, even if I have to sit on ye again.”

In the night he was nothing but a specter, but the hard grip on her upper arm was solid and unrelenting. Her wrists ached where they were bound behind her, the rope irritating her skin. The horses surrounded them, and the men on either side of her lifted her right off her feet and up to another one of their clansmen. He didn’t take any chances on her struggling away from him. He locked her against the horse with one hard knee across her back. With her hands bound behind her, her head bounced with every step the animal took. Nausea twisted through her belly, and more spots decorated her vision. The black void of unconsciousness beckoned with a promise of relief from the pain and cold, but she resisted, unwilling to be handed over so simply.

There was light twinkling through the trees now. As they drew closer, she lifted her head to stare at it. Her neck ached, but she couldn’t remain ignorant of what she was being returned to. Nothing but a few lanterns, but they spread their glow over the spot that only an hour past had been a camp of McBoyds. Now it was occupied with McLerens. Shannon gasped, unable to keep her horror contained inside her, her gaze glued to the colors of the kilts worn by these men. She understood now. There was no way to hold out hope that there was any misunderstanding. Her father had started a clan feud, and the McLerens had risen to the challenge.

Her father’s retainers lay where they had fallen. There was no mercy in the eyes of the men who stood near the fallen bodies. They wiped their claymores on their victims before sliding them back into the scabbards strapped to their wide backs. A soft chuckle met her return and then another, until the clearing was full of male amusement. Her face burned again as she felt herself being handed down.

“Whose daughter are ye?”

A lantern was held up to bathe her in light. She blinked as her night vision dissipated in a painful pinch. Whoever he was, his gaze fell on her arisaid and the McBoyd colors woven into the wool.

“Answer me.”

The man was accustomed to being obeyed, his voice edged as sharply as the claymore strapped to his back. Shannon lifted her chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Let him wonder.

“She is Shannon McBoyd, the daughter of yer enemy, Laird McLeren,” Fergus babbled from where he was poised on his knees. The secretary looked at her with hungry eyes and hope on his face. Shannon only stared at him. He was pathetic. All his fine things and powerful signet ring didn’t mean anything now. The tent was leaning and torn, his horse being stroked by a Highlander while the man himself whined in the mud. “Take yer vengeance on her. I have nothing to do with yer quarrel.”

“What I see is that me men had to tie her up to get her here, and you fell on yer knees without a single protest. Not that I expect any more from a traitor.”

Disgust edged his voice. His gaze settled on her, raked her from head to toe with a sharp look that didn’t miss any detail. His men waited on his will, their attention on her and what their laird made of her. Shannon held her chin steady, the sight of Fergus nauseating her completely. She might be a woman, but she was no coward.

Laird Torin McLeren was someone she’d heard much about, but it still hadn’t quite prepared her for meeting him. The fact that his men stood alert, in anticipation of his next words, spoke volumes about how much respect they had for their laird. His word would be law.

“Yer father is dealing with traitors and making war on my clan.”

“Then I wish ye luck in dealing with him. Ye’ll find him back on McBoyd land. I’ll bid ye good-bye and best of luck in securing peace.”

There was a snort of amusement from one of the men behind him that died quickly when Laird McLeren didn’t join him. Quiet surrounded them, the wind the only sound Shannon heard. Hearing it magnified just how silent his men were.

“Ye’ll be coming with me, Shannon McBoyd.”

Hard authority edged his tone again. Disregarding the fact that the man was a full head taller than herself, she gave her temper free rein. What good were polished manners when lawlessness surrounded her?

“I have no intention of doing any such thing.”

“Ye see why we had to tie her up.”

Laird McLeren took a step closer to her, but his attention was directed over her shoulder to the men behind her. “Aye. What I do nae understand is why she looks like ye rolled her in the mud first. I did send four of ye after her, aye?”

“But ye told us no to hurt her. That was the part that took the doing.”

Laird McLeren made a soft sound beneath his breath that she only heard because the rest of his men were so silent.

“Enough prattle. We’ve ground to cover before dawn, lads.” He pulled a dirk from the top of his boot, and the lantern light glistened off the polished blade. Shannon snarled at the weapon. He heard her and his eyes narrowed.

“Do nae give me grief, McBoyd. Yer clan has been spilling the blood of my kin without cause, and I’m set to see yer father pay for it.”

“By spilling my blood?” It wouldn’t be the first time. She should have counted herself lucky that she wasn’t already on her back being soiled before her throat was cut. Her skin crawled with revulsion at the idea, but pride kept her chin steady. Very few in this life were granted an easy death by fate. She should nae expect different.

His fingers curled around her arm, but he controlled his grip, keeping it from biting into her. That surprised her.

“I will nae be lowering myself to the same deeds that yer father has. I said ye are coming with us. That way I can stop this wedding that will destroy the unity Scotland has known.”

He pulled her forward, and she stumbled right past him. The hair on the back of her neck stood up with him behind her. But he held her steady, and she felt the blade kiss the skin on the inside of her wrist.

“Give me trouble, and ye’ll be thinking me men were gentle with ye.”

He sliced the rope that held her wrists together, but the freedom was short. With a twist of her body, he pulled her hands in front of her in spite of her resistance. Within moments her hands were tied, the rope circling each wrist with a small amount of play between her hands. He held her close, much too close for her comfort. She could smell him again, and this time she noticed that it was an agreeable scent. Surprise made her pull against his grip. A soft weakness behind her knees alarmed her. He was a hardened warrior, one that she’d best be well away from, for he had every reason to treat her harshly. Liking anything about him was insanity.

“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.