Chapter Eleven
Jamie caressed his hand down the curve of Fiona’s waist. His body betrayed him. The scent of her hair lingered in his nose. Despite it all—the feud, his distrust, her own repugnant response to his person—he could not deny his own treacherous desire. Her beauty was unmatched. Silken black waves draped across his thigh. Her fair skin shone porcelain in the sun, and her blue eyes sparkled. It didn’t matter that it was her fury that made them so vibrant.
His fingers splayed wide across her stomach. She was petite. He towered over her, but her body did not have a frailty to match her height. Instead, she was trim but curvy and strong as if she did not while hours away in the family solar doing needlework, but spent time out of doors, on horseback or walking.
They had been riding for more than four hours over rugged land with no roads or settlements for miles. His chosen way was untamed—steep hills cut by jutting rocks and thick forests with clawing bramble. Still, she had not complained nor had her back lost its rigidity. He knew that, in part, her pride fueled her strength, not to mention her own desire to distance herself from him. She, no doubt, was not enjoying such a pleasing ride—he had yet to wash away his labors. His chest, which she refused to rest against, still bore the streaks of ash and dirt from his efforts days earlier, rescuing his kin and salvaging as much of their belongings as he could. Over the last few days, the shadow of a beard had thickened. His plaid needed a good wash, but he cared not. Let her think him the ignorant brute she clearly had deemed him to be.
Suddenly, he stiffened. His gaze settled on a cluster of five jagged rocks ahead of them, each taller than a man. He tensed and drew his mount to a halt, signaling for Grant and Niall to do the same. His gaze scanned the woods while he listened, straining to hear even the smallest sound, but he heard nothing.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
“We passed a dense patch of thicket on the right, about twenty paces behind us,” he whispered in her ear. “Do ye remember?”
“I do,” she whispered back.
“When I tell ye to, I want ye to slide to the ground and race back to that thicket as fast as ye can. Then get low to the ground and don’t move. Do ye ken?”
She tensed in her seat. “Aye.”
A horse nickered from deeper in the woods. “Go,” he hissed.
Fiona slid from his grasp. Her feet landed with a soft thud, and she sprinted back the way they’d come, the instant before the Mackenzie war cry rent the air.
Half a dozen men on foot raced from behind the rocks, swords and axes gripped in their fists and raised at the ready. Twice as many riders poured out of the woods from the left. About their hips and slashing across their bare chests was the MacKenzie plaid.
“Strike to kill,” Jamie shouted to his men. Withdrawing his sword from the scabboard strapped to his back, he braced himself to face the descending enemy.
He brought his mount around and charged forward. His horse and sword collided with a MacKenzie rider. He slammed to the ground, then jumped to his feet an instant later, deflecting a blow, then another. Growling, he swung his blade back around faster than the enemy could recover, cleaving the man’s head from his neck.
He pushed forward on foot, parrying and striking his way through the throng. Screams of the dying combined with the din of clashing blades. Then an arrow whizzed past his head, grazing his cheek. A garbled cry resounded behind him. He turned and saw Grant fall, the arrow lodged in his throat.
Rage consumed him. He whirled around to see where the arrow came from and spotted a MacKenzie warrior perched on one of the boulders, reloading his weapon. Jamie bent and snaked his dagger from his boot and hurled it toward the enemy, hitting his mark. A breath later, the crossbow slipped from the warrior’s fingers. His body tipped forward, crashing down below. Jamie’s horse raced by. He gripped its mane and swung up in the saddle, turning his mount around in time to see Niall being pulled from his horse.
“Nay,” he shouted, swinging his sword, cutting down MacKenzie warriors with every blow, but he could not reach Niall in time.
His men were dead, along with more than half the MacKenzie warriors. The others thundered after him. He whirled his horse around and raced back toward the thicket.
“Fiona,” he shouted. “On yer feet!”
She appeared just as he sped past. He grabbed her waist, flinging her over his horse and charged through the narrow pass. He leapt over fallen logs and bent forward with Fiona, ducking beneath low branches. Pounding hooves coming up behind blasted in his ears.
They were outnumbered, but he knew this land like no other. He charged down a slope and jumped over a steep but narrow ravine, his horse not hesitating for an instant. He doubted the untried Mackenzie beasts would make the same jump, but he wasn’t going to wait to find out. Weaving around trees, he tore across the land to the Firth of Luath. Water splashed their legs as they raced across. On the other side, he swung down with Fiona in his arms. Setting her on her feet, he gave his mount a firm spank on its rear. It jumped forward, then galloped down the pass while he cut through a cluster of trees, heading up into the Famhair Hills.
~ * ~
Fiona lifted her skirts, struggling to keep up with the MacLeod’s fierce pace. They climbed the steep pass, scrambling over rocks and down again through narrow stone crevices. She had never traversed the Famhair Hills that divided their lands, but she had heard men speak of the treacherous terrain.
For the third time, her foot caught on her tunic. She stumbled, landing hard on her knees. An involuntary cry fled her lips. Her eyes widened when the MacLeod whirled around and grasped the hilt of his sword behind his head. In a flash, he unsheathed his blade, his eyes narrowing on her. She flinched, shielding her face behind her arms, but then she felt a tug on her skirts. He sliced through the front of the fabric, bringing the length to just below her knees.
She blushed when she saw her bare ankles and calves, but she had no time to protest or express her embarrassment. He grabbed her arm and pulled her ever upward. She panted. Her heart raced. She kept her eyes trained on the ground to secure her footing, but she chanced upward glances. This time she spied the entrance to a cave. He jerked her forward. In moments, they were enclosed in darkness.
“Stay here,” his voice was deep and heavy in the musty gloom. “Do not move from this very spot. I am going to search the area and wipe clean our tracks.”
She sat on the stone, her heart pounding in her ears, her breaths coming quick and loud, echoing around her. His steps retreated. He crossed into the dim light. The outline of his massive frame filled the entrance, and then he was gone.
She sat there in the blackness feeling as if she were waiting at the gates of hades—for that is what her life had become—Hell. Not a month ago, she had been betrothed to an angel, securing for her kin an alliance with the wealthiest and largest clan in the northwest Highlands. But those blissful days had shattered around her with the speed of lightning slashing across the sky. Her sweet, soft-spoken Adam was dead. And in Ranulf MacKenzie, a new, cruel and powerful enemy had arisen. Tears stung her eyes, thinking of the poor cottars whose last moments must have been so hellish that they welcomed the mercy death had brought to them. She prayed their souls now rested peacefully among the angels.
But there were no angels for her, only a dark cave where she sat awaiting her betrothed, whose harsh tongue and fierce hands terrified her. Her heart pounded harder. She pushed against the cold, jagged walls.
Were they closing in on her?
Her chest tightened, making her breaths even shorter. Panic sought to claim her mind, and she was losing the battle.