Tunnel
Maxwell donned a tunic once they were underway, then offered Kyla his blanket.
The tempting offer came as a surprise. The wet plaid weighed heavily on her shoulders, but she shook her head.
Before she had a chance to protest, he whisked the plaid away. She tried to get to her feet to grasp it out of his hands, but her stiff limbs refused to cooperate.
“Dinna worry,” he said with a grin, letting the plaid fall to the deck in a puddle. “Ye can keep an eye on it here.”
He hunkered down beside her and enfolded her in his blanket. “Better?” he asked, still smiling.
She wanted to wipe the infuriating grin off his handsome face, but had to admit the rough blanket brought comfort. She clung to its edges and snuggled into it as he walked away, annoyed that she liked the damp male scent of him lingering in the wool.
Her spirits plummeted when she caught sight of a large castle dominating the distant skyline as they approached the estuary of the Nith. Like Dun Scaith, it looked like the epitome of an ancient medieval stronghold. Unlike her wind-blackened island home, it was built of some kind of red stone.
“Sandstone,” Maxwell explained.
She scowled at him. How did he know what she was thinking? Next he’d be telling her the name of the bastion.
“Caerlochnaven,” he said, his voice full of pride. “My home.”
Kyla saw a foreboding place in whose dank bowels she was doomed to be imprisoned.
She’d thought the castle sat at the confluence of the Nith and the Solway, but, once they reached shore, realized it was actually further inland. She doubted her legs would carry her that far if she was forced to walk.
She begrudgingly accepted Maxwell’s help climbing over the side of the gunboat. The warmth of his strong hand was annoyingly comforting. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of thinking she was grateful, she stuck out her bottom lip and wrung water out of her plaid. “At least ’tis a mite warmer here out o’ the wind.”
He made a mock bow. “Ye’re welcome, my lady. Can ye ride a horse?”
“O’ course,” she snorted, picturing her father rolling his eyes. She’d never been as enamored with horses as her parents. But the suggestion she might ride was too good to pass up. In her current state, a short journey on horseback was preferable to walking.
Maxwell spoke to one of his men, then strode over to take the reins of a handsome roan from a servant. He mounted the big horse with ease.
Taken aback when he reached out a hand, she glanced over to the surviving members of her crew, huddled together a few yards away. They’d all been issued blankets—a sign Maxwell wasn’t all bad. She was relieved to see Nicolson among them; he’d apparently taken Lochwood’s shivering young valet under his wing.
“Do ye want to ride with me or nay?” Maxwell growled.
“’Tis my duty to stay with my crew,” she murmured, folding her plaid into a manageable square.
“They’ll have to walk. Nay enough horses.”
Cursing her own weakness, she took his hand and mounted behind him, jamming the wet plaid between their bodies.
*
Broderick would have preferred the pleasant torture of Kyla MacKeegan’s breasts pressed against his back instead of a wet plaid. But at least she’d agreed to ride with him, though why he’d suggested it…
She was his prisoner after all.
But her accusation that he was a murderer still rankled; if she knew of the feud, she must know of his father’s crime. Had he gone too far in his haste to catch Lochwood in a criminal act and caused unnecessary deaths?
For some reason beyond his understanding, he wanted her good opinion, wanted her to again look at him the way she had immediately after the rescue.
Despite her determination to deny her feminine side, she was very much a woman—a strong and attractive one at that. She’d wedged the wet wool between them but the thighs rubbing against his were firm and…
He lost his train of thought as he imagined those athletic legs wrapped around his hips in the throes of passion.
She gripped his tunic. It was odd for an accomplished horsewoman to be nervous of Lark. The gelding was a big horse, but as gentle as they came.
The gatehouse he passed under every day loomed ahead. He suddenly saw the massive structure as Kyla must see it—the gateway to some dreadful fate. He didn’t doubt her courage, but no wonder she was putting on a brave front. It wasn’t surprising she was intent on holding on to the plaid like a lifeline.
He felt an unexpected urge of protectiveness. It occurred to him at the same time that he’d often wished Lily had a female presence in her life. Perhaps Fate had sent Kyla to them.
*
Kyla curled her fingers into Maxwell’s tunic when his huge horse stepped onto the castle’s drawbridge. She’d ridden and walked across the stone bridge that connected Dun Scaith to the mainland since childhood and never thought twice about the angry surf roiling below.
The black moat surrounding Caerlochnaven was as still as a bottomless pond, yet her heart careened around her ribcage and she feared she might retch. Perhaps the massive gatehouse that loomed ahead was the reason for her anxiety. Or mayhap a dunking in cold saltwater, or the loss of her father’s beloved Lanmara.
Tears welled as she contemplated the twin towers, red brick dusted with chalky white that spoke of age and exposure to the elements. Dun Scaith had none of the crenellations that Caerlochnaven boasted.
She held her breath when they were swallowed up inside a dark tunnel. Afraid she might swoon if she closed her eyes, she chose instead to fix her gaze on the small arched sliver of light at the end, trying to ignore the weight of the towers above her.
Panic constricted her throat. She was choking and would never again breathe the free air of Skye’s wide open spaces. Her captor exchanged a word of greeting with a shadowy figure who loomed out of the darkness.
A warm hand gripped her knee. “Don’t be afraid,” Maxwell said. “Hamish is just the gatekeeper.”
She ought to protest that she wasn’t afraid, but the words refused to form and she sensed Broderick Maxwell would know a lie when he heard one.
She gulped air when they exited the tunnel, surprised to see a little lass standing at the door of the keep, waving to her captor.
His daughter!
The wretch had a wife.
Why she felt deeply disappointed, she couldn’t say.