Chapter Five
Just as Darach pulled Elle up and over the edge of the cliff, he caught sight of the black smoke rising from the burning long ship. He’d ordered four of his men to stay behind and burn the vessel. After seriously considering its value, the possibility of adding it to his father’s own fleet, or selling it, he knew the only answer was to destroy it. Nothing was worth risking his clan’s welfare. There’d be no evidence left behind that a Northmen vessel had strayed into his lands.
Elle wiped her hands on the side of her gown, untied the rope from her waist, then stared in the same direction as him. “Twas a perfectly sound vessel.”
“To a Norseman.”
“Aye.” She held his gaze then. “Only to a Norseman.”
He nodded. “Tis a short walk to where the horses are waiting.”
“What about my trunk? The goods from the ship?”
“Do not concern yerself with such matters. My men will see to yer belongings. Until then . . .” He signaled for her to twirl around. “There are several lasses who are similar in size and shape at home. Ye will have whatever ye need.” Of course, he didn’t mean a word of it—Darach had never beheld a lovelier woman. But he’d never say it aloud. Elle was prideful, overly confident, and obviously knew how beautiful she was. And he had a well-known weakness for comely lasses—something Cameron had reminded him about. He couldn’t hide his admiration much longer. Elle made his body want things he couldn’t have, like carnal knowledge of the sweet, soft flesh he’d caught a glimpse of when she’d dared to strip her gown off in the open. Groaning, he scrubbed his chin.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I am tired, lass. Hungry. And deeply curious about where ye came from.”
“You still doubt my story?”
“I will question everything about ye a dozen times until I’m sure ye are telling the whole truth. We are born enemies.”
“I do not see you as such. We are strangers,” she remarked. “And I am no liar. I have never failed to admit to my sins. A characteristic that often got me into trouble as a child.”
Darach snorted. Honesty shouldn’t be seen as a flaw. But her rare beauty—that alone was a fault he blamed on the Almighty. A temptation put in front of him to see if he could resist. Darach cared little about his mortal soul, he’d already sinned enough in his lifetime to assure his place in Hades. “Honesty is a chaste trait any father should be proud of.”
“I agree,” she said, walking side-by-side with him.
“How old are ye, lass?”
“Eighteen seasons,” she said. “I came of age in captivity—promised to a man I neither loved nor wanted.”
“Our worlds are not so different,” he said. “Only, I’ve never been a slave.”
She stopped abruptly. “Did I not make it clear before, sir? I am no thrall. I am the daughter of a chieftain, born a freewoman. And so, I will die one. Though my sire was stripped of his title and lands, his misfortune cannot change the circumstances of my birthright.”
If Darach doubted her story before, he no longer had a reason to. Her tone and the earnest look upon her face convinced him otherwise. Not to mention the way she carried herself. Elle was every bit the lady. “I believe ye.”
She arched a fine brow. “One less worry for me, then?”
“Aye,” he agreed, then chuckled. She was much too practical for such a young woman. Much too even-tempered, much too witty, and much too beautiful . . . His mind always seemed to trip over that last fact.
Just then, the clouds cleared and sunshine exploded around them, casting her in brilliant light. There was never a harsher judge of natural beauty than daylight. Darach remembered all-to-well bedding a woman under the cover of night, only to wake in the morn and regret how too much ale had affected his eyesight. The memory deepened . . . He’d crawled out of bed and slunk away like a beaten dog.
No such worry now. The light only heightened her allure. He swallowed back his feelings, his cock standing at full attention, his heart racing with anticipation. Did Elle prefer to be chased, or was she the kind of woman who would fall into his bed and spread her legs with enthusiasm, welcoming him?
Fool! Ye’ll never know. She isn’t for ye . . .
When he was finally able to clear his head, he noticed the shocked look on her face.
“What are ye looking at, lass?”
“The endless fields of heather.”
Though he’d been born and raised in Scotia, Darach never failed to appreciate the world around him. God was good. A rich tapestry of purple and green covered the tops of the crags and blanketed the hills. The air was fresh, scents of spring carried on the wind.
“Ye’ve been to Scotia before, then?” If so, the lass wasn’t as honest as she’d claimed to be.
“Nay,” she said. “But I’ve seen this place in my dreams, I think, for my mother described it too perfectly.” Wonderment showed on her face.
“And what connection does yer ma have to this place?”
“Did I fail to share it before?” she asked innocently. “My mother was born in Scotia, taken from her home as a young woman by my sire.”
Darach wanted to believe her story, but it seemed all too convenient. Elle had survived a deadly sea voyage, landed safely on his shores, was meant for servitude, but had been born a lady, was a Christian though her father was a Viking, and now . . . Her mother was a kinswoman? Born here? Taken against her will? Either the lass spoke truth, in which case Darach would swear the angels were with her, or she was a bold liar, more deceptive than the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
“And ye have proof of yer lineage on this side of the North Sea, too?”
“Aye,” she said.
“In what way?”
“The day my sire kidnapped my mother, she was wearing a special gift from her grandmother. A brooch and pin cast in silver with three tiny rubies—my great grandmother’s wedding gift from her husband—Bain MacAlpin.”
Once again, the lass stole his breath, only this time it wasn’t because of her beauty. The name she had spoken—MacAlpin—it changed everything. “Did I hear ye right, lass?”
“Aye,” she assured him, gazing up at him with no observable deceit on her face. “Shall I repeat the name?”
“Nay,” he said. “I will report these details to my sire.”
A short time later, they arrived at the area where the horses had been left. Darach hurried Elle to his mount and lifted her onto the saddle, determined to get her back to his keep and put under constant guard. The lass was a valuable captive. If she was indeed related to the MacAlpin’s, noble blood ran on both sides of her family, making her a true Scot.