Highlander Unchained Read online

  “Could your brother John help?”

  With her arm still slung around Mary’s shoulder, Flora could feel her stiffen. “No.” She gazed at Flora with something akin to guilt in her eyes. “You’ve been so kind.”

  “It’s not your fault your brother abducted me.”

  “Don’t blame him too harshly. Lachlan had no choice.”

  Flora’s expression hardened. “There is always a choice.” She took Mary’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Do not despair, Mary. I will speak to him. I’m sure I can knock some sense into him.”

  Her words were prophetic, but not in the manner she intended. Instead, it was she who was knocked senseless.

  After making sure that Mary had eaten some food, Flora set about fulfilling her promise. She knew from the time of day that the laird would be seeing to his men’s battle skills on the practice yard. She’d seen the swirl of dust and heard the clatter of swords often enough in the past week but had purposely stayed clear of the half-naked men wielding their weapons of death—perhaps subconsciously trying to avoid a visual affirmation of her mother’s warnings.

  They’re primitive, brutal men who are happy only when they are at war.

  But as she left the shadow of the castle behind her and approached the raucous sounds of swordplay, the sight that met her eyes shook her to the core.

  My God, he was magnificent, blazing in the sun like a tawny lion.

  She might have made a mistake in avoiding the practice yard. The laird wasn’t just supervising his warriors, his skills were on display today. But skills weren’t all that was on display.

  She let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. With only a pair of leather trews that stretched over his powerful thighs, the smooth, tanned skin of his bare chest gleamed like polished granite in the sunlight. Every inch of his powerful torso had been chipped from stone, the heavy slabs of muscle cut and built by years of battle. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick, and his waist narrow. Tight bands of well-defined muscle layered across his flat stomach. A smattering of small scars had left their warrior’s mark, but it was the one long slash across his side that drew her gaze. The one that had yet to heal. She felt a stab of regret. Her mark.

  But the scars did not detract from his rugged perfection. Not an ounce of spare flesh padded his form; he was rippled and strong and impossibly masculine, every inch a powerful Highland warrior. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands over his hot skin. The urge was so strong, it frightened her. Her mother had been wrong. There was some appeal to the Highlander’s warrior way of life. Now that she had seen a man such as this, a man of such physicality, of such raw power, how could a delicate courtier possibly compare?

  They couldn’t. Lachlan Maclean was a man built for protection. And there was something almost intoxicating about watching him demonstrate his skills and strength.

  Her senses flared. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, though she knew she was treading dangerously. No longer could she deny it, even to herself. She wanted him. And seeing him like this would only make him that much harder to resist. What would it be like to be held in his strong arms, cradled against that muscular chest and kissed passionately? Would she dissolve in heat again? Would she ever want to leave the shelter of that protective embrace?

  He raised his arms, holding the two-handed claymore high above his head, wielding it with an ease and grace that belied its weight. Only when he met the powerful blows of his opponent did the long cords of muscles flex and ripple with exertion.

  At first, she was mesmerized by the sheer power of the display before her. There was a beauty to the thrust and swing of each powerful stroke. Beauty in the way he moved to evade and then attack.

  Then she realized something strange was going on. There was an intensity to his movements, a ferocity to his strokes, that seemed odd. It seemed…real.

  About a score of his warriors had gathered around. She looked at their faces, so transfixed that no one had yet to become aware of her presence. It was more quiet than usual—barely a sound above the heavy clashing of the swords and the exertions of the two men exchanging blow after powerful blow. The ground seemed to shake with the force of each stroke. There was a subtle undercurrent that permeated the air, thick with tension and the sultry scent of sea tinged with sweat.

  For the first time, she glanced at the laird’s opponent. Physically, they were well matched. The other man was perhaps an inch or two taller than Coll and also heavily muscled, albeit bulkier. His movements were a bit more ponderous. She paused. There was only one man with that build and white blond hair. Odin. Mary’s captain.

  A chill of unease slid down her spine as understanding dawned. This was a battle.

  Allan swung the mighty steel blade in a deadly arc, bringing it down with such force that Flora gasped and took a step forward as if she could protect him. She need not have worried. The laird blocked the fierce blow with barely a grimace. But he’d heard her. She felt the swift jolt when his eyes bored into her with piercing intensity. Marking her. A look that made it clear he didn’t want her here; that she was intruding. But how could she leave? She was rooted to the fierce drama unfolding before her.

  Back and forth they went, exchanging blow after blow until Flora didn’t think she could take it anymore. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. She wanted them to stop. But it was clear they were almost evenly matched. This could go on forever. Or until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

  Allan seemed to find a burst of strength. Her breath caught when he attacked with renewed vigor, driving the laird back until he neared the barmkin wall. She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling the cry that slipped out. She feared he was still weak from the stabbing.

  Her heart pounded. Dear God, he was going to be hurt. Allan had homed in for the kill. He swung the blade down again with deadly force, and the laird managed to block it with his sword high over his head. But Allan had leverage. He used his formidable size to lower the sword, blade to blade, in a silvery cross, until it inched ever closer to the laird’s head.

  “Yield, damn you,” Allan urged through clenched teeth.

  Coll’s reply was too low for her to hear. But from Allan’s enraged expression, she could tell it hadn’t been pleasant.

  The laird was straining under the weight. The muscles of his arms bulged and shook as he fought to prevent the blade from crashing down on him. She had to do something.

  She made a move toward them. But in one smooth motion, the laird dropped to the side, laced his foot around Allan’s ankle, and brought the bigger man down to his knees. Before Flora could blink, Coll had his sword poised at Allan’s neck. She halted midstep, stunned by the quick turn of events.

  “Yield,” he said raggedly. And in a voice she could just make out: “She’s not for you.”

  Allan wasn’t going to surrender. She could see it in his eyes. Not defiance, but resolve. He would never outright challenge his chief in his decision, but neither would he yield. Not in this. Not for the woman he loved. Without thinking, Flora rushed forward, putting herself between the two men. The anger surging between them was palpable. Neither would look away as their eyes engaged in an interminable battle of wills.

  She reached up, gently placing her palm on the laird’s naked chest. It shocked them both. His skin was hot to the touch, and her senses reeled from the heady masculine force of him. She was immediately conscious of the raw power surging under her fingertips, radiating from him like an invisible shield. She must be mad. What in the world was she doing? She felt as though she’d just placed herself in the mouth of a lion. How could she expect to harness such strength?

  He hadn’t moved the sword from Allan’s neck, but his gaze had locked on hers.

  He swore. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

  “Please, my laird.” Her voice trembled. “I need to speak with you.”

  “Not now, Flora,” he growled.

  She leaned her body closer to his and moved