Stolen by the Highlander (12 page)

Now, she waited for Brodie to return. Many questions plagued her about what she’d overheard between the two men and from the pain-filled murmurings of the man they’d treated. Even worse, she’d heard men talking as they walked by Margaret’s tent, about the fighting that had happened. More tales that revealed Caelan’s two faces—the one he had shown to her and the one seen by those who lived here or questioned him.

Margaret’s own words had been the worst to hear and the hardest to accept, but the woman had no reason to lie to her. Indeed, she owed the woman much for being the one who understood Arabella’s place and still spoke to her about the truth.

Margaret had urged caution on their walk back here. Emotions flared all day, from anguish and pain, to anger and hot-headedness. The worst time to deal with her father was when his anger was high.

Though she did not know all of the details about what had happened at Drumlui, what she did know was upsetting, even to her. Men Brodie knew and counted as friends had died. From some of the talk, she’d learned that innocent villagers had been caught in the middle and had perished, too.

Letting out a breath and feeling the bone-deep exhaustion seeping in, Arabella decided to wait before asking him everything she wanted to know. She would still be here on the morrow and there would be time. Searching the chamber, she did not see water for washing. And she had no brush or comb to use on her tangled hair. She took the empty jug to the entry and asked one of the guards there if he could fill it for her.

Arabella sat on a stool and lifted the length of her hair over her shoulder, using her fingers to ease out the knots. She needed to wash it. She needed a bath. She needed a good night’s rest. She needed to sort through this situation and figure out how this was going to end. Only when a soft indrawn breath drew her attention did she look up to see Brodie there.

Watching her wordlessly. Intensely. Her mouth went dry from the way he gazed at her.

He wore no shirt, instead he held it in his hand and pressed it to his side. His long hair, made darker by the wetness of it, dripped rivulets of water down over his shoulders and chest. It was not the bare-chested part that shocked her, for she’d watched him fight like this all those months ago. It was the nearness of him and the size of him and the intimacy of being able to hear his breathing and see his muscles move.

She might have been able to look away but he stared at her mouth as if he remembered the kisses they’d shared. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her very dry lips and he groaned and closed his eyes. His hand dropped from his side, exposing the deep slash there that bled freely now.

‘Your wound. No one saw to it?’ she asked, moving towards him. He took a half step away before stopping.

‘Nay. I washed it, then.’ He turned and walked to the large chest where he kept garments.

‘It will keep bleeding. Here—’ she pointed to the stool that she’d used ‘—sit. Let me see if I can stop the bleeding.’

He followed her instructions without arguing which told her that the wound did pain him. She needed better light to see the gash more clearly, so she sought out a few candles and a lamp and set them around him. It took only a few minutes to gather what she needed and then she was ready.

Nay, not ready. All she did was look at him there and her hands began to shake. Her legs trembled as she walked closer to him. As much as she tried to convince herself it was just the exhaustion taking over, Arabella knew the true reason for the way she felt—the man before her. The thought of touching his skin, feeling the heat she knew his strong body produced...

‘Come now, lady,’ he said, his voice deep and dangerous, as he lifted his head and met her gaze. ‘Margaret told me of your daring deeds this day. Surely, this—’ he glanced down at his injury and then back at her ‘—is nothing to worry over.’

All the confidence she had in herself fled as he opened his long legs to allow her closer. The gash went from under his arm towards his chest and she would need to see it better. Sitting on the stool would not work. Standing here would not work, either. She moved to his side and knelt next to him. Bringing candles closer, she reached out to test the length and depth of the wound.

He hissed at the first contact, his back stiffened and she drew back, glancing up at his face. His lips, the ones so recently kissed, thinned in what she knew was pain. Remembering where he kept his jug, Arabella found it and held it out to him. She was nervous enough, the thought of touching him and the thought of piercing his skin with needle and thread made her own stomach clench. As if reading her thoughts, he lifted it up to her mouth.

‘I think you need this more than I do, lass.’

His voice was as deep and smooth as the
uisge beatha
in that jug he offered. She tilted her head a bit and let some slide into her mouth. Its heat trickled down her throat and into her belly, spreading through her. Licking the last drop from her lips, she glanced at him.

A mistake, that was. A huge error in judgement.

His mouth was on hers before she could take a breath, his tongue dipping inside, chasing the heady liquid towards her throat. Any sense of calm the brew had given her exploded as his hot mouth slanted across hers to taste her.

Brodie slid his hand into her hair and held her to him. When she would have eased back away, for fear of hurting his wound, she told herself, he would have none of that. His other arm came around her shoulders, holding her there.

Now the heat piercing her had nothing to do with the potent whisky but everything to do with the man. Her blood did not rush, but it thickened and heated with every caress of his tongue in her mouth. She opened wider and took it in more deeply, suckling his in response. Her breasts grew heavy against his naked chest and she fought the ridiculous urge to peel off her gown and feel the heat of his skin against hers.

Only when the feel of his hair tickled the sensitive skin in between her fingers did she realise she’d reached up to touch him. Without moving her mouth from his, while he plunged in and possessed her, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him closer. She wanted...she wanted...she wanted...

Him.

The shock of that thought made her pull back and stare at him. His breathing came shallow and fast, matching hers. His eyes bore the glittery glaze of passion and stared at her mouth as though hungry for it, for her. Her body shuddered, recognising the extent of his desire and answering it with a throbbing tightening within her. His expression turned fierce, possessive, primal as he slanted his face and pulled her in to him once more.

‘Brodie.’

He stopped at the sound, his mouth scant inches from hers, open and ready to take hers. She blinked, trying to dispel the powerful attraction to him.

‘Brodie,’ the man said, louder this time.

He released his hold on her and she on him. Sitting back on her heels, Arabella tried to slow her ragged breathing. Her body did not wish to and she felt aching waves that pulsed through her. Then he stood and stepped around her, walking to the opening of the chamber to speak to one of his men.

When he turned back towards her, she tried to keep her gaze on the small crock in his hand. But her efforts failed for she could not help but notice how aroused he still was as he crossed the space between them.

How could she be so drawn to the one man she could never love? Where was her honour when all she wanted to do was fall into his embrace?

Taking a deep breath, Arabella prepared to do battle—with herself.

Chapter Twelve

‘Y
ou just thought of him, did you not?’ he asked quietly. His gaze searched her face and for a moment she did not realise to whom he referred. Then she did and the pain struck her. ‘And again just then, too.’

‘Aye,’ she said, turning her face so he could not stare at her in that manner.

‘And you feel disloyal to his memory because we...kissed?’

She nodded as tears gathered in her eyes, stinging her throat. If only...

‘Arabella, look at me.’

It took a few moments to gather her strength and meet his gaze.

‘I would deny it if I could.’

She waited, her heart pounding as she knew she wanted him to refute his part in Malcolm’s death. She’d waited to hear his explanation, his attempt to mitigate his part in it, but now she knew it would not come. It could not come because he was guilty. No matter if she wished it. Exhaustion and sadness overcame her then and her shoulders sagged.

‘Take your rest, lady,’ he whispered, kneeling next to her. ‘You have done more than I expected of you and you have earned your rest.’

‘Nay,’ she said, reaching for the needle and thread. ‘I’ll see to your wound, as Margaret asked me to do.’ She retreated safely behind the woman’s request.

He nodded and sat on the stool, spreading his legs once more around her and leaning back to give her access to the gash on his side. In silence, she repaired the wound, using small, close stitches, mopping the blood as it welled and spilled down his side. Then he held out the small crock and she scooped out some of the ointment with her fingers and dabbed it over the area. Other than stiffening once or twice, he did not move or speak.

Or reach for her. Or stare at her mouth. Well, if he had, she’d not seen it for she kept her eyes on her task and tried to ignore the man beneath her touch.

When she wrapped several lengths of cloth around his chest and tied it off, her task was done and she gathered up her supplies. As she stood, her legs trembled and she would have fallen if he had not caught her. Resting her hand on his shoulder, she regained her balance and stepped back. And saw the other gash on his head.

‘You did not tell me your head was injured,’ she said as she took the needle and thread in her hand. ‘Hold that candle higher so I can see this.’

‘’Tis nothing, Arabella.’

‘It must have pained you when I...tugged on your hair?’ This tear followed the line of his hair from above his right eye down to the side of his cheek.

‘Nay.’ He hissed this time when the needle pierced his skin, the area being more tender than his side.

‘I will finish quickly.’ She bent to her task, not wasting time on words. It took only a few minutes to repair that cut and put the ointment on it. No bandage would be placed over it.

‘My thanks, lady,’ he said as he rose.

Brodie walked to the trunk and pulled a shirt from it. She saw the wince as he lifted his arms and tugged it over his head but did not comment. Men generally did not want to be reminded of weaknesses or injuries—she’d learned that early in her years of caring for her family after her mother’s death.

‘Seek your rest now. And you have my thanks for your help this day. Especially since...’

‘Since?’

‘Since you are here against your will. And...’

‘And a Cameron?’ she asked.

‘Aye. A Cameron.’ She sensed that those words were to remind her of the line drawn between them. A safe distance from which they could observe and interact but not engage.

‘Even Camerons are capable of mercy, sir,’ she retorted.

‘It would appear that some are, Lady Arabella.’

And he was gone. No warnings to stay within. No admonitions of any kind.

Tomorrow would see new battles between them, but for now she walked to the pallet there and collapsed into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Brodie wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he could not allow it to take control that night. He paced his way around the camp, from end to end, checking on his men, the guards, the horses and the supplies. And then he found himself standing before the cave he’d claimed as his some months ago. Jamie moved away as he approached. He crouched down to look within and saw her on his pallet.

Damn, but he felt himself surge and harden at the sight of her lying there!

She’d been extraordinary all day. Margaret yet sang her praises, as did every one of his people who’d come into contact with her. Magnus’s life was owed to her actions—actions taken without hesitation. A prisoner. A Cameron.

What was he going to do with her?

His body responded with its own suggestions, the same ones that had been trying to take control for months now. The same body that she’d repaired with her gentle touch and sure movements. Did she know he had inhaled her scent as she knelt between his legs? Had she been able to see his erection that had lasted through the whole time they were together? Had she any idea of what could happen if she but gave a word or sign to him?

She was an innocent, he had no doubt of that. But that simply made it worse. He could read the signs of her own arousal, he’d noticed the tightening buds of her nipples and the way she breathed there next to him. Her eyes had darkened and her mouth had opened just a bit to allow her to pant in shallow, quick breaths.

Never to be his.

He let out a sigh as he noticed her condition. It looked as though she’d crumpled to the pallet with no attention paid to her comfort. She lay as she’d fallen. Brodie crept silently into the chamber and stood over her as she slept the sleep of the exhausted. If she remained as she was, she would pay the price come morning when her neck would hurt and her hands would be numb.

Brodie leaned over and untwisted her arms and gently lifted her head on to the folded blanket that served as a pillow. She mumbled as he straightened her legs and untangled her gown. Then, after removing her shoes, he covered her with several thick blankets against the chill. Satisfied that she would be more comfortable now, he stood and watched the soft rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

And he wanted nothing more in that moment than to lift those blankets and crawl in next to her. To wrap his body around hers, to sleep with her in his arms. He’d not realised he’d groaned until she began to rouse.

He stepped back into the shadows so she would not see him and wake fully. She rolled on to her side and whispered into the dark corner. Her brother’s name floated in the air between them.

Just where it would always be.

Brodie stood and walked out, nodding to Jamie as he left. Seeking a place in Rob’s tent, he would get a few hours’ sleep before dawn came.

And on the morrow, he would hear counsel from his closest friends and supporters over their path forward. The events and bloodshed of this day had shaken his resolve—not in his determination to bring down his treacherous cousin, but in how he would go about it.

Something must change.

* * *

The sun shone bright and clear, its light piercing the darkness of night and of the cave and waking her. Arabella discovered that unaccustomed hard work demanded its price and, for her, that cost was that every one of her muscles ached. As she rose from the pallet, tossing aside blankets she did not remember placing there, her arms and back screamed in protest. She forced herself to move, stretching her arms over her head and bending to ease the tightness in her back and hips.

She was no stranger to work, but attending to the needs of so many was new. Her father’s healers dealt with the worst of the wounded after an attack or skirmish. Aided by servants, Arabella’s responsibilities had been but to monitor their efforts and offer comfort to the wounded.

Here, she’d lost count of how many wounds and cuts she’d cleaned, stitched and bandaged. How many doses of Margaret’s potions and pain medicaments she’d administered. How many pieces of cloth she’d torn into bandages. She’d given no thought to the cause of this until she’d overheard some of the men talking outside Margaret’s tent.

An ambush. A rescue gone bad. Caelan’s attack using villagers as shields. If not for Brodie, more would have died.

A terrible feeling in the pit of the stomach told her she, and many others, might have been fooled by Caelan Mackintosh.

‘Lady?’ Arabella went to the opening where Rob stood waiting.

‘Aye?’

‘Good morrow, my lady,’ he said as he entered. She expected he would carry the customary morning bowl of porridge but he was empty-handed instead. In the light of day, she noticed the bruises on his jaw and under his eye. He’d fought, as well.

‘And to you,’ she replied. Before she could ask his purpose, if not to bring her food to break her fast, he spoke.

‘Brodie said that if you give your word not to try to escape, you can have the freedom of the camp, lady.’

Startled, she met his gaze and found all seriousness there. This was an unexpected offer...and chain of a sort.

‘He would accept my word?’

‘Aye. He said so himself when he sent me here.’

After spending so many days within dreary tents and this cave, and on an especially sunny day, it would be a welcomed change to be outside. But she would have to give up any attempts at escape.

‘Can I trust him when he says he intends to release me?’ she asked, watching Brodie’s closest friend carefully. Without a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. Could she trust him?

She would learn nothing sitting inside every day until she was released or rescued. Her father must be searching for her. He would not allow this action, this insult, to go unanswered, for it was not his way. She must be ready for whatever happened and being kept here would not work.

‘Aye. He has my word.’

Rob nodded and escorted her outside. An unusually warm day greeted her, the sun shone from a cloudless, brilliant sky, promising to dry up the mud and remove the chill from the air. They walked along the path and were met by nods from those they passed.

‘Margaret asked that you see her, if you would?’ Rob said, as he pointed in the direction across the camp. ‘You can break your fast there, as well.’

Arabella nodded and began to walk away when he stopped her.

‘Lady, there are some here who do not welcome a Cameron within our midst, even one brought against her will.’ Rob glanced around and then back at her, his brown eyes intense. ‘So have a care as you go.’

‘Old ways die hard,’ she whispered.

Decades and generations of feuding did not fall away easily. Old attitudes took years to form and even longer to dissipate. Even marrying a Mackintosh would not smooth over all the hurt and deaths of their feud.

‘Just so.’ He nodded then and waited as she walked away.

Arabella stood there, alone for at least the moment, breathing in deeply of the cool air. Glancing across the area, she noted the cluster of tents and shelters erected towards the cliffside and more back along the path to the cave. Several fires burned in pits and women stood cooking around them. Children, a surprising number of children, played nearby.

The encampment stood surrounded by a thick growth of trees, hidden from view of those below. Above them was only the highest of the mountains in the area. From what she could tell, they faced north, but whether Drumlui Keep was to the north or south of them, she could not tell. A woman waved her towards one of the fires and held out a bowl to her as she approached. The woman looked familiar, but she could not remember her name.

‘Good morrow, my lady,’ she said, offering a cup to her, too. ‘I am Bradana. Ye treated my husband, Duncan.’

‘How does he fare?’ she asked, smiling as two little boys played around their mother’s skirts, peeking at her and hiding when she glanced back. She scooped the hot porridge up and ate several mouthfuls of it as they scampered about.

‘He is complaining this morn, so he must be improving,’ Bradana said. ‘’Tis the way of men, is it not?’

‘Aye, it is.’ She smiled at the wee ones as they played their game. She finished the last of the thick porridge and handed the bowl back.

‘Have ye need of a cloak, my lady? This bit of warmth will disappear by day’s end and ye will catch a chill.’

‘Brodie gave me a cloak, Bradana. I left it behind but I will fetch it later. My thanks for your concern,’ she said, drinking the water and giving the cup back to her, too.

She walked on and found her way to Margaret’s. She called out softly before lifting the flap of the tent and entering. Magnus lay sleeping and Margaret tended to him. Soon, she followed Margaret throughout the camp, seeing to those injured yesterday. If it was strange to see Arabella Cameron there, or having her help these rebel Mackintoshes, no one said anything. Though she feared some retaliation or insult, none came.

* * *

The morning passed quickly and all the injuries had been checked and new ointments and bandages applied. The only one she had not seen yet was Brodie. Had he ridden out again? Arabella kept watching to see a glimpse of him as they moved all around the area, but he was not there. When Margaret said she did not need her any longer, Arabella went looking for her horse.

Remembering the path she’d taken the night she tried to escape, she circled the tents and walked towards the makeshift yard where the horses were kept together. Had Brodie ridden the black back to Drumlui? She walked to the fence and spotted her horse there. Recognising her, the black came at her call and nuzzled her hand.

‘Poor lad! Did you think I’d forgotten you?’ she joked, stroking his nose. Reaching inside the pocket of her gown, she drew out a piece of carrot she’d got from one of the women and held it up on her palm to him. He gobbled it down and pushed her hand, demanding more. ‘Next time, lad. Next time.’

‘I think you could forgive me for taking you, but not the horse.’ She turned and discovered Brodie standing with his back against a tree there, watching her.

‘You may be correct in that,’ she admitted. ‘Are you giving him a chance to run? He gets restless if he does not.’

The horse under discussion nudged against her shoulder just then, sending her stumbling a few steps. Laughing, she regained her balance and walked back to the fence. She heard Brodie walk to her side and glanced out of the edge of her eyes when he stood next to her.