Samantha James (7 page)

Meredith stood before him…but she was not alone.

A tall, bearded man dressed in a filthy ragged kilt stood beside her, a ruthless look about him. Lank, greasy hair hung down to his shoulders. Even as a prickle of warning sped through Cameron, another man stepped forward, this one stout and heavy-jowled. Each carried a dagger strapped to his waist. Cameron’s gaze leaped to her face—her eyes were huge, dark with fright.

Cameron’s gaze narrowed on the stubby fingers curled possessively around her elbow.

“So, lassie. Would this be your ’usband, then?”

“Nay,” she said quickly. “He is my brother.”

Her brother! What was this? Cameron groaned silently. It was obvious she was not acquainted with the telling of untruths.

“You lie,” the bearded one observed baldly. His fingers bit cruelly into her flesh. Cameron heard her sharp inhalation, but she made no outcry.

The man’s fate was sealed in that instant. He would be the first to die, Cameron decided.

Cameron flexed his fingers. The pair did not know to heed the dangerous glint in his eye. “I am neither her husband nor her brother,” he said coldly. “Indeed, what I am to her is none of your concern.”

“Ah, but it is. Ye left the wee lass alone, and fair game to any and all.”

“Aye, and a bonny wee lass she is!” The burly one chimed in with a leering grin. Beady eyes raked Meredith from head to toe. With a grating laugh, he reached out to pinch the side of one breast. “My taste runs to plumper tits, but no matter. Say, Davis, if he is neither ’er ’usband nor ’er brother, ’e’ll not mind watching while we mount her one by one—or both of us together!” With his hand he clamped his crotch, grinding his hand against it. “He looks to be a hardy one, eh, Davis? But I’ll wager he dinna have a bigger cock than me! But mayhap we’ll even give ’im a dunk in her honey-cave, too! And then we’ll see, eh?”

Meredith had gone white as a wintry hillside.

The muscles in Cameron’s legs tightened. He rolled up on the balls of his feet, preparing to spring. He poised, awaiting the right moment. “I shall warn you only once,” he said quietly. “Leave her be.”

“And why should we?” the tall one named Davis goaded him. “There be but one of you, and two of us!” He chortled. “Do ye hear that, Monty? He thinks he can best us!”

With that he jerked her against him. Meredith twisted wildly, trying to wrench away. With the back of his hand, Davis dealt her a blow to the head. Then, with a guttural laugh, he dragged wet, open lips down the white arch of her throat.

Fire flared before Cameron’s eyes. He waited no longer.

There was a dull crack as an elbow flashed in Monty’s face. Without a sound, the man sprawled forward.

Cameron had already reached Meredith. Hands upon her waist, he spun her wide and away. Davis’s head came up slowly. His jaw sagged as, with a single slash, Cameron saw to his vow. As his heart pumped its last, Davis’s expression was one of bewildered astonishment.

But the other—Monty—had staggered upright. Blood dripped from his mouth, pure malice from his heart. With a venomous snarl on his face, he wrenched his weapon from his boot and hurtled forward.

But Cameron did not see. He had just begun to turn. “Nay!” came a strangled cry.

It all happened in a blur. He caught just a glimpse of slender, outstretched arms flinging high…of long silken hair streaming like a glorious copper pennon…

There was a vicious, upward arc of the dagger.

A gasp…and then nothing.

Meredith had stopped dead in her tracks. Her form wavered, like a frail willow in the wind.

Monty stepped back. His gaze went from his bloodied blade to Cameron’s face. But one glimpse of fiercely glowing eyes was enough to start him blubbering.

“Christ, man! I—I did not see her! ’Twas meant for you, not h—”

He never had the chance to finish. Monty died with his eyes wide open, his own dagger buried to the hilt in his throat.

Cameron whirled. Meredith was staring at him, her expression both puzzled and dismayed. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. A crimson stain bloomed on the front of her gown, a stain that spread sticky and wet.

An awful dread shot through him, like the shaft of an arrow. Sweet Mother of God! Had the swine killed her?

Her knees gave way. She began to crumple. Cameron reached her just before she hit the ground. Catching her beneath the knees, he bore her high in his arms. “
Jesu
,” he breathed.

“Why do you carry me? You—you said that you would not.”

Her voice was but a breath.

By the Virgin, what a time for the remembrance! “I said I would not carry you when you faltered or stumbled, and you’ve done neither.”

She turned her face against his throat. “But I did stumble. And you saw—you saw but you said nothing!”

What was this? Was she ashamed? He was awash in amazement, frustration, and desperation—and all at once! Trying to hurry, yet not wishing to jostle her
further, he started back toward their camp. Judging from Meredith’s limp pliancy, Cameron was certain she’d lost consciousness.

He was wrong. He eased her to the soft, mossy ground beneath the tree. Her eyes snapped open, then sought his. Small fingers wound into the front of his tunic with surprising strength.

“I pray you…do not…let me die…”

His throat tightened oddly. Her eyes fixed him with a desperate entreaty.

“I won’t let you die,” he said almost fiercely. He swallowed her hand with his own. “Do you hear me, Meredith? I won’t let you die.”

His heart hammering, he bent over her. A bruise already rose on her temple. The front of her gown was soaked through with blood. Without hesitation, he slid the gaping neckline clear of her shoulders, all the way to her waist.

Her eyes flew wide. “Wh-what are you doing?” she gasped.

His smile was faint. Ah, but she was ever prim, ever righteous! “If I am to save you, lass, I must first see the wound.” Grimly he noted that even had she so desired, she didn’t have the strength to deny him. One hand fluttered upward, as if to shield herself, only to fall back weakly.

Her lashes swept down. Her gaze veered away and her lashes fell shut. Had she lost consciousness? It would be easier for them both if she had.

He paid no heed to the soft round curves now open to his scrutiny, but concentrated solely on his task. Had the wound been but two fingers’ width to her left, her heart would surely have been pierced. The blade had slashed upward toward her shoulder; it penetrated the flesh at the very underside of her breast,
there where that tender mound swelled upward. Snatching a linen cloth and his one spare tunic from his pouch, he wiped away the blood. The edges of the wound were clean, not jagged and torn, but he couldn’t tell how deep; blood continued to well bright and scarlet. Though Cameron did not consider himself skilled in the arts of healing, he’d helped tend those injured in skirmishes before, and he knew the bleeding must be stopped. Damn.
Damn
! He had no way to close the wound but to bind it tightly.

There was a tearing sound as he plunged his dagger into his tunic. His features taut, he ripped the cloth into strips, wadding one into a thick pad before binding it in place. By the time he’d finished, her face was leeched of all color, the softness of her mouth pinched tight. For now he could do no more. As he covered her naked torso with his plaid, she let out a long, uneven breath.

He knew then that she’d been awake throughout.

In time she dozed. Cameron waited until then to reach beneath his plaid and divest her of the ruined gown; there was little point in her wearing it. The veriest smile touched his lips—she’d have been shocked to the core if she’d known.

Leaning back on his heels, he shook his head. Why the devil had she told that unsavory pair that he was her brother? To protect him? His belly knotted with self-loathing. It was his fault. He’d vowed that the brigand named Davis would die first—and he had. But in his anger, he’d been careless. He should have seen to Monty first, after all.

His sleep that night was fitful. In the morning he woke to ominous gray skies and the rumble of thunder across the hills. Meredith, pale and wan, didn’t rouse when he called her name. He stood, his mind turning
furiously. He hated to risk moving her, but the damp wet ground was no place for an injured woman—and they were still days away from his keep in the Highlands. He hesitated but an instant, then whistled for Fortune.

He rode the steed hard, back to the place where they had seen the crofter yesterday. Mayhap the crofter would know where they might find shelter.

Instinct served him well. The crofter, a man named Jonas, was only too willing to lend assistance when Cameron relayed how he and Meredith had been attacked by outlaws. Jonas assumed that Meredith was his wife—Cameron saw no need to correct his assumption.

“There is a shepherd’s hut not far from where you stay,” he told Cameron. “My wife and I would gladly take her in, but the hut is far closer to your camp.”

His wife, Johanna, nearly as plump as she was tall, quickly fetched blankets, cloth for bandages, and a healing unguent. Sternly she instructed Cameron that he must keep the wound clean, lest poisons set in. For their generosity, Cameron left them a handful of silver, ample recompense for their services.

It was just as Jonas said—the hut was just atop the rise beyond their camp. It was tiny and crude, with naught but a fireplace and one small window. But at least it offered shelter from the morning mists and cool night air. Hurriedly he gathered fresh straw from outside for a bed, spread it over the dirt in one corner, and draped a blanket over it.

He’d been gone several hours by the time he returned to where Meredith lay. His heart leaped, for it appeared she hadn’t moved.

He dropped down beside her. “Meredith,” he called. “Meredith.”

Her eyes drifted open slowly. He had to bend to hear her.

“You were gone so long. Weren’t you afraid I would flee?”

Cameron didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. He smiled slightly. “Weren’t you afraid that
I
would flee?”

Her gaze skipped away. “I—I thought you did,” she confided, a faint catch in her voice.

His smile faded and he scowled blackly. Did she truly think he would abandon her? To do so would have been callous and cruel, and by the saints, he was neither!

“We must go where ’tis safe and dry,” he said softly. “We have no shelter here and I fear the rain will soon come.”

She nodded, then made as if to rise. “Nay!” he said sharply. “Let me.” Tucking his plaid around her, he carefully lifted her in his arms.

Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead by the time he shouldered his way into the hut. Her face was white. He saw the way her teeth caught at her lower lip as he lowered her onto the pallet. He knew the trip must have hurt like the very devil, yet she had made not a sound.

She turned her head ever so slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Exhausted, she slept throughout the day. By evening, Cameron had begun to grow alarmed. He’d thought he’d done the right thing by moving her, but where before she’d been a sickly gray, now her cheeks burned ruddy and scarlet. Her breathing was quick and shallow. With a deep furrow etched between the heaviness of his brows, he laid a hand on her forehead.

He swore violently. She was as hot as fire! He stood for a moment, a feeling of helplessness sweeping over him.

Twice now he’d saved her life—and she was a Munro…a Munro!

Would Monty have driven home the thrust of his blade had she not stepped between them?

God help him, he didn’t know. He knew only that she’d tried to save him…

He could do no less for her.

And he’d promised her he wouldn’t let her die.

He wasted no more time. Drawing water from the well outside, he stationed himself beside the pallet with a cloth and a basin of water. In one smooth move he swept aside his plaid, baring the whole of her. Wetting the cloth again and again, he drew it slowly over her body from head to toe, cooling the blaze of her skin.

Her head thrashed. Her legs shifted restlessly.

Swearing beneath his breath, he set aside the basin. “Meredith, no! You must lay still, else you will reopen the wound.”

She cringed. “My gown…Why do you do this? Nay, do not touch me…nay, not there! ’Tis wrong!”

Cameron stilled, taken aback. What was this, that she would shrink from him so? This was more than mere modesty—he sensed it with all that he possessed. She had not been so afraid of him this morn! He found the notion immensely disturbing. Indeed, he could have sworn the starkness of terror clung to her voice.

She moaned. “’Tis so dark. I cannot see…I cannot see…Who are you?
Who are you
?” Her eyes flicked open. She stared at him, wide and unblinking,
as if she saw right through him—a look that sent an eerie chill through his bones.

His regard sharpened. It appeared she did not know him—the fever had touched her mind as well.

Putting out a hand, he merely brushed the slope of her shoulder. Giving a half-sob, she scrambled back, curling into herself and huddling into a small ball.

Frustration gnawed at him. Cameron contemplated his dilemma. What the devil was he to do? He had no wish to frighten her out of her wits. But if she wouldn’t let him touch her…

“Easy, lass. I mean you no harm. You have naught to fear from me.”

If she heard, there was no sign of it. Quietly he murmured softly, what nonsense he knew not. Oddly, the mellow depth of his voice seemed to soothe her. Soon her breath was no longer rasping and thin. The unseen tension within her began to loosen, her body to relax.

Holding his breath, he rested his fingertips on her brow, then smoothed damp, stray wisps of hair from her temple. This time she didn’t draw away. With his knuckles he skimmed her cheek, a touch that was almost a caress; she turned her cheek in to it. The fever was not gone completely, but she was cooler, and her color was more normal.

Still, she remained slightly restless. Every so often her lips moved. Her fingers plucked at something…prayer beads, he realized. With a sigh he suddenly remembered the night he’d stolen her. She’d had them in her hands when his arm stole about her from behind. He shook his head, faintly amused. Saintly little maid! Even in sleep she prayed.

With a faint whimper, she shifted to her back.

Cameron froze. The entire sweet length of her now
lay bare and open to his gaze. Silken ropes of reddish gold hair were caught beneath her, revealing all that the lass no doubt would wish was
not
revealed, had she been awake. Long dark lashes feathered like dark spikes upon her cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, lips he suspected would be immensely soft and kissable. Her skin was flawless and unblemished…

All of it.

All at once the fever burned in
his
blood. He could not control the rampant course his mind decided to follow—nor the brazen path of his eyes. That she would have taken her vows was almost laughable. He could not imagine such beauty concealed beneath coarse gray wool, forever hidden behind the walls of a nunnery.

Though by doing so he branded himself a rogue, he looked his fill and more. An almost painful erectness stiffened his staff.

There was no help for it. He was but a man who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, and one with a hearty appetite, at that—though he was not one to bed any and all, as some men were. He could not deny it…she stirred him mightily, stirred all that was male and elemental within him.

He had discovered for himself the fragility of her bones; she’d felt small and slight in his arms, her weight scarcely more than a child’s. But there was naught to resemble a child in the woman who lay before him. His bold regard took in the quivering thrust of pink-tipped breasts as her chest rose and fell. Before his very sight, her nipples peaked hard and erect. His gaze dropped to the tender skin below the strip of bandage beneath those tempting mounds.

It struck him that were he to lay his hand between her hips and spread his fingers wide, he could easily
span the width of her belly. The sight of that satin cream hollow drew his gaze endlessly, for there between her thighs nestled a triangular nest of down the same red-gold as her hair.

A dark desire slipped over him. She lay before him, a veritable feast offered to a man who’d not partaken in days, reminding him that it had indeed been weeks since he’d lain with a woman. Her cleft would be tight, he thought suddenly, tight as a glove around the heat of his member…

He had touched her dispassionately, with detached indifference as he tended her injury. But now he ached with the need to lave those soft pink peaks with the heat of his tongue. He ached to bury his fingertips through springy red curls and slide a finger deep within her hidden cleft—to discover for himself if her silken channel would cling to his hand as thoroughly as it would cling to his rod.

His blood began to simmer. A ravening heat burned deep in his belly. He had only to reach out…The need to touch her was almost ungovernable; the urge that pounded in his veins was unthinkable. Ah, but no doubt the lass would have pronounced it the most grievous of sins…

The rational part of him rebelled. His jaw hard, disgustedly he flung the cloth into the basin. Abruptly he drew a thin blanket over her, shielding him from further temptation.

God above, what had come over him to addle his senses so? He was not a man to let lust be his master. She was a Munro. His enemy. Today. Tomorrow. All the days that would follow.

Restlessly he paced the length of the hut and back, then turned and stood in the open doorway. Egan and Finn would soon be home, he thought broodingly. No
doubt they would anticipate his arrival within several days of their own. What would happen when he did not appear? He disliked the conclusion which sprang to mind. Would they think this wee lass had slain him? Surely not. Yet Cameron was no fool—his clan would blame the Munros.

The thought of all-out war between the clans made him sick to the depths of his soul. He could not change what he’d done. By God, he would not! Aye, this was the best way, to let the Red Angus believe his daughter was dead. This way he—Cameron—would have his revenge…with no more bloodshed.