My Fair Highlander (4 page)
Read My Fair Highlander Online
Authors: Mary Wine
Instead she was completely focused on the man she clung to. Her arms reached around his slim waist. It was amazing how much warmth his body generated. Holding so tightly against him kept the chill of the autumn night from tormenting her. The wind chilled her hands on top where the skin was exposed, but her palms were warmed by the man she held on to.
Her head was tucked along one of his shoulders, one cheek pressing against the wool of his doublet. His sword was strapped at an angle across his back, the length of his plaid pulled up over his right shoulder helping to cushion the weapon. Suddenly, the Celtic fashion of dressing was not so odd. Instead it was quite logical and useful. That bit of thinking made him seem less of a barbarian and more of a very efficient warrior.
Her heart accelerated, which increased the tempo of her breathing. She drew in his scent and shivered. It was dark and musky, touching off a strange reaction deep inside her belly, a quivering that became a throbbing at the top of her sex. Each motion of the horse sent her clitoris sliding against the leather of the saddle, and the scent of his skin intensified the sensation somehow. It was unnerving, and she licked her lower lip because it felt as dry as a barley stalk. Every hot glance he had ever aimed at her rose from her memory to needle her with a longing she hadn't truly admitted she had for the man. Now that she was pressed against him, part of her chastised herself for not jumping at him. No matter how often she had listened to other women talk of their sweethearts, it had never been something she had longed for. Now, her body refused to be ignored any longer and enjoyed being against him.
If Barras noticed, he made no comment, which she felt herself being grateful for. Sensation was rushing through her, filling every limb and flooding her mind with intoxicating feelings that seemed impossible to control. Her fingers opened up, just because she failed to squash the urge to see what his body felt like. Tight ridges of hard muscles met her fingers, covering his midsection, and even his clothing did not disguise them.
His men closed around them, the sound of horses' hooves drumming out everything else. But a slight turn of her head and her ear was pressed against his shoulder, allowing her to hear his heartbeat. Another shiver raced through her, rushing down to her stomach where a strange sort of excitement was brewing. Her mouth was dry and her arms tightened around him because she feared she might lose her hold on him due to the quivering that seemed to be growing stronger along her limbs. It was a strange weakness, like too much wine. Even her thoughts felt muddled.
A rough hand landed on top of hers. Jemma flinched, her entire body reacting to the touch. His fingers curled around hers, completely covering her smaller hand in his. But it was his thumb that she noticed the most because it slid around her wrist to the delicate skin on the underside. That tender spot felt the rougher skin of his thumb stroking across it before pressing against the place where her pulse throbbed. It was a strangely intimate touch, and she yanked her hand away from beneath his and curled her fingers around the wide leather belt that kept his kilt in place. She felt his chest vibrate and knew that he was chuckling, even if the wind carried the sound away before she heard it.
Jemma snorted, enjoying the fact that she could make whatever sounds she wanted. But his head turned to cast a sidelong glance at her, and she realized that he'd felt the sound just as she had felt his. Jemma was startled to discover that she was communicating with him on some deeper level . . . a much more turbulent one. Her thoughts returned to the way he'd looked at her in the past.
They rounded a hill, and a fortress came into view. It was almost black against the night sky, with thick towers that rose up against the hills behind it. A wicked-looking gate began to rise, the grinding of metal chain cutting through the pounding of the horse's hooves. Her breath froze as fear tapped its icy fingertips against her.
This was not Amber Hill.
It was not even England.
She shuddered, unable to contain the dread creeping through her. It stole away the excitement that had been making her so warm, leaving her to the mercy of the night chill. Indeed life might become very frigid if she awoke in a Scottish fortress without there being any marriage agreement. The gossips would declare it her own fault for riding out without an escort.
Laird Barras rode straight under the gate and into the courtyard without hesitation, his stallion knowing the way well. But he had to rein the horse toward the front steps instead of the stable. The animal had not even fully stopped when he turned and locked stares with her.
“Welcome to Barras Castle, lass.” His voice was rich with enjoyment. Jemma pushed away from his back, trying to force enough breath past her shock to reply without betraying her unsettled state.
He jumped down from the horse and still seemed to be able to meet her gaze far too easily from where she sat atop the horse. Somehow, viewing him from across a hall had failed to impact just how large a man he was. Jemma reached for the reins, an urge to place distance between them needling her almost beyond the fact that she knew the night held far worse dangers than the man watching her.
There was something about his gaze that cut down to the deepest part of her. She had never felt such a thing before, never endured her belly fluttering with excitement as it was right then. It shouldn't be so simple a thing to do to her. They had been nothing but the simplest of touches, and yet she quivered.
“You should have taken me to Amber Hill.”
He reached up and closed his hands around her waist. There was amazing strength in those hands, and he pulled her from the saddle in spite of the way her thighs gripped it, attempting to remain on the horse. He set her down next to him, his hands taking far too long to slide off her. His lips curved just a minute amount, telling her that he was indeed taking advantage of the moment.
“The night is full of dangers, lass. Why do you think men build castles? It is nae because we enjoy the labor.”
The gate was lowering, and the sound drew her attention. It groaned and the metal chain reflected the starlight as it set the gate back into position. She felt like a trap was closing about her, choking her so that breathing was nearly impossible.
“ButâI can't remain here . . .”
“What would ye have of me, Jemma? Should I ride up the path toward yer brother's fortress and hope that his archers refrain from emptying their quivers until they see our faces and not just our Scottish clothing?”
“You might have sent me up that path once we were close enough.”
His lips curved slightly. The doors to the first tower opened, allowing light to illuminate him from a lantern held aloft in the hand of a servant. Gordon Dwyre stared at her face for a long moment, his expression turning dark.
“I find that there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that ye are not unattended and getting yerself into harm's way, madam. The men that ride the border land are often intent on foul business.”
She raised one hand without thinking to touch the side of her face. Pain shot through her the moment her fingers braised it. Laird Barras's lips became a hard line of disapproval. She had to tilt her chin up to keep her gaze locked with his. The man was large, and for some odd reason she was very aware of it. Sensation prickled all over her skin, that flutter of excitement returning.
“Inside with ye, Jemma. My housekeeper will make ye welcome. I need to see to my walls in case those English marauders have any comrades out there set on harming me people now that they no longer have ye to torment.”
“I cannot stay here.”
Jemma learned one thing about Gordon Dwyre in the next moment. He was not a man who discussed matters he felt fell beneath his authority. The man stepped forward and swept her off her feet before she realized he was bold enough to handle her. Too accustomed to Synclair, she failed to bring her hands up fast enough to ward off the huge Scot. Barras had her cradled in his arms in the blink of an eye, against his chest with one arm beneath her knees and another behind her back. Her breath hissed through her teeth with surprise.
“You must not.”
Her voice was too high pitched, but that didn't even slow the man down. He climbed the stairs and carried her right over the threshold while his arms bound her to him. He spun her loose, and she retreated from his larger frame. Her cheeks flamed with temper.
“I have and I am nae sorry for it. Fate already gave you more luck tonight than ye have any right to expect. If me men hadn't discovered yer mare, you'd be lying dead out there.” His voice tightened, and he stepped closer to narrow the gap between them. Once again he moved with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise, his hand latching on to the fabric of her skirt near her waistband where the cartridge pleats were deepest.
“And it would nae have been an easy death, Jemma. Be very sure of that. For all that they are yer own countrymen, they would have raped ye until ye bleed and then kept at ye until ye died beneath them, shivering and helpless. Ye will stay in this tower where the walls can offer you protection.”
His eyes flashed with emotion so powerful, she stepped away from it. But her unconscious motion carried her back into the tower, so he released her and grunted softly before turning around. His kilt fell in longer pleats in back, and they swayed with the motion of his walking. Beyond the open doors she could hear men working to unsaddle the horses. There was low conversation and the sharp sounds of the hooves hitting the stones of the courtyard. A hush fell when their laird appeared, proving that the man was not one of the lazy nobles who enjoyed his title while sending others to do the tasks his position required. Gordon Dwyre moved without hesitation back into the night while the doors were shut and the lanterns remained inside with her.
“I do suggest ye mind the laird.”
“Is that so?”
The woman holding the lantern didn't take offense. Jemma blushed deeper when she heard her own tone, because it was surly and the woman standing in front of her was Jemma's elder. It didn't matter if the servant was peasant born or not, age was worthy of respect. Instead of frowning or shooting her a cutting look designed to instill some manners in her, the woman's lips curved into a smile.
“I am named Ula, and ye would not be the first woman to discover herself placed exactly where the laird wants ye. If ye are in fact Lord Ryppon's sister, yer sister-in-law should have told ye a thing or two about our laird when it comes to following a course that he's set on.”
Jemma stiffened, but her temper did her little good. Bridget hadn't needed to tell her about her time in Barras Castle. Her brother had been enraged when his bride fled across the border to her kin before celebrating her marriage. Her kin had promptly gifted her to Gordon Dwyre because the man was their overlord. As far as Scotland went, he was a very powerful man. With a baby wearing the crown here, lairds were more powerful than ever. On their own land, their word was law. She shivered because instead of being frightened by that fact, she took solace in it. His words echoed inside her head as the expression on the English knight's face rose up to sicken her with just how correct Barras was.
“My apologies for being ungrateful. I seem to have forgotten how to be polite.”
Ula nodded her head. It was a small reminder that the woman did expect respect even if she was a servant in the castle. That was only right and something that brought shame to Jemma again. Her father would not have approved.
Jemma sighed, suddenly feeling lost. She didn't recognize a single face or wall; even the clothing was foreign to her gaze. Coupled with the fact that she had nothing to call her own but what she wore, the feeling of being misplaced grew until it threatened to overwhelm her.
“Come along, lass. Let us see if yer face can't be cleaned up a wee bit.”
Jemma stared at the woman but nodded because it was something to do besides standing in the door frame.
But her misgivings grew with every step that saw her going deeper into the Scottish fortress. The stories told around the winter hearth whispered across her mind with tales of women who never returned from such places.
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Gordon couldn't recall the last time he'd felt his temper burn so hot. He was a man who knew full well that controlling his impulses was wise, but tonight he was being tested beyond everything he'd ever known.
“Ye look ready to kill.” Beacon Barras spoke softly, but he knew that Gordon would hear him. The man was his friend, but Gordon still snarled at him. Beacon shrugged, unconcerned.
“No one would think ill of ye if ye did. That was a right nasty bit of doing that we interrupted.”
“I daresay the English would consider it ill if I ran those pitiful excuses for men through. 'Tis a worry we do nae need with the winter creeping down from the mountains.”
“Is that truly Ryppon's sister?” Beacon was watching the darkness beyond the curtain wall, keeping his gaze moving because he wasn't as at ease as his words might make a person think.
“Aye, and much as I like the man, I had more respect for him this morning. What manner of fool allows any woman out so late in the day? She didna go riding this morning and 'tis my thinking that she should have waited until the sun rose on the morrow.”
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