The Highlander's Sin (4 page)

Duncan bowed low. “I thank ye.”

“’Twas not a compliment.”

“Enough chatter. We must
be away.”

Dunrobin’s
beach was a hundred feet away, the waves lapping lazily at the shore, completely unaware that one of the ladies of its mighty castle had been so easily taken away.

“What will ye do? Sail away with me?”
she quipped.

He shook his head
and again tossed her onto his shoulder. “Nay, lass. Nothing so romantic as that.”

Duncan
ran toward the trees, careful to keep his eyes on the guards of Dunrobin. Once inside the cover of the forest, he found his horse, Blade, just where he’d left him, and set Heather on her feet.

“Where is my horse?”
Heather asked.

“Och, such a spoiled lass ye are.” Duncan gave her a pointed look. “This is an abduction
, in case ye dinna recall. There will be no horse for ye. No way for ye to escape. Ye’ll ride with me.”

Heather crossed her arms over her chest, tilted her chin at a haughty angle and shook her head. “Nay. ’Tis indecent.”

Duncan let out a surprised laugh. “Truly? Ye think I care for decency and your honor? I am abducting ye.”

Was the lass daft? Did she not understand the concept of abduction? And for that matter, was he truly indulging her
act? At that moment, he wished he had tied her up and stuffed her mouth with a rag. Then at least he wouldn’t have to hear this nonsense. It was a stalling tactic. Had to be.

“I know,” she said, her voice softer, as though she were thinking about something else entirely.

He glanced over at her, studying her. She was looking toward the ground, her hands wringing one another.

“What is it?” he asked harshly, disbelieving himself that he even asked. He wasn’t supposed to care.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, glancing up at him with widened eyes.

“I doubt it,” he mumbled.
With the way she’d so openly run her mouth since the moment they’d met, she was certain to give him grief about something fairly soon.

But he wasn’t going to wait to find out what it was. He was surprised that there weren’t shouts coming from the castle already.

As if on cue, a loud whistle sounded from that direction. ’Haps the switching guards would have now found the bodies of the four he’d disposed of—or just found them missing. Didn’t matter. He had little time now.

Heather heard the whistle, too. She whirled her head around sharply
, staring back at the castle, her lower lip sucked into her mouth.

“Get on the horse,” he ordered.

Heather turned away from the castle and approached Blade. Too easy.

“What are ye about, lass?” he asked, stepping closer, the air around them filled with tension.
Would she bolt?

“Ye keep asking me that. There is nothing.”

He doubted her. Narrowing his eyes, he studied her all the more. Her face was innocent enough, but lurking behind the beauty of her heather-colored eyes was a keen intelligence that had he seen it in a man it would have made him fearful.

Heather planted her hands on her hips and glared at him fiercely. “Maybe I should ask what’s bothering ye? But ye’re my captor
, so I’m not supposed to ask ye questions.”

How easily she’d taken
the reins. “If ye must know, I think ye’re up to something. No woman who’s being abducted goes so willingly.”

The lass had the audacity to shrug. “If ye want me to fight, I will. But I’d rather go without the bindings or a gag.”

“Ye’d run if ye got the chance?”

“Should I
nay want to?”

“Aye. But there’s been many chances for ye to run, to scream
, and ye’ve not used any of them.”

“Maybe I want to leave
Dunrobin.”

That made him laugh. Hard. “A princess in her castle, spoiled rotten, the boss of everyone
, and ye’d want to leave?”

“Believe it or not, I am more than a spoiled child as ye seem to think.” Her words were spoken calmly, with a cool edge that made him pause.

“Run then. I should like to catch ye.”

Heather didn’t hesitate. She ran—but not back toward the castle. She ran in the opposite direction.

“What in bloody hell?” Duncan stammered.

The woman lifted her skirts, revealing creamy, sculpted calves—athletic legs—and hauled her arse up the densely foliaged hill.

Not at all what he’d expected. Grabbing hold of Blade’s reins, he flung himself into the saddle and gave chase. He couldn’t very well leave the horse, especially since she was running in the direction he wanted to go, and Sutherland warriors would be after them soon. Duncan leaned low over his warhorse’s withers, gaining on the lass. She didn’t look behind her, but kept a steady pace forward. A pace any normal male would have found daunting. She sprinted full force, without a falter in her footing, as though this were an action she enjoyed and practiced often.

No matter how well she raced, the lass was no competition for a horse. Blade nudged her in the middle of her back with his
muzzle, and as she fell forward, Duncan swerved the horse to her left, bent low and lifted her around the waist, sitting her on his lap.

“Got ye.”

Chapter Three

H
eat flushed through Heather as though she’d been doused in boiling water. But it wasn’t a painful burn. It made her wish for a fan to blow a cooling breeze over her face and neck. Made her want to curl into the hard, warm body of her captor.

Shameful
, really.

The temperature was cooler beneath the trees where the sun had
trouble reaching through the abundant leaves. Thank goodness for that, or she would have surely melted by now. They’d ridden for the better part of a half hour, her thighs pressed to his, her back held tight to his chest, her bottom touching…something long and hard. She preferred to think it was his weapon—and it was of a sorts, but this one made of all-male flesh.

Th
e priest. A lie if ever she’d heard one.

Heather cleared her throat, wiggled forward, hoping to get away from his hardness, though it made her tingle in places she
hadn’t known could tingle. Made her yearn for… something.

Mostly
, she wanted to get away from him. To shove his thick arm from her belly. To remove the tight grip he had on her hip. To hop off his massive horse and run away. Far away. To find the Scottish war camp. William Wallace. To be useful to her country and make her family proud. Her brother Ronan was there with his wife, Julianna—a warrior woman. If anyone, Julianna would see the merit in Heather’s plans to fight for her country.

She’d not shun her or forbid it as her brothers Magnus, Blane and Ronan had done. They didn’t think it was a woman’s place. When Heather
had brought up the fact that Julianna was the right hand of their future king, the men had all grumbled about her having been trained from birth and having the king’s blood in her.

Well, with three older brothers, Heather had practically been trained from birth. Even her older sister
, Lorna, and she had played warriors as children, fighting with pretend swords and shields in their shared bedchamber when their mother had put them to bed, and even later when their hired nurse had done the same.

Fighting was in her blood.

And she wasn’t about to let the forbidden get in her way. Heather saw great things in her future. Great things for Scotland, and she knew she just had to be involved.

If she wasn’t going to let the
naysayings of her siblings get in her way, there was no way in hell she was going to allow a Highlander dressed as a priest obstruct her, either.

“Can we stop soon?” she asked, trying for meek
, though it soured her belly. According to most men, a woman should know her place, and heavens knew, her family chaplain had preached it enough. ’Haps if she curbed her tongue, this devil priest would be more lenient, allowing her a chance to escape.

“Nay.”
Too serious. Had he guessed her intent?

“But I’ve need to…” God, her skin heated more at the mention of relieving
herself than it had when he’d teased her about him giving women rides.

“Hold it,” he instructed cruelly.

“But—”

“Lass, I’ll nay be stopping. We’re being followed.”

“Followed?” That sent a chill cascading along her spine. She didn’t want to be saved. Not yet, anyway. And if anyone was doing the saving, she wanted it to be William Wallace or Robert the Bruce.

Her adventure had only just begun.

“Aye. Now hush and hold on.”

He spurred his horse onward, the poor animal covered in a lather of sweat as he’d been pushed faster and harder.
Priest leaned forward, crushing her back with his muscled chest and forcing her to lean closer to the horse’s neck. The hair from his mane flicked painfully onto her cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut to keep from watching the ground sweep by beneath their feet.

Heather wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck and prayed they’d make it without either of them falling.

Priest veered sharply to the right. Seconds, and many slapping branches, later, they broke through the trees and raced across a rising and falling moor. The sun beamed down on them, feeling like it was burning the top of her head. Why, she asked herself for the hundredth time that day, had she chosen to wear so many darn layers?

They followed a
winding, dirt-packed road. One Heather had ridden on the many occasions when she had visited her aunt and cousin Daniel at Blair Castle. She recognized the pattern of boulders that had been carved with various depictions of wildcat fights—some with each other, some with men, some with stags—hence the name, Wildcat Road.

Their pursuer had yet to make himself noticed
, and Heather prayed he never did. This was her chance to catch a dream that manifested years ago, and only a few months ago had presented itself as viable a few months ago.

From what she’d overheard when Magnus spoke to his wife
, Arbella, Robert the Bruce had betrayed Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk—and ever since, Wallace had lost his drive to fight, though last year he’d deployed to Europe to entreat France and Rome in gaining support for Scotland. There appeared to be some spark left in him after all. Magnus had spoken of Wallace returning to Scotland just last month, saying he was holed up in his home in Elderslie near Glasgow. Magnus and Arbella planned to visit Wallace on their way to Lorna’s house in the fall for All Hallows Day. Heather was to attend in order to help their many children. She loved her nieces and nephews dearly, but watching them run around like chickens with their heads cut off, covered in muck like little piglets and yanking on her like puppies was not the way Heather envisioned herself spending the evening. She’d much rather enjoy the bonfires, delicious food and wine—and the dancing. Waiting several months before speaking to Wallace would be torture. She didn’t have the patience for it.

Priest slowed
the horse as they rounded a crag jutting with sharp-edged stones. He leaned to the left as they rounded right, pulling her along with him. Good God, she prayed she didn’t fall from the horse. The fall would likely kill her. Blade was at least twenty hands high. The tallest she’d seen. Even more so than any of her brothers’ horses. Apparently, stealing maidens was a lucrative business.

When they were again righted, her bladder screamed to be let down.

“Are we still being followed?” she asked, praying he said nay. “I may…um…make a mess of your horse.” She squirmed for added measure.

The man grunted and sped the horse faster over the road, before at last stopping by a copse of
barren trees apart from the forest. He jumped off the horse and tugged her down.

“Go. There.” He pointed to one of the trees.

A sad excuse for foliage. The slim trunk would barely hide one side of her bottom.

“There is not enough coverage,” she said.

“If ye piss on my robes, I’ll beat ye within an inch of your life.” He whirled his back on her.

An excellent opportunity to run. As if suspecting she might think that
, he whipped back around, his billowing priest’s robes like a cloud of black smoke.

“Dinna think of running. I’m sure your brother follows at a distance. He wouldn
’t want to be without his precious youngest sister.”

Heather couldn’t help herself. She stuck out her tongue at the man and then turned on her heel, marching straight for the trees. She wasn’t brave enough to yank her skirts up
, though, without first looking to see if the priest had turned around.

Thank goodness he had. S
he fairly danced with the need to relieve herself. Hiking up her skirts, she squatted and did her business. Either the man had a sixth sense or eyes in the back of his head, for when she was finished, skirts properly in place, he turned back toward her.

“Will ye toss me my satchel? There’s water inside
, and I’d like to wash my hands.” An odd request, she knew, but necessary all the same. Living in a house full of males made her appreciate all the more being clean.

The priest
gave her an odd look but did dig through her satchel for the waterskin. He handed it to her. But her hands shook, nerves getting the best of her. The waterskin slipped from her hands, splashing all over the ground.

“Careful,” Priest said softly.

Heather glared up at him, certain that spilling all of her water was his fault. She tossed him the empty waterskin and he stuffed it back in her satchel.

“Catch.”

She jerked her gaze up as he tossed her an apple.

Heather reached with one hand, catching the fruit easily enough.
Thank goodness, her reflexes appeared to be back.

“Lucky,” he said.

She smirked. Let him think so. Another thing she’d learn to appreciate with a castle full of men—besting them at their own games.

“Let us be on our way.”

Heather climbed atop the horse, and her captor climbed up behind her. Thank goodness, she was no longer on his lap—but even still, his hard body touched hers in a way that made her want to faint.

“What is your name?”
she asked, figuring that with such close proximity, and he knowing her first name, she might as well know his.

“Priest.” His tone was dull and clipped. He didn’t want her to ask any further questions.

But she didn’t care. “Ye want me to call ye Priest? I’d rather call ye by your given name.”

He only grunted and spurred the horse into a gallop—in the direction they’d come.

“What are ye doing? We’re going the wrong way.”

He grunted again.

“Are ye a savage? Speaking only in grunts and hisses?”

“I’m nay savage, but ye might think so after I gag ye with the hem of your skirt.”

This time, Heather grunted. She took a bite of the crisp and juicy apple. It’d been hours since she’d woken, and it was the first thing she’d eaten since the day before. The juice of the apple and its sweet meat tantalized her tongue. Could have very well been the best apple she’d ever consumed. She was grateful to have brought them.

“Do ye want an apple?” she asked, realizing that he’d given her one but not taken one for himself.

“Nay. Not yet.”

She tossed the thin core of her apple into the brush as they turned to head straight up the crag. Not exactly the way they’d come.

“Have ye lost your way?”

“I never lose my way.”

“So, ye have a plan, then?”

“I always have a plan.” The man sounded so sure of himself she was overcome with the need to punch him, or inflict some other sort of violence on him that he couldn’t have possibly planned for. Show him that he wasn’t as
in control as he led her—and himself for that matter—to believe. “No more questions.”

Heather did as he b
ade, afraid that, though he’d not done it so far, he’d be compelled to muzzle her.

The only problem with not thinking up questions to ask him was that she started to think of other things. Like how strong his chest was, and how nice it felt to have his strong arm around her waist. And how with the rhythm of the horse, their hips moved in unison, almost like a dance.
How that dance made her body tingle, and she couldn’t stop shifting.

And then her mind started wondering to other places, like what it would be like to have the priest kiss her, touch her again on her bare thigh, move with her like that when they were both—

Blasphemy!

She
was doomed to hell for thinking such wicked, sinful thoughts about a man of the cloth.

Even if he was
a fraud, it was unquestionably a sin to even think it. And she already had enough to confess. Adding lustful thoughts to the list was enough to launch Father Hurley over the edge. He might suggest to Magnus that instead of a visit to her aunt Fiona’s—where she was always sent when her older brother thought she was starting to get out of hand—a trip to the nunnery might be better.

She wouldn’t be able to live if they put her there
, though! Sheer boredom and the need to rebel against every rule and structured hour would have the abbess bending Heather over her knee or taking a lash to her back, or whatever it was they did to punish nuns.