A drop of moisture splattered on Iain’s forearm. He looked heavenward. Gray clouds edged past a sun that hung low in the western horizon, but no rain threatened. He reined in his horse and leaned the woman back in the crook of his arm. Tears distorted the blue irises that stared back at him. She pushed wildly at his chest as if to scramble to a far corner of the saddle, and he realized his arm had tightened around her.

Iain cursed under his breath and gathered the edge of the sash that hung around his shoulder. He dried the tears pooled in each eye, then traced the fabric down where tears streaked her face. His manhood pulsed in sudden awareness to the agitated rise and fall of her breasts.

Her eyes widened and he consigned his lust to hell when she jerked her head aside. This woman was no serving wench to be bedded without preamble. Still…he released the breacan and, with a finger to her chin, brought her to face him again. Her gaze dropped to the leather wristband as he slid fingers around the nape of her neck and into soft tresses. No doubt a mistake to kiss her again so soon, but the quiver hovering on the edge of her lips was more than he could resist. He lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips remained closed, but the promise of a soft response was evident in the tremor he sensed. Iain released her. She righted herself and threw her head against his chest in an obvious attempt to discomfort him. He answered with a low growl and hugged her closer.

An hour later, Iain commanded a halt. He dismounted and reached for his captive. She shoved his hands away.

Iain gave a weary sigh. “Come, sweet. I am too tired to do battle tonight.”

He pulled her from the saddle. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging herself to him. His loins sprang to life. Blood roared through his ears and a mental picture leapt up of her beneath him as he pounded into her gloved warmth. The haze of desire evaporated with her cry of pain. Murky clouds hovering over ash and pine trees snapped into focus and understanding hit.

“Christ,” he muttered. He hadn’t considered the possibility she wouldn’t be accustomed to so many hours in the saddle. He reached around and rubbed the knotted muscles in her back. “The pain will pass in a moment.”

Her hands slid down his chest. Iain stifled a groan at the thought of those fingers continuing downward.

She batted at him and he released her.

“There is a stream within the trees,” he said.

Suspicion formed in her eyes.

“You need not worry, lass. No one will bother you.”

Her gaze shifted to the sword strapped to his horse. “Mayhap I should be allowed protection?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he’d give her use of his sword from now until eternity, but he squashed the impulse. “I give my word that no one, least of all me, will venture near you until you ask.”

She hesitated, then turned. He winced when she reached to massage the small of her back as she limped across the rocky ground toward the trees. Tomorrow, he would be sure to halt throughout the day so she could rest from the saddle. If she—a thought struck.

“Lass,” he called.

She halted, her back to him.

“What is your name?”

An instant of silence passed, then she turned. “You should have asked Father Brennan before you stole me.” She whirled and disappeared into the trees.

Iain stared, open-mouthed. Was the wench refusing to tell her name? He swung his gaze to where his comrades sat, only to discover they looked just as dumbfounded as he. Iain took a step after her, then broke into a broad grin. So, the doe would revenge herself on the hunter.

* * *

Victoria burrowed within the surrounding warmth. Vague recollections seeped past the unfamiliar smell of damp wool and fresh pine. She stretched her arms in a slow, lazy action, bringing a rush of cool air down along her limbs. She lowered her arms to her sides and her left elbow hit something hard. In a flutter, the night sky met her startled eyes and she froze. The warmth she nestled against was her captor.

Her body shook and Victoria concentrated on the night sky, forcing her eyes to locate the Summer Triangle. In the westernmost point lay the blue-white star of Vega, the main star of the constellation, and Lyra, the brightest of all the stars in the triad. Lyra, the lyre. She fought the tears that stung her eyes and followed Vega to the east to Deneb, the dimmest of the stars. To the south was Altair.

Might these old friends yet guide her home? Loneliness assailed her at memory of home, the home she had known before Montrose Abbey and long before Richard. Victoria forced back tears and traced a mental line from the familiar Lyra to Cygnus the Swan to Aquila, then the Eagle, and still farther west to Hercules. She located the Dog Star, Sirius. Judging by the constellation high in the sky, a hard ride would bring her to the abbey before her jailer woke.

Victoria looked at the guard. He leaned against a tree at the edge of the clearing, wrapped in the blue and red plaid of his clan, head slumped against his chest. With a final glance at the MacPherson lord, she wriggled down the length of the pallet onto the wet grass. Dew penetrated her dress and chilled her knees. She paused, but aside from soft snoring, all remained quiet. With shaky hands, she pulled her skirt to her thighs, and slithered away.

Victoria crawled until she reached the tethered horses, then rose and approached the gelding that served as the packhorse. She eased nearer until he permitted a hand on his back. The moon ducked behind a cloud, and the animal allowed her to lead him into the forest.

Inside the murky depths, she spied a large rock and edged across the rough ground until her fingers met cold stone. Gooseflesh raced down her arms. Reward for her freedom was sure to be a case of pneumonia. She scrambled atop the boulder, then steadied the gelding.

“It will be a shame to see those tender hands bound.”

Victoria froze, leg mid-air. She detected no movement in the darkness, but her heart leapt. He is near. She swung her leg across the horse, but before she could spur him into action strong fingers gripped her arm and yanked her into Iain MacPherson’s arms.

A chuckle, deep and warm, sounded near her ear. “We are alone, sweet, if you wish to beg my forgiveness…”

She shoved at his chest, surprised when he released her.

Silence stood between them for a moment before he spoke again, this time his tone dry. “You prefer the punishment then?”

Victoria backed away. Her heel butted up against a large branch, and she fell back with a cry. She braced for the weight of his body on top of hers.

 

* * *

 

When they stopped the next afternoon, Iain retrieved the dirk in his boot and cut the ropes that bound the lass’ wrists. She snatched her hands back and massaged the rope-chaffed skin as she backed away from him.

Iain stretched out against a tree and watched her through half closed lids. She paused in her inspection of the thinly wooded surroundings to examine a dog rose bush, then brushed her fingers across the dark pink flower. As if aware of his scrutiny, she looked his way, but when he didn't move she seemed satisfied he was dozing.

At the order to mount, he hoisted her onto his horse and stepped into the saddle. Arm wrapped around her, he trailed one of the dog roses he had picked from the tree along her cheek. She stiffened. Iain leaned close and whispered in a thick Scottish brogue, “Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightsome lily of every pleasure, richest in bounty and in beauty clear, and in every virtue that is held maist dear, except only that ye are merciless.”

He placed the rose on her lap.

His captive fought drowsiness, but at last melted into his arms two hours before Iain stopped for the night. He lowered her to one of his men, then dismounted. Iain took her and caught sight of something fluttering to the ground in the bright moonlight. He squinted and his chest tightened upon recognizing the dog rose he had given her that afternoon.

The flower had been purposely crushed. He shifted his gaze to her face cradled against his chest, the words of the poem echoing in his mind, ‘except only that ye are merciless.’ Aye, only a woman as lovely and delicate as a rose could cut the most hardened warrior in two and never lift a weapon. Her eyes fluttered open. Tenderness gave way to desire, then amusement with her indignant intake of breath.

“Put me down.”

The effect of her haughty tone was undone by the breathless rise and fall of her breasts. She struggled and Iain lowered her to the ground. This time he ignored the rose, crushed beneath her feet.

She gave no outward show of noticing when, once again, a pallet was laid out for her between him and Eric. Iain envisioned her snuggling close to him in the night, her round buttocks pressed against him as it had been last night. He hardened with the picture of her lifting her skirts and nestling close—the erotic picture vanished with the appearance of the guard assigned to patrol the forest surrounding the meadow where they camped.

Their eyes met, and Iain read the message that intruders had been spotted. His men surrounded Victoria with him in the forefront. Twigs rustled beneath horses’ hooves a moment before four men emerged from the dark cover of trees.

Iain recognized the Fraser plaid and would have relaxed but for every man’s attention moving past him to his captive. “It is me you need attend to, not the lass,” he said, bringing all but one man’s eyes to him. “Is your companion stupid?”

The warrior at the head of the band twisted to look back at the offender. “Idair,” he snapped.

Idair’s gaze lingered an instant longer before shifting to Iain.

Iain focused on the leader. “What is your business on my land?”

“We are passing through on the way to

Easedale.”

“How is your laird, Liam?” Iain asked. The peace Iain had negotiated with the Frasers came after a thirty-year feud waged by Iain’s father on Liam Fraser for running off with Iain’s mother before they were wed. The treaty was still too new for Iain to be certain Liam had forgotten—or forgiven—the fact that Iain’s father had forced Lily to marry him despite the fact she loved Liam.

“He is well.” The man’s voice broke through the memory. “Have you any food to spare?”

“Bread and cheese. You are welcome to it. If you choose, you may stay the night.”

The man nodded his thanks. “Aye, we will.” He motioned to his companions and they dismounted.

Iain faced the lass, breaking the formation of his men around her. He tucked her beneath his arm and started toward their pallet. Her wary gaze tracked the Frasers as they led their horses to the MacPherson tether line.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Frasers.”

“They are friends?” She looked up at him.

“We made a recent treaty with them.” He halted in front of the tartan. “No shenanigans tonight, love. Resist, and they would assume no one had claimed you.”

She blew out a short breath. “Claiming does not denote ownership, Iain McPherson.”

He gave her a gentle nudge. “Aye, love, here it does.”

“Father Brennan said I have the right to choose.”

“Not all men honor such edicts.”

She sloughed off his hand and lowered herself onto the pallet. Iain lay down beside her, slid an arm around her waist, and curved her body into his. She tried to scoot away, but he held firm.

“Make the most of this while you can,” she said.

“There will be no other such opportunities.”

“Never fear, sweet,” he whispered against her ear. “I will not need them.”

* * *

Startled, Victoria’s sleep-clouded mind slipped into consciousness when her arm bumped something hard. She reached out in drowsy curiosity, her hand closing over the defined muscles of a man’s chest. Her eyes shot open and she startled at the sight of Iain MacPherson, propped up on an elbow beside her. He rolled onto her and his dark hair fell forward on either side of her face.

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he whispered.

She stared. “You are mad.”

“Do as I say.” Iain threw a leg over her thighs and tugged the tartan over their heads.

Victoria stiffened. “What in Hades are you doing?”

He began nuzzling her neck. “Pretending to make love to you.”

Victoria jammed her hands between them and shoved.

“Lay still,” he said in a strangled voice. “I only want our guests to think it. I am not actually doing it.”

“But you are,” she bit back.

Iain chuckled. “Nay, love. But never fear, we shall remedy that.”

Victoria shoved harder. He groaned and she opened her mouth to scream.

He clamped a hand over her mouth. “I did not mean now. Christ.”

She pushed against his shoulders and his leg clamped even tighter around her.

“Enough,” he said. “Two of them have been watching you all night.”

“Watching—” Victoria froze at the feel of his hard length pressing against her abdomen. She turned her head aside.

Warm breath fanned her cheek as he pressed his mouth to her face and whispered, “Do not fuss. Go to sleep.”

When he planted a soft kiss on her ear, the smile she felt against her cheek turned to a stifled oath at the hard pinch she gave his stomach.

* * *

Victoria glanced heavenward. Hanging low in the afternoon sky, the Highland clouds dropped a light mist. The best part of the day had been waking to find the strangers absent. Their presence had been unnerving, and the safety of the two men she had slept between held more comfort than she liked to admit. Victoria hazarded a glance at Iain MacPherson, who rode a few feet ahead. How safe was she? A shiver ran down her spine. Dangerous. Too much like another man she’d once known.

Iain looked over his shoulder at her, and Victoria dropped her gaze. She pulled the tartan tighter around her shoulders. The MacPherson lord couldn’t have read in her eyes what even her husband Richard hadn’t guessed. There had been another man. Had Richard discovered the truth, the fact that the man was his brother wouldn’t have stopped him from running a sword through Edwin’s belly. Though Edwin would have been the victor—as he would have been in her life, had she not stopped him. Richard’s possessions weren’t all Edwin had expected to inherit when Richard died. She doubted Edwin had recovered from finding the one possession he hadn’t yet fully claimed gone. She wondered which would be worse: staying locked in a Scottish castle the rest of her days, or the prison her brother-in-law would erect around her.

“Halt,” Iain command.

Victoria jerked from her thoughts. He dismounted and strode toward her. She didn’t resist when he lifted her from the saddle. She scanned the tiny clearing for the rushing water that echoed in faint murmurs.

“I hear water.”

He motioned westward. “Inlets from Loch Ericht run throughout the land.”

“I need to bathe.”

“As you wish,” he said. “But do not dally. It will be dark soon.”

Victoria turned. Another night and day farther from Montrose Abbey.