Her Wicked Highlander: A Highland Knights Novella (9 page)

“Aila!” he shouted. No answer.

But it didn’t matter. He had to go inside and make sure she wasn’t there.

There was no time to waste. It would be too late soon. He touched the door handle, but it singed his hand. He stepped back, and as he had the first day at Beauly Castle, he kicked the door in.

Half-burnt, it gave way quickly under the force of his boot. Covering his mouth with the back of his arm, he surged inside.

The heat was so intense it felt like it was melting his skin, and the smoke so thick he could hardly see anything beyond a few inches ahead. By memory, he made his way from the main room toward the doorway leading to her bedchamber.

“Aila!” he called, then coughed violently, his eyes watering.

“Aila!”

Nothing.

He walked through the open door into her room. Her belongings were strewn all over the floor. What had happened here? “Aila? Aila!”

His voice was growing weaker. The air hotter, the sounds of flames licking at the timbers intensifying.

He might die in here. Which would be fine, as long as Aila was all right.

Though he’d really rather live.

And then he saw her. The faintest shadow in the smoke, curled into a ball on her bed. She wore the one and only dress he’d ever seen her wear, red tartan shot through with yellow. It was the yellow that caught his eye now.

He lunged to her. “Aila!”

She didn’t move. She was unconscious… or dead.

Blinking hard, he scooped her into his arms, realizing her hands were bound.

Holding her limp form tight against his body, he turned to go back through the door into the main room. The smoke was blinding him. He’d taken two steps when something tugging on Aila’s leg made him stop short.

Jesus. The bastard had tied her to the cottage before setting it afire. Rage surged up within Max, and with it strong determination. He’d live through this, if only to see Sutherland pay for what he’d done. He quickly withdrew his
sgian dubh
from his stocking and sliced through the rope at Aila’s ankle, then the one binding her wrists.

Finally, he turned back to the door to her bedroom.

What he discovered, however, was not a door. It was a wall of flames.

He stood, staring. He could try to run through them—risking catching both of them on fire. Or…

He could try the window.

He turned back to the tiny square-paned window. Gently, he laid Aila back on the bed. Flames licked at the other side of the bedframe. He didn’t have much time.

He opened the window quickly, then leaned back over Aila. “Aila, love, wake up. Wake up, Aila.” His voice was no more than a raw rasp. He slapped her gently on the face. Her eyelids fluttered, and then she began to cough. “Thank God,” he murmured under his breath. She was alive. He’d thank God for the rest of his life for that.

“All right,” he choked out. “We have to go through the window.”

She looked at him dazedly. Flames crawled over the bedcovers toward her, but she didn’t seem to notice them.

“Now, Aila! We have to go now.” He picked her up and steadied her on her feet. “You must go through the window.”

Her eyes remained focused on his. She didn’t seem aware of much else.

“Aye.” Her lips formed the word, but he couldn’t hear it. She pressed her hand to her mouth and coughed violently, her whole body spasming with the force of it.

“Good.” His voice was beginning to fail him. “I’ll… lift you. Go… legs first.”

He lifted her and told her to kick her legs up. She did, swinging them over the window ledge. Then he helped her shimmy through. She hardly fit, and he didn’t know how the hell he was going to do it. But he would. He didn’t have a choice.

Finally, she slipped out of his grasp. He looked out the window to see her on her hands and knees outside, choking, gasping for air. Overhead, the thatch on this side of the house was now fully aflame, the heat so oppressive it felt like it was crushing his bones.

She turned to face him, trying to speak, but she still couldn’t make a sound. He hoisted himself up and through the window, arms first, then his head. His shoulders got stuck, and he turned, first one way and then the other, attempting to wedge himself through. His shirt tore, and rough wood clawed at the flesh of his shoulders, but finally, he pushed through to his waist and hips. He fell the rest of the way out, using his arms to protect his head as he rolled.

He popped up to standing instantly, grabbed Aila’s waist, and hefted her up as he stumbled away from the house. Flames erupted at the window through which they’d just escaped.

Coughing and sucking in heaving breaths of air, they watched as the house burned. Moments later, the roof collapsed. Soon, there wasn’t much left of the cottage but the charred remains of the stone walls. Chickens meandered close, then scurried away, startled by the intense heat.

After the roof collapsed, Aila couldn’t watch anymore. She turned to Max, and he took her into his arms as she curled against him. Vaguely, she realized she’d now lost everything she’d held dear for her entire life. Gin. Her house. Her dagger—her only source of wealth.

But Max was beside her, holding her. She still had something precious in her life. He was new to her, but no less precious for it. He was something to live for.

She stayed there, tucked against Max’s body, until the sun dipped low on the horizon, the chill began to penetrate her bones, and her house was nothing but sporadically smoking charred stones and embers.

Finally, Max sighed. “D’you ken where he went?”

She looked at him dumbly. “Who?”

“Sutherland.” He bit out the name.

“Inverness,” she whispered. “He intends to start building his army there.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

“But it’s almost nighttime. We shouldna travel at night. ’Tis too dangerous.” Her voice was scratchy and weak, but at least she could speak now.

“Do you want to make camp here?”

Biting her lower lip, she shook her head. “Nay. Let’s go to the Grants. They live about a mile away on the road to Inverness. They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.”

He agreed, and they set off for the Grants’ cottage.

As Aila had promised, the Grants, an older, white-haired couple along with two grown daughters, did indeed take them in. When Aila told them the story of Sutherland and what had happened to her house, Mrs. Grant burst into tears.

“Oh dear,” she sniffed, patting a handkerchief to her eyes. “’Tis all my fault. I told the man where you lived. He said he was… he was your cousin from Edinburgh. I trusted him…”

“Of course you did,” Aila soothed, patting the woman’s back. “And I’ll no’ have you blaming yourself, now. It isna your fault.” And then she used the reasoning Max had given to her two days earlier. “This is Sutherland’s fault. All of it.”

The Grants’ cottage didn’t have much space, so Max and Aila were relegated to the floor, though Mrs. Grant did make them a soft bed piled with plaids. Then she encouraged them to sleep together there, even knowing they weren’t married. “There’s no space to separate you,” she said practically to Aila. “And anyhow,” she added with a broad wink, “’tis nicer to sleep beside a braw, warm body in winter.”

So when the rest of the family retired to the cottage’s two tiny chambers, Max and Aila curled up in their plaids in front of the hearth, their arms wrapped around each other.

“She obviously thinks we should marry,” Aila said. “Since my parents died, she’s been badgering me to find myself a man to help me in caring for the property.”

Max chuckled, but the thought of her finding a man—other than him, of course—made his insides twist into knots.

“Not that there’s anything to care for anymore,” Aila said softly.

“The land is still yours.”

“Aye. But where will I live? I’ve got nothing now but a thousand acres of Highland scrubland.”

“That’s something, though.”

She sighed. “Aye. I suppose.”

He pulled her tight against him. “Aila… I’m a man with no home except where the Knights tell me to go. But I have the means to help you rebuild yours.”

“You dinna have to do that.”

“I want to.”

She buried her head in his chest, and he stroked her long red-gold locks, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

He wanted her to stay with him, be at his side like the other Knights’ wives.

He wanted her to be
his
wife.

But she was tied to her home and her land—she’d said the reason she hadn’t married was because she couldn’t find a man who’d help her care for her land. The Knights spent most of their time in London. She didn’t belong in that enormous city, surrounded by the English. She was a Highland lass through and through, and she belonged in the Highlands.

If he asked her to stay with him, she’d probably laugh in his face.

He kissed her softly, mindful of her injuries. She was bruised all over, her wrists and ankles terribly chafed, her knee sliced open, and her arm was tender and swollen where Sutherland had squeezed it. Max had wrapped it carefully earlier, and she’d remained stoic throughout, but he could see the pain in her eyes.

Holding her gently, he kissed her thoroughly, pressing his lips to her body over the top of her chemise. She gazed up at him through her bright green eyes.

He loved this woman. He’d do anything for her. To keep her safe. To make her happy.

He stroked her breast over the fabric, then moved his hand down, over her hip. Then he pulled up her skirt and stroked over her thigh and between her legs.

“You’re already wet for me, lass,” he murmured.

“Always for you, Max.”

He slid into her slowly, and they both released a long breath of pleasure. Deep inside her, he hesitated and looked down at her. “Bonny lass,” he murmured. “My bonny, brave Aila.”

He made love to her slowly, taking his time, pleasuring them both with long, languid thrusts. Steadying himself on one arm and reaching between her legs, he stroked her too. He’d learned her body over the past several days. Learned just how to rub her into rapture. He did it now, stroking her body with his thumb and with his cock until she gasped and her channel began to flutter around him, her fists bunching in his shirt.

He let go then, pushing deeper, harder. Just when she began to come down from her peak, he reached his. Burying his face into her soft neck and breathing into her hair, he released deep inside her, the pleasure coursing through his body in heavy waves.

When it was over, he slumped beside her and took her in his arms. She tucked herself tight against his body.

“I love you, Max,” she whispered.

Chapter Nine

When Aila woke, dawn light crept in through the two small windows that flanked the front door. She stretched, then reached for Max.

He wasn’t beside her.

She sat up, scanning the room. He wasn’t here. Perhaps he’d gone outside to the privy, or for some air.

She rose, wrapped herself in one of the plaids, and slipped outside. “Max?” she called softly, not wanting to wake the Grants.

No answer.

She checked all around the cottage, then the privy. He was nowhere to be seen. With a sinking feeling, Aila went to the small stable beside the cottage and slipped inside. The Grants owned one horse, but they’d stabled the horse Max had brought from Beauly village here last night.

The animal was gone.

She stared at the empty stall for a minute, grinding her teeth together so hard she thought she might break them.

Max had gone after Sutherland without her. He was trying to keep her safe. He’d probably known that if he waited until she was awake, she would have argued until he gave in. So instead, he’d sneaked away while she’d been sleeping.

Anger surged within her, chased rapidly away by determination. Max only wanted to protect her. Well, she wanted to protect him just as much.

With renewed purpose, she walked back to the cottage, where she donned her dress and tucked Mr. Grant’s
sgian dubh
into her garter.

She went to the stable and saddled the Grants’ horse. They wouldn’t think her a thief… she hoped. She’d bring the wee dagger and the horse back to them. And if she got the King Richard Dagger back, she resolved to sell it and buy them five new horses.

She mounted the horse and rode northeast—toward Inverness.

Slowed by her aching body and throbbing arm, she wasn’t able to catch up to Max, and the journey took her the better part of the day. The sun had dipped low in the sky when she reached the outskirts of the town, tired and frustrated by how long the journey had taken her.

She had told Max everything she knew about Sutherland—and it was quite a lot. The man had a loose tongue and had jabbered on in minute detail about his lofty plans.

Sutherland had a benefactor named Geoffrey d’Argent, an eccentric old man who evidently owned just about half of Inverness. He resided in a villa on the banks of the River Ness in the southern part of town, and Sutherland had described the location in detail. D’Argent had left for Edinburgh a week ago, intending to stay until late spring, but he had given Sutherland full use of the property and his servants while he was gone.