“I won’t,” she said, feigning courage. But what chance did two women, and two particularly diminutive ones at that, have against such strength and numbers?
A filthy, hulking ruffian lurched for her mother. Without thinking, Meg stabbed his arm. It was a good effort. At least three of the ten inches sank deep in his skin, opening a wide gash in his forearm. He roared in pain and backhanded her across the face. Stunned by the blow, she lost her grip on the dirk and it dropped to the ground, where he promptly kicked it out of her reach.
Meg’s hand instinctively covered her wet cheek, soothing the hot sting.
“Bitch,” he spat. “You’ll die for that.” He turned, lifting his claymore in a deadly arc above her head. Her mother moved to defend her, slicing his shoulder with the eating knife. Easily blocking the blow with his forearm, he shoved her mother harshly to the ground. Meg watched in horror as her head landed squarely on a rock, connecting with a dull thud.
Horror rose in her throat. “Mother!” she screamed, rushing to her side. Meg shook her listless body, but her eyes wouldn’t open. Dear God, no!
She sensed him, or rather smelled his rank stench, approaching behind her. Anger unlike anything she’d ever experienced flooded her with rage. He’d hurt her mother. Grabbing the knife that her mother had dropped, Meg turned on him, surprising him for a moment. She stabbed him again, this time aiming for his neck. But he was too tall, and without leverage, she managed only to nick him.
She’d lost her advantage.
A vile expletive ripped from his mouth. She felt his enormous dirty hands on her as he grabbed her and tossed her to the ground. His hard black eyes fixed on her. A sneer curled his lip, revealing coarse brown teeth. Shivering with revulsion, she huddled in a ball as he started toward her.
“I’m going to enjoy this, you little hellcat.”
Meg scooted back in the mud, but he kept coming. Laughing. She could feel the heavy pounding of her heart in her chest. She glanced around, but there was no one to come to her aid. Those who remained of father’s men were locked in their own battles. She grabbed fistfuls of mud in her hands and tried tossing them in his eyes, but this only made him more furious.
They couldn’t die. What would happen to Ian? She felt the hot prickle of tears in her eyes. Without Meg and her mother, there was no one to protect him. Think, she told herself. Use your head. But the logic and reasoning she’d always relied on failed her. There was no escape.
In the black glint of his merciless eyes, Meg saw only death.
Please, she breathed.
And in the skip of two long heartbeats, the answer to her prayer exploded through the trees on a fearsome black warhorse.
A knight. Nay, a warrior. Not in shining armor, but in the yellow cotun dotted with bits of mail that identified him as a chieftain—though his size alone would have set him apart. Even without his padded war coat, Meg knew he would be one of the largest men she’d ever seen. Tall and muscular, with a chest like a broad shield. As if forged from steel, every inch of him looked hard and forbidding.
And dangerous.
A trickle of fear slid down her spine. For a moment, Meg wondered whether she’d merely exchanged one villain for another.
Their eyes met and held. She gasped, startled by the most crystalline blue eyes she’d ever beheld, set in a face of rugged masculinity partially hidden beneath the heavy stubble of a week-old beard.
The entire exchange lasted only an instant, but she quickly read the absolute command in his gaze. A look that was oddly reassuring despite his ferocity.
For the first time, she noticed that he was not alone; perhaps half a dozen men had ridden in behind him. A more fearsome band of warriors she could not imagine. To a one they were strong, well muscled, and utterly ruthless looking. Broken men, she knew with an instinctive certainty. Men without land or a clan who roamed the Highlands as outlaws. Yet for some reason, they did not inspire her fear. Her eyes returned to the warrior. Because of their leader? she wondered.
With no more than a tilt of his head and the dart of his eyes, the warrior issued his orders. His men moved as a unit, swiftly taking their positions with the discipline of Roman centurions and an ease that certainly belied their rough appearance.
Despite their lesser numbers, Meg knew without a doubt that the tide of battle had just turned. This man would not be defeated. Only a fool would challenge him.
With his men in position, the warrior headed directly for her. Finally realizing that something was wrong, her attacker glanced over his shoulder. The horrible laughing stopped. Taking advantage of the distraction, Meg ran to her mother’s side, gently dragging her back toward the trees, nearly sobbing with relief to see that the color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes had begun to flutter. All the while, she kept her eye on the man who was their savior.
He reached over his shoulder with one hand and drew an enormous claymore from the baldric slung across his back as if it weighed no more than a feather, though the blade alone would have reached to her chin. Still using only one hand, he raised it high above his head, wielding the weapon with remarkable ease, and landed a heavy blow to the ribs of her attacker. Meg heard the crunch of bone as the villain crumpled to the ground.
The warrior leapt off his mount, then pulled a dirk from the scabbard at his waist and unhesitatingly drew his blade across her tormentor’s throat. Relief washed over her. She should regret the loss of life, but she could not. Their eyes met, and she felt a connection so strong that it startled her.
“Thank you,” she mouthed, too shaken to sound the words.
He acknowledged her gratitude with a nod. Then, with a fierce war cry—the words in Erse, which she could not make out—he raised his sword and charged headlong into the fury of the battle, wielding the blade with deadly finesse and accuracy, cutting down all who stood in his path. Her stunned clansmen rallied behind him.
As she attended to her mother as best she could, Meg’s gaze flicked back and forth to the battle taking place all around them.
And to the warrior.
His strength and skill were truly awe-inspiring.
Feeling oddly detached from the mayhem surrounding her, Meg stared in horrified fascination as he killed three men with steely efficiency. Each movement was a precision death stroke. For such a large man, he moved with surprising grace. Like a lion. Two ruffians attempted to corner him, striking at him from either side. He raised his claymore. The blade flashed above his head like a silvery cross before the crash of steel on steel sounded as he deflected their blows one after the other. The brigands were skilled fighters. Working in tandem, they landed blow after blow. Surely he must be tiring? But the warrior seemed to be enjoying it, as if the added challenge only invigorated him.
Using his claymore with one arm to hold back one man, he wielded his dirk with the other, dispatching the second man with ease. Furious, the remaining villain rushed at him. Sliding to evade him, the warrior lost his footing and skidded in the mud, enabling the other man to knock him down. Meg gasped, holding her breath, as the villain prepared to deal his death blow. But in the most brave, or reckless, display of daring she’d ever witnessed, the warrior waited until the claymore was mere inches from his head before slipping his dirk in the ruffian’s gut and rolling deftly to the side.
Stunned, Meg watched as he sprang to his feet.
Almost instantly, another ruffian attempted to take him from behind.
“Watch—” Even before Meg had time to shout a warning, her warrior spun and plunged his dirk deep into the other man’s side.
The warrior seemed indestructible, as if nothing could touch him. But there was something to his prowess that went beyond strength and skill. The battle seemed to consume him. He fought like a man without fear of death. Not recklessly, he was too controlled for that, but with unfettered purpose. An edge of danger hovered over this untamed warrior that she could not ignore.
It didn’t take long for the remaining ruffians to recognize t
he futility of their endeavor. Scattering like bugs from beneath a rock, they fled.
The warrior looked around as if to assure himself that she was safe. Their eyes met again. Meg felt as though she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning; every nerve ending prickled with awareness. Her mysterious warrior was more than simply handsome. His features were the fodder of legends, classically handsome yet ruggedly masculine at the same time. Wavy brown hair, its true color obscured by the dampness, hung in a blunt line just past his chin, setting off a strong, squared jaw. Rain streamed down a broad forehead, along the curve of his high angled cheekbones, and over a finely chiseled nose. Though his mouth was set in a tight line, his fierce expression could not hide the full, sensual shape of his lips.
But it was his striking blue eyes that held her. Ice blue. Like a frozen loch in the darkest winter. Their color made more intense against the deep tan of his golden skin. Yet when he looked at her, it was not a chill she felt, but warmth that started at her neck and spread all the way down to her toes. He seemed to see right through her with a hawklike intensity that stole her breath and sent her pulse racing.
He made her feel nervous…unsettled…vulnerable. Unfamiliar feelings that increased her wariness. With one last hesitant look at the warrior, Meg returned to attending to her mother.
The rain had stopped. The battle was over.
When the cowards turned to run, Alex motioned two of his men to follow to make sure they didn’t return. The others he instructed to tend to the wounds of the injured and dispose of the bodies as best they could. But it wasn’t until he’d gotten an initial report from Patrick that Alex knew he had a problem.
Mackinnons. Damn. Powerful bad luck to have come to the aid of a neighboring clan from Skye. At least no one appeared to have recognized him. But he knew the longer he lingered, the more chance there was for questions to form. Despite the beard, it wouldn’t be long before someone noted his uncanny resemblance to the infamous Chief of MacLeod. His brother cut a wide path around these parts.
They should leave.
His gaze slid back to the lass. She was ministering to the woman he’d initially thought dead but appeared to be slowly regaining consciousness. In between soothing the woman with soft words, the lass set her men about making order out of chaos with the smooth efficiency of a general. Horses were fed and watered, the cart that was carrying their trunks was righted, and arrangements were made for returning the injured and killed to Dunakin.
For one so young—she couldn’t be much past twenty years—she appeared to be handling the aftermath of the attack admirably.
More than admirably, actually. Her composure under the circumstances was remarkable. From the first moment he’d seen her, she’d impressed him with her courage. Riding in, he’d caught the very end of her attempt to stab the man who was attacking her. For such a wee thing, she’d managed to inflict some damage. When the fiend had gone after her, Alex’s reaction had been instantaneous. He’d killed without hesitation. He had no mercy for men who harmed women. The coward deserved to die a far worse death than the swift one he’d been granted.
Of course, her courage wasn’t all that he’d noticed.
When she gazed up at him with wide green eyes that dominated her tiny heart-shaped face, he found himself unable to look away. Warmth spread through him, and he’d felt the stirrings of something that had been absent inside him for a long time. Desire.
His interludes with women over the past few years had been about satisfying the needs of his body; he had neither the time nor the inclination for anything else. But standing there, with her hair plastered to her head and rain streaming down her face and clinging to her long lashes, she looked like a drowned wood nymph. Sweet, vulnerable, and achingly lovely. And Alex felt the unmistakable pull of attraction. Attraction that now, after the fighting was done, had taken on a new potency.
He took the opportunity to observe her as she ministered to her mother. She was nothing like the flamboyant beauties who usually attracted him. Her beauty was more refined, less obvious. If it weren’t for those remarkable eyes, he might not have bothered to look closer. And it would have been a tragedy to miss the delicate turn of her cheek, the tiny pert nose, or the soft, lush curve of her mouth. His eyes lingered on her lips.
Damn, she was lovely.
And innocent.
His thoughts right now, however, were anything but innocent. They were filled with vivid passionate images of naked limbs and soft, silken heat. Of releasing the pent-up energy that lingered in his body from the fight. Perversely, he hungered for her innocence. As if her purity could wipe away the ugliness that surrounded him.
What was he doing? After what she’d been through…He shook off the strange yearning. He’d wanted to protect her, not capture her like his marauding Viking ancestors for his own pleasure. The primitive life of an outlaw had left its mark.
He took a few steps toward her, intending to see if she was all right. But at that moment, the woman she was tending sat up, enabling Alex to see her face for the first time. His step faltered. Damn. The Mackinnon’s lady. He looked back to the girl, seeing the resemblance. The lass must be his daughter.
He averted his face. Rosalind Mackinnon would know him.
He could dally no longer. Alex turned and ordered his men to be ready. Much to the relief of the Mackinnon guardsmen, he had offered the services of three of his men to travel with them until replacements arrived. The lass and her mother would be safe.
His job was done.
He mounted his destrier and turned to leave, unable to resist looking back at her one more time. Alex was not a man to be distracted by a lass. But there was something about this one. Perhaps it was because she reminded him of everything he’d left behind. Family. Hearth. Home. Things he hadn’t yearned for in a very long time. Her natural beauty was a stark contrast to the death and destruction he’d been surrounded by for the last few years.
His eyes fastened on hers, and he could see her hesitation, sense her wariness. As though she wanted to say something but was perhaps a little frightened. Of him. The truth struck him hard. Gazing around at the bodies scattered across the forest floor, he supposed he couldn’t blame her.
But he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.
He’d just saved her, yet she looked at him with fear in her eyes.
This was what he did. It wasn’t pretty, but war never was.
Anger rose inside him and coupled with his primitive response to the lass made his blood run even hotter. He was tempted to give her reason for her fear. To pull her into his arms and reap the spoils of victory from her soft lips. But he hadn’t fallen that far from civilized. Yet.
“Ready, sir?” Robbie asked, looking at him strangely.
Alex shook off the lustful haze and forced an evenness to his tone that he did not feel. “Yes,” he answered. “We’ve delayed long enough.”
Without further hesitation, he turned and rode away.
And didn’t look back.
Chapter 2
Holyrood House, Edinburgh, July 1605
Court was exactly as she’d expected: pure torture. Meg had tried, but she would never fit in. At Holyrood House, nothing was as it seemed. Intrigue, innuendo, subtlety. They might as well have been speaking Greek. No, wait, she understood Greek. They might as well have been speaking Arabic, Meg amended. She would never be able to understand the language of courtiers. Only two weeks and already she couldn’t wait to leave and return to her beloved Skye. But not yet. Not until she found what she’d come for.
As she’d done every night since her arrival, Meg stood with her friend Elizabeth Campbell near the doorway of the great hall—a position that afforded her the best vantage into the room—carefully surveying the crowd of courtiers swarming about the palace of James VI of Scotland, now James I of England.
King James had been ruling Scotland from Whitehall for almost three years now, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the number of people who flocked
to the palace each night. Edinburgh was still the center of power in Scotland, with or without the king. Instead of the king, the hordes of sycophants now sought favor from Lord Chancellor Seton or his privy councillors. Like bees to honey, Meg thought wryly. Behind the plush velvets and fine brocades of their elaborate court dress, each person in this room was here with a purpose. To a one, they wanted something from someone: power, position, intrigue, or, like her, a husband.
Acknowledging that unfortunate truth, she forced herself to scan the room again in the vain hope that she’d missed something, or rather someone, the first time around.
“Any new prospects?” Elizabeth asked.
Meg turned to her friend and shook her head. “No.” She didn’t bother trying to hide the frustration in her voice. Elizabeth was well aware of Meg’s trials in her ongoing search for a husband. “I think I’ve been introduced to every unmarried man in Scotland between the ages of twenty and fifty.”
Elizabeth smothered a giggle behind her gloved hand. “Don’t forget Lord Burton. He was sixty-five if he was a day.”
Meg grimaced. “You’re right. I stand corrected.”
“Give your mother some time,” Elizabeth teased, patting her hand. “I’m sure she’ll find you any number of potential suitors.”
Meg tried not to groan. Her mother’s attempts at matchmaking were anything but subtle.
“It could be worse,” Elizabeth added sympathetically. “At least she finds the handsome ones.”
Meg sighed and shook her head, acknowledging the truth of the statement. Her mother was quite predictable in that fashion. Certainly Meg was not immune to a handsome countenance, but extremely handsome men made her wary. She knew firsthand how easy it was to lose your senses in the twinkle of a charming smile. Relying on attraction was a recipe for disaster. But she didn’t have the heart to discourage her mother, as she seemed to take such pleasure in her task.
“Indeed, if handsome fops were what I was looking for, I’d be back on Skye by now.” Meg bit her lip and looked around furtively, relieved that no one had overheard her. She’d spoken bluntly again. Yet another of the reasons she didn’t fit in well at court. Except with Elizabeth. She didn’t seem to mind Meg’s propensity for frankness. Elizabeth and her brother Jamie were the only good things about coming to Edinburgh. She’d met them two years ago on her first appearance at court and she’d been friends with them ever since.