Highlander Unchained Read online

  He knew right away that it was the wrong thing to say.

  Her face went taut, and her voice grew thick with emotion. “I know exactly my worth.”

  There was something significant about her words, but he didn’t have the energy to figure it out. He wouldn’t feel pity. She was a means to an end. He was finished with this conversation. Before she guessed what he intended, he lifted her in his arms and started to carry her up the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you to your room.”

  “W-h-h-y?”

  To shut her up so he could get some sleep. And it had seemed like the most effective method at first—until he was forcefully reminded of his injury.

  “You shouldn’t be carrying me. You’ll reopen the wound.”

  “Since you’re the one who put it there, I’m surprised you care.”

  “I didn’t mean—” She stopped. “Well, I did, but…well…Forget it. You can bleed to death for all I care.”

  “Your concern is touching.”

  He swung open the door; it squeaked and rattled off its hinges a little. The years of famine had taken its toll. Drimnin Castle was old and in desperate need of repair. He looked around the sparse room, knowing that it was far different from what she was used to, but until he got his castle back, it would be her home.

  He dropped her on the bed.

  “You can’t mean for me to sleep here?”

  Her horrified tone only fueled his anger. “Is there someplace you would rather sleep?” He leaned over her, and she tried scooting back away from him, but there was not much room to maneuver on the small bed.

  He moved closer, looming over her. Only a few inches separated them. “My bed, perhaps?”

  Her eyes widened. “Never.”

  He didn’t move. Tension crackled between them thick and heavy. God, he could smell her. Could hear the furious beat of her heart. He could almost taste the warmth of her lips beneath his. Opening. So soft and sweet. His body ached with pent-up desire.

  He should take her right now. It would be over, and she would be his. And God knows he wanted her. Many men in his position would.

  But not him.

  He jerked away, furious, his body drumming with anger and lust. He’d never used force to get what he wanted, and he wouldn’t start now. Now matter how tempted. He’d have her. And soon. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

  Flora MacLeod would be his bride. The ransom demand to Hector would give him the time to convince the lass to marry him. Like it or not, he needed her. And it couldn’t be done with force. But pandering to the contrariness of a termagant left a bitter taste in his mouth. He cursed the need for her approval, but there was no doubt about it, she would be his.

  And if she tried to stand in his way…

  There would be no mercy.

  Chapter 3

  Three days later, Flora was ready to leap from her tower prison.

  The first time she’d tried to leave, about five minutes after he’d left her, her path had been blocked by two imposing guardsmen. Two men were entirely unnecessary, as it took only one to completely fill the doorway. If there was a man in this keep under six feet tall, she’d yet to see him.

  A pleasant-looking man of about forty years escorted her—gently but firmly—back into the room. “The laird wishes for you to enjoy his hospitality in your room for now, my lady.”

  “So I’m to be a prisoner?” she asked, employing her most haughty voice.

  “Aw, now, lass, don’t think of it that way.”

  “How else do you suggest I think of it?”

  “As a brief respite. When the laird is ready, he will send for you.”

  She pursed her mouth. It galled her no end to be at his beck and call. “And when, pray tell, will that be?”

  The guardsman’s face shadowed. “Soon, lass. The laird is a very busy man.”

  “I’m sure he is,” she said sweetly. “Abducting any more helpless lassies this week?”

  “Helpless?” He chuckled. “Ah, lass, you have a fine sense of humor,” he chortled, closing the door behind her.

  Busy. More like he enjoyed torturing her. The Laird of Coll. She still couldn’t believe that the handsome kidnapper with enough raw masculinity to entice a nun was Lachlan Maclean. Why had she never seen him at court? She would have remembered him. He was a difficult man to forget.

  Even days later, the memory of his presence filled the room. For a moment, with his body leaning over her and a glint in his hard blue gaze that made her feel warm and syrupy, she’d thought…

  She’d thought he was going to kiss her.

  And she’d frozen like a silly fool, caught up in the powerful magnetism that seemed to surround him. Irresistibly drawn to him like Icarus to the sun. For a moment, she’d wanted him to kiss her. To feel his mouth on hers. To melt against his heat. Her cheeks burned with the knowledge of how badly her body had betrayed her.

  At least her initial fears had proved unfounded—he did not intend to force her into marriage. But discovering that he meant to use her as a bargaining chip against her brother to exchange her for his castle wasn’t much better. A man who made no bones about using her for his own ends was exactly the type of man she wished to avoid.

  Up to a point.

  For the next two days, she waited for his summons. Patiently. Or about as patiently as anyone could be expected to wait, when there was nothing to do but stare out the window for hours on end at the churning seas and the undulating dipping and soaring of the gulls.

  Her sole sources of conversation were the hourly exchanges with the guardsmen every time she tried to leave her room, the occasional appearance of a very taciturn serving woman named Morag, and the two lads who’d brought up the wooden tub for her bath.

  But on the morning of her third day in captivity, her patience was exhausted. The fir-planked walls of the room were closing in on her. She knew every inch of the small space.

  Fortunately, the chamber wasn’t as horrible as she’d initially thought. Though rustic and sparse, it was clean. Upon first seeing the threadbare linens and rushes on the wooden floors, she’d feared fleas and mice. But the bed linens—although a far cry from the rich silk taffeta hangings she was used to—smelled of lavender; and the old-fashioned rushes were still green and strewn with fresh herbs. Her pillow was stuffed not with feathers, but with surprisingly comfortable bog cotton.

  A small fireplace and wooden bench took up one wall, the bed another, and a rickety wooden table with a pitcher for washing occupied the place beneath the sole window opposite the door. Though small, the window was paned with glass and had a wooden shutter for added protection from the wind and cold. Other than the door, which was well guarded, it was her only means of escape. But even if she could manage to squeeze through the small opening, there was nowhere to go. Situated on a level summit overlooking the Sound of Mull, Drimnin keep was a simple rectangular tower house with a single external stair turret on the east side of the southern wall. The laird had placed her in the uppermost chamber of the tower in a small garret. To escape, she’d have to climb down about forty feet of sheer stone.

  Too ambitious by half, even for her. Although if she was locked in here much longer, she might be willing to take her chances.

  A trunk containing an extra plaid, a brush, and a small hand mirror had been placed at the foot of the bed. Not long after she’d arrived, a tub had been sent up along with a change of clothing to replace her mud-and blood-spattered dress. In quality, it was not much better than the gown it had replaced, but at least it was clean. She’d cleaned her satin slippers as best she could with a small brush, but for more reasons than one, she wished she’d worn her new leather boots.

  She finished pulling the brush through her hair and headed for the door. The drawbar had been removed, preventing her from locking him—or anyone else, for that matter—out. Swinging it open, she was shocked to find empty space.

  “Good morning, my lady.”