Highland Promise (2 page)

          From her hiding place in the forest, Lady Faith of Hawkhurst watched the cloud of dust move ever closer. The outlines of giant warriors riding the biggest horses she had ever seen came into view. Swallowing hard, she dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to suppress the panic gnawing at her insides. It would be too late for the Highlanders if she didn't make herself move. And hadn't she rushed out here just to warn them of her brother's unscrupulous intentions? She didn't know why Leland wanted to kill these men or how he knew they were coming, but they were surely the answer to her prayers.

        "I will be brave," she muttered, clenching her fists tighter. "Lord, now I am lying to myself, for I am a coward. But I am their only chance, and heaven help me, they are mine!"

         She took a deep breath and hurried through the forest toward the overgrown Great North trail that sliced through her brother's property. Twigs and underbrush snagged at her gown's frayed hem. Her sleeve caught on a low branch, tearing her tan work kirtle. She stifled an unladylike curse while jerking her arm free. Dashing to the side of the trail, she asked forgiveness of Almighty God that such an oath even entered her mind and promised to say a litany later. As an afterthought, she thanked the Lord that her slick, black hair hadn't fallen from its tight knot and that the stain that mottled her flesh wouldn't come off with the sweat of exertion. Some nun she was going to make. Her whole life was a living deception.

        The sight of the six gigantic Highlanders bearing down on her changed her prayers. She begged her Creator to let her live to see the day's end. Honest to God, they were the biggest and fiercest men she'd ever seen.

        Bridling her trepidation, Faith held up both arms and waved at the men as they rode near. "Halt!"

        They didn't slow and clearly intended to pass her by. Her eyes focused on their mounts' mighty turf-tearing hooves. The beasts could easily kill her, but if the Highlanders didn't halt, they would die. She couldn't let that happen. She needed their help as much as they needed hers.

        Faith dashed into the middle of the trail and lay down, stretching her arms above her head to cover as much of the path as possible. Pounding hooves drew ever nearer and competed with her frantically drumming heart. She tightly clamped her eyes shut. Oh Lord, please make them stop!

        The pounding came to an abrupt halt amidst whinnies, snorts, masculine grunts, and jangling confusion. Faith opened one eye. The thick nostrils of a mammoth gray horse blew hot air in her face. She rolled away from the beast, releasing a shriek.

        The mare reared, her forceful hooves thrashing the air. Her master cursed in a foreign tongue and brought the horse under control. Then the warrior turned and pierced her with slate gray eyes that could freeze a summer pond. He spoke harshly in what she assumed must be his heathen Gaelic language. He had dark hair with a tendency to curl that flowed over his shoulders. She thought sending him ahead alone might be a good plan. Surely his glare could fell her brother's entire army.

        Faith jumped to her feet and backed away, looking at the other men. They appeared civilized in dress, wearing trews and tunics with bright plaids angled across their chests sash-style. She had expected them to be half-naked heathens from all the stories she had heard. Though only one of them had a beard and seemed a normal-sized man, all their garments displayed snugness of fit that proclaimed brute strength. And it was brute strength they appeared to be barely restraining at the moment. All these Highlanders had ferocious faces and looked as if they would like to take turns using her for sword practice.

        Her gaze fell to their mounts, less than three arm-lengths in front of her. One, a big black stallion, lacked a rider. She wondered if the horse had eaten his master. From the beast's fierce expression, she worried he might think her his next meal.

        Faith took another step back and cleared her throat while her wideeyed stare fixed upon the horses. "You must not go farther down this trail. An ambush awaits you."

        The man with gray eyes perused her body, then spoke gibberish to the others. They snorted and grunted in reply. Faith knew she looked a fright. The padding that expanded her girth and the flour that dulled her complexion and hair made her ugly enough on a normal day. After her hurried trek through the woods, she could only imagine the additional damage from dirt and rents.

        "One of you must speak English." How could she make them understand the danger if they couldn't understand her words?

        Another warrior with white blond hair and hazel eyes barked an order, then nudged his mount to pass her. She scrambled out of his path as her heart raced. "Rats! You are heathens after all. How can I help you if you do not understand God's English?"

        They all jerked their mounts to a halt and glared. The gray-eyed warrior rode toward her and stopped an arm's reach away. Her eyes focused on his steed's flaring nostrils, and she gulped. Warm blood oozed from her palms as her fingernails dug deeper, but she held her ground.

        He leaned forward and pierced her with his gaze. "God had nothing to do with the making of English, lass. 'Tis the Devil's own tongue."

        Why, the brutes had understood her all along. She glared up at him. "Then I should wonder that you choose to commit such a grievous sin by speaking it. Surely the Almighty will send a lightning bolt from heaven and render you dead at any moment."

        He snapped his mouth shut and his glower grew fiercer—a feat she'd have not believed possible if she hadn't seen the transformation.

        She'd had enough and settled her hands on her hips. "Do not dare go mute on me, you big lummox. I have risked my own neck by coming here. 'Twould be safer for you to skirt this holding and cut through Baron Rothley's land. 'Twill add but a few hours to your journey, and you will be alive when you return to the trail on the other side."

        The other giants converged on her. They didn't scare her as was their obvious intent. Their mounts had already accomplished that for them. Surrounded by several tons of sinewy horseflesh, she labored for breath and sweat popped out on her brow.

        "This is a trick. The lass is lying," another warrior said.

        He obviously chose to speak English so she would understand his accusation and be frightened. Faith didn't look up to discover the identity of her accuser though. She couldn't take her eyes off the savage horses that were close enough to bite or trample her should they take the notion.

        "Of course I am telling the truth. I am going to be a nun, so I cannot lie." Anger replaced her fear, and she scowled up at them. "I believe I am offended by the lot of you and your lack of trust."

        "Faith, would you ask us to believe you trust us?" the blond warrior asked, raising a dubious brow.

        "I have to trust you. I am hoping you will aid me in return, and I did not give you leave to call me by my given name." She gasped. "How do you know my name?"

        "This is trickery," the gray-eyed warrior said. "No Sassenach would ask a Highlander for help."

        "She would if she wanted escort into Scotland to the convent at Saint Bride," Faith countered. "And how do you know my name?"

        Gray-eyes raked her up and down from her tightly bound hair with lopsided wimple to her frayed kirtle hem. The man had the gall to snort. "I'll grant you are ugly enough that you'll not find a husband, but—"

        Faith stomped her foot. "Rats! Would you listen to me? My brother is waiting down the trail with sixty soldiers. His intent is to butcher you."

        A black-haired warrior shook his head. "Did you hear that, laird? The lass has insulted us twice now by calling us rats."

        "I did not call you—"

        "You cannot blame the lass, Luthias," one of the other brutes said. "Roland started it by ignoring her, and Michael continued it by calling her ugly."

        So the blond was Roland, gray-eyes was Michael, and black-hair was Luthias. She grudgingly admitted they would be handsome if not for their mean glowers and grouchy dispositions.

        "Well, she is ugly," Michael insisted. "And I do not trust her. She is English after all. 'Tis probably her task to lead us into an ambush."

        "Notice her frock?" the bearded man asked. His accent rang different than the others to Faith's ears, though she couldn't say why.

        "Aye, Tormey," Roland replied. "'Tis an ugly garment that has seen better days to be sure, but the fabric is fine. We might get a few coins for her. You want to take her, laird?"

        Faith gasped as her ignored fears and misgivings about her mission arose to bite her like an angry wolf. She refused to show them her fear though. "Why, you...you...you are not taking me anywhere right now. Ride down the trail and get butchered. See if I weep over your ungrateful hides."

        She whirled around and ran—smack into a tree. She stumbled backward. Two giant branches reached out and caught her. Her eyes focused on a plaid strip crossing a tunic on a massive chest. Oh Lord, it wasn't a tree, but a very solid giant. She gripped his arms in desperation, realizing he could see her trepidation if she remained frozen and decided she'd better look at him before he got the notion she was a coward and really tried to keep her.

        Faith raised her gaze until her head tipped all the way back. Fiery eyes of the deepest blue seared into hers. She couldn't look away. Her breath hitched. A strange fluttering filled her stomach. She barely noticed the strong, square jaw or the light blond hair flowing over the giant's shoulders. She couldn't seem to get her mouth to shut either. What in heaven's name was wrong with her? Her papa and faithful maid had kept her well-shielded from men since her disastrous fall from grace. This was how a woman responded to a man, was it? How could anyone carry on a decent conversation or play chess if they had to worry about being ill?

        Amusement gamboled in the blue eyes. The warrior's hands tightened upon her waist, then lifted her to his eye level.

        Faith gasped as her feet left the ground. She quickly looked down, then back at her captor and pushed against a pair of iron arms. "Put me down, you big...big... Oh Lord, you are big."

        "Who is the plump lassie to be calling a body big?" Roland chuckled.

        The warrior, who held her, continued to stare. Faith couldn't read his thoughts and prayed he wouldn't see through her disguise. As a rule, she didn't allow most people to come this close to her lest her deception be discovered and she inadvertently enticed another to sin. Without clearly thinking, she quit shoving against his arms and settled her hands on his shoulders as his gaze once again held her prisoner. He had fringes of darker blue rimming his pupils that added to their appeal and long, blond eyelashes that would appear feminine on any other man. A tingle sizzled through her flesh from his fingertips. Her heartbeat turned erratic and she sucked in a deep breath. She sent up a quick prayer that she not throw up on the man. He didn't look like one to tolerate the mess.

        "Why did you ask Roland how he knew your name?" he asked quietly.

        His deep burr held a musical quality that warmed Faith to her toes, and she didn't think she would lose her meal after all. She decided then and there that she wouldn't mind looking into those flawless pools for the rest of her days. She couldn't help releasing a small sigh.

        His eyes took on an angry glitter, and he gave her a slight shake. "I asked you a question, lass."

        "My name?" she asked in a breathless voice.

        He nodded.

        She suddenly felt the urge to laugh like a loon. She couldn't think of her own name. All she could think about was his wonderful eyes and his appealing scent. He smelled like sweat and leather mixed with the autumn forest. He made her feel all shivery and warm at the same time.

        "Faith, laird, the lass is daft," Michael announced.

        She shook her head and looked at the stranger's corded neck in an effort to break the spell of his gaze. "Faith. My name is Lady Faith."

        Several gasps exploded behind her, and the breath was almost squeezed from her body as the steel hands tightened around her waist. "Where do you hail from, Lady Faith?"

        She pressed against his shoulders and tried to contain the fear spiraling through her. "From Hawkhurst. Please release me. You are hurting me, and I truly came to help you."

        His brow gathered into an angry scowl. "Hell."

        He muttered the expletive so low that Faith thought no one heard him except her. He eased his grip, but didn't set her down. Who did he think he was to intimidate her? "'Tis a good name. Now let go of me, you big ox." She thumped his shoulder. "And you may not curse in my presence. I shall not allow it."

        A scar that she had just noticed on his bronzed right cheek turned white and twitched. "I do not take orders from you, woman."

        Her gaze fixed on the pulsation in his cheek. Faith tightened her jaw and clenched her fists to hide the alarm rushing through her.

        "What think you, laird?" Roland asked. "Do we take her and head home?"

        Faith gasped and pounded on Laird, ignoring that he was three times her size. "I am not going with you. Ouch!" She shook the sting out of her hand. "You are as hard as a stone wall."

        "And you are soft and mushy like porridge." With little effort, he slung her over his shoulder and walked toward the trail. "We still go to court, Roland. I have business with King Henry."

        "I am not going with you!" She pummeled his back. "I do not wish to die today, and he will butcher me too if I am with you!"

        A large hand popped her bottom and settled there. A sudden chill from such continued familiar handling by the man swept through Faith. She sensed it was from something other than fear, but didn't have time to discern the emotion and had nothing to compare it to. The thought that the feeling might be sinful began to plague her, but not as much as running into her brother.