Highlander Unchained Read online

  “What are you doing? Stop!” She tried to break free, but he had her trapped. With his weight on her, she couldn’t budge. She’d never felt so helpless. Tears burned her eyes. “Please. Don’t do this.”

  Ignoring her frightened pleas, his hands, so large and unfamiliar on her body, continued their methodical plunder. He didn’t miss an inch. There was something hard and calculated about his movements, almost detached. But when his hand slid between her legs, she lashed out as if scalded. With the quick burst of strength, she managed to free a hand long enough to rake her nails across his cheek.

  He swore and caught hold of her wrists, pinning them together above her head. Lowering his face to hers, he said menacingly, “Enough. You test my patience, my wee banshee.” Stretched out beneath him, she stared up into his eyes—breathing hard from her struggles, her bosom heaving conspicuously. He stilled, and something changed. The detachment was gone. His eyes fell on her breasts, lingering. Heat spread across her chest. But his gaze hardened and snapped back to her face. “Your fears on that score are unfounded. I simply do not relish another dirk in my back.”

  Side. But she thought it best not to argue the point. “I’m unarmed.”

  “I don’t think I’ll take your word for it.”

  When he’d satisfied himself that she was telling the truth, he sprang to his feet, and she found herself unceremoniously pulled up after him. She’d calmed, but her heart still pounded.

  Without the heat of his body, she immediately noticed that her gown felt wet. She placed a hand on her stomach, then jerked it away. The sharp metallic smell sent a wave of nausea crashing over her. It was blood. His blood. She glanced at his chest and blanched, noticing the dark crimson stain that penetrated the thick wool of his plaid. It must hurt him something fierce, but he gave no evidence of any injury.

  But any guilt she might have experienced was swiftly eradicated. He dragged her back toward the carriage, her arm clenched in a viselike grip, a physical reminder of her circumstances.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He spun her around and pinned her with his gaze. His eyes glowed in the moonlight. Blue. A penetrating blue that bored right into her. His gaze was like the rest of him, hard and uncompromising—with an unmistakable tinge of danger. Her stomach fluttered. With fear? It should be.

  His face was strong and lean, all hard angles and raw masculinity—there was nothing soft about him. His nose had been broken more than once, but that and the scattering of scars across his face only added to his rugged appeal. Four fresh scratches scored down his cheek. Flora wouldn’t feel sorry for it, but they didn’t look deep enough to scar.

  His squared jaw was firmly clenched, and tiny white lines were etched around his mouth. For a Highlander, his hair was unusually short and well groomed, just long enough to fall in gentle waves past his ears. It was either dark brown or black, she couldn’t tell.

  Standing before him, face-to-face, she realized for the first time just how big he was. Tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled. But she wouldn’t allow his size to intimidate her. She was used to large men—her brothers were all similarly built. Still, she’d felt his strength firsthand, and it was hard not to be unsettled.

  “It’s either my hand or I can tie you up.” He gave her a long look, one that made her think he would like nothing more. “You decide.”

  Mortified heat burned her cheeks. She lifted her chin a little to glare at him. “Hand.”

  “Good decision. But if you try to run again, I will not be so generous.”

  “Generous.” She made a sharp sound of derision. “You are kidnapping me. Am I supposed to thank you?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I was not…” But her reprimand dropped off as they rounded the carriage. She tensed, sure that she would see many of Lord Murray’s men lying dead on the ground. Her gaze darted around, then widened, shocked to find them all accounted for. They had surrendered, and this time the brigands had made sure to divest them of their weapons, but otherwise Lord Murray’s men appeared largely unharmed. The worst injury appeared to belong to a Highlander who’d been shot in the arm.

  It didn’t make any sense. It was almost as if their attackers had gone out of their way not to hurt anyone. Not what she expected from barbarians. She turned to look at him appraisingly. “What do you want with me?”

  His face was like stone, giving no hint of his thoughts.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To my keep.”

  “And where is that?”

  He paused for a moment, obviously debating whether to tell her. “Drimnin. In Morvern.”

  Her mother had lands in Morvern, which wasn’t unusual since her mother had held lands all over the Highlands, so Flora knew that the keep belonged to Lachlan Maclean, the Maclean of Coll. The embittered enemy of her half-brother Hector Maclean of Duart. Her eyes narrowed. “Does your laird know what you have done?”

  “You might say that.” His mouth curved, the first sign of lightness in his stony expression. The transformation was stunning, turning his fierce visage into something far more dangerous. Her gaze fixed on the charming twinkle in his eyes and the sensual curve of his wide mouth. Her stomach fluttered.

  It was only because she was watching him so closely that she saw him flinch. He was in more pain than he was letting on, but he quickly masked it.

  A few of the brigands were staring at her with strange expressions.

  The Viking ventured the question that was apparently on everyone’s minds. “Are you sure you’ve got the right lass? This one doesn’t look like the bonniest heiress in Scotland. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  Flora bristled. She didn’t care much for her nickname, but no woman liked to be told she was not pleasing to the eye. Vanity stung, she opened her mouth to offer a torrid rebuke when she suddenly realized how she must look. Blond hair a tangled nest, dirt streaked across her face, blood on her gown…Ah yes, she’d forgotten about her shapeless gray wool maidservant’s gown.

  “It’s her,” her captor replied flatly.

  He couldn’t know who I am. What could he possibly want with me?

  Her heart crashed to the floor. Why did women of fortune usually get abducted? Good God, this barbarian couldn’t intend to marry her?

  There had to be some mistake.

  Chapter 2

  The stubborn lass hadn’t said a word all night, not since he’d ignored her protests and set her atop his horse. She would ride with him. Where he could keep his eye on her.

  Lachlan Maclean, Chief of Coll, had no doubt that it was Flora MacLeod. The bonniest heiress in Scotland. The Holyrood hellion. Take your pick. No matter the nickname, she was the most gossiped-about woman at court. A renowned beauty who left a path of broken hearts in her troublemaking wake.

  Well, she’d definitely lived up to her reputation in temperament—he had the marks on his face and a gaping hole in his side to prove it. She was aptly named. Flora. The ancient Roman goddess of flowers and spring. She was a flower all right. A beautiful rose with the thorns to match.

  Aye, she was a beauty. With a strong family resemblance to the MacLeods, thankfully, and not to the Maclean of Duart. Delicate oval face, wide blue eyes, tiny pert nose, lush red lips, and long silky golden hair. With a body…

  Hell, with a body built for a man’s pleasure.

  His men might not have seen through the dirt and sackcloth, but he’d had a better perspective. A much better perspective. He hadn’t meant to land on top of her, but he’d lunged, she’d lost her footing, and momentum had carried them both forward.

  Focused on the task at hand, namely making sure she was not hiding another dirk, he hadn’t realized he was frightening her until she’d raked her fingers across his face. Ravishment had been the furthest thing from his mind. Had been. Until all of a sudden he’d become very aware of every well-curved inch of her. For a moment, with that sweet red mouth merely inches away and those luscious breasts straining a