Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) Read online

  A shriek of agony sounded from camp. Rose’s breath came in hard gasps of terror, her body stiff with fear.

  “They fight like men possessed,” growled a man. “Tie the bitch on a horse. We ride now. Kill any that follow.”

  She was bound and tossed roughly into Maise’s saddle. Breath jolted from her lungs. She steadied herself against the mare’s neck, striving for balance in a world gone mad. Then suddenly they were off, galloping behind another’s racing mount.

  Rose clamped her knees against the mare’s black sides and prayed in earnest now. If she fell here, there would be no hope, for trees and rocks were on every side, blurred by the speed of their passing.

  Behind her, two men followed. Three men against the brothers Forbes—if they survived the attack of the others.

  Beinn stumbled only once going down the rocky slope. Leith felt the horse’s huge body jerk and recover. The animal was wounded—sliced by a brigand’s sword, but as yet unslowed by the injury. Leith gritted his jaw, setting a hand to the stallion’s bare withers and praying for the destrier’s strength and speed. He would need them now as never before.

  Darkness sped past. Across Leith’s back was slung a bow, in his hand lay his trusted claymore— Cothrom, The Bringer of Justice. His dirk, still wet from the blood of his last kill, emerged above the leather of his belt. But it was not his weapons or the sticky blood upon his blades, that would have caused his enemies to shudder.

  It was his expression.

  In the darkness, Leith’s face showed no emotion. His eyes were flat, his hands steady. Though blood streamed from a wound in his chest, his heart burned with a killing rage as his senses screamed for justice.

  Just ahead, the earth leveled and the trees thinned.

  Beinn snorted, warning Leith of enemies nearby, and suddenly they were upon him—two men, swords raised.

  Cothrom arced smoothly, almost of its own accord, its path like white lightning as it whistled through the air to end its quest in a brigand’s throat. The man gurgled in agony, his clawed fingers going stiff. But before his sword dropped, Leith had turned, swinging again.

  Fury met fear. Steel met steel, sparking in the darkness. A sweep, a parry, a thrust, and Leith withdrew, seeing the blood on his blade, watching the man fall, dead before landing.

  Beinn whirled and lunged, back on the trail. Leith leaned across the lashing mane, fire pumping in his veins.

  The trail twisted and dropped. Waves of midnight rushed by on thundering hooves. Another turn and there—up ahead—two horses fleeing side by side. Leith tightened his grip on the deadly claymore.

  Just ahead a devil held the wee nun. He would die slowly!

  In the darkness, the distance between them was swallowed up with each of his stallion’s mighty strides.

  A cairn of rock appeared, hiding the fleeing figures.

  Rose’s life was most in danger now, Leith knew, for the cur was nearly run aground.

  Beinn heaved around a turn, his great hooves throwing up turf and mud.

  Ahead the villain had stopped. “Hold!” He shouted the word. In one hand he held the reins of both horses, while his other gripped a sword. It gleamed dully in the moonlight, the sharp edge pressed close against Rose’s robed side. “I would as soon kill ‘er as spit!” he cried.

  Leith pulled his stallion to a shuddering halt. Air gasped through the beast’s extended nostrils, sounding like the wind from a dragon’s fiery throat.

  “Let the lass go.” Leith’s voice was barely raised, yet drifted easily through the darkness. “Let her free and ye may yet live to see the light of dawn,” he said, pressing his stallion a step closer.

  “One more pace, warlord, and she dies now!” shouted the outlaw, his voice raspy.

  Beinn Fionn stopped short at his master’s command. The outlaw chuckled, the sound shallow and chilling. “That is wise, ‘Ighlander,” he crooned. “Now drop your sword.”

  Leith waited, his mind racing, his body weakening as blood soaked his dark shirt.

  “Now!” shouted the villain and Leith lifted his arms, faintly hearing the clatter as his sword dropped to a rock below.

  “That’s right,” chuckled the thief, drawing the black mare closer. “Now if you’re good, I may let you watch as I take your lady friend.” He reached out, dropping his own reins and reaching for Rose.

  Leith heard her whimper of fear, felt her terror, and suddenly, as if on command, her black mare rose on its hind legs, its pawing hooves striking the reins free.

  Jolted off balance, the villain struggled to right himself, to retake the reins, but in that second, Leith lifted his bow.

  Snatching an arrow from its pouch, he set the shaft to the bow’s sinew. The horses pranced. Darkness obscured Leith’s view. His arm trembled with pain, hindering his aim. But there was no time to waste. He freed the missile with a shuddering prayer.

  A shriek of agony split the night and the outlaw fell, the arrow buried a scant inch from his heart.

  Leith slipped from Beinn’s back. Retrieving his claymore, he flew to Rose’s side.

  Somehow she had remained astride. He looked up into her pale face, noticing the gaping rent at the front of her robe.

  “They did na harm ye?” he asked, his tone hard.

  “No.” Her voice shook and Leith raised his arms to her. Like a trembling child, she slid against his body.

  A shuddering sob scraped her throat.

  “Ye are safe,” he breathed, holding her close, feeling the horrific shivers that racked her. “Ye are safe, lass. Avenged.”

  A dozen strides away, the villain writhed in agony, a feathered wooden shaft protruding from his chest.

  Rose shuddered again, her eyes wide in the darkness as she lifted her bound hands to her mouth.

  They shook like the leaves of a willow before a strong wind and Leith took them in his, holding them gently to cut the bonds away with his bloodstained dirk.

  Her hands fell apart, but she remained immobile, staring down in silence.

  “All is well, lass. Come, sit on yon rock and recover,” Leith said, but a rustling from behind drew her attention and she lifted her eyes to stare over his shoulder at the dying villain.

  “W-w-we…” she stuttered, a shiver racking her again, her tone low and murky, “we cannot leave him… like that.”

  In her eyes Leith saw an emotion he could not read but felt he understood. Anger. Fear. The consuming shock of being forced to look upon the very face of death.

  ‘Twas a frightful experience—even for a seasoned warrior scarred and ready for battle. How much more so for this wee lass?

  “He will die, lass,” Leith assured her, his tone even. “He will na bother ye again.”

  “But…” She shook her head and swallowed. “But we cannot… Let him…”

  Drawing his claymore slowly from its scabbard, Leith rotated it in his hand, extending the scrolled handle toward her. “The blade Cothrom,” he said solemnly. ” ‘Tis Viking-crafted and handed down to me from me father’s father. The name means justice—but ‘tis yers to mete out.” He nodded once. “Take it now and see justice done. ‘Tis yer right.”

  Rose stared at the double-edged sword. It was long and cruel and bloody. “My…” Her hand trembled at her throat. “No. I could not. I do not seek revenge.” Her eyes lifted to Leith’s in fresh, sweeping panic. “I but meant we must not let him suffer.”

  Leith’s brows lowered as he absorbed her meaning. Who was this lass who could so easily forget the bitter taste of impending death? “He would have defiled ye, wee nun,” Leith said, canting his head at her. “He would have taken yer pride and slit yer throat, yet ye wish to end his suffering?”

  There was little she could say. No way to explain. “Please,” she whispered with a shivering shrug, but just at that moment the outlaw rose, wavering to his knees, a knife gripped in his bloody hand.

  A scream froze in Rose’s throat, echoed by the savage shriek of a wildcat’s cry.

  From the
darkness streaked a tawny mass of feline destruction. Leith whirled about, but already the cat had pounced—and the outlaw was dead.

  Utter silence filled the glen. In the darkness the cat turned, forepaws on his victim’s chest, fresh blood upon his jaws. Turning golden eyes, he found Rose with his eerie gaze.

  “Silken.” She said the name on a whisper, but the cat’s ears flickered, forward and back, before he finally shifted his gaze to Leith with wary caution.

  Forbes stood with legs apart, sword hefted and ready. No words. No motion, only watchful stillness before the cat turned and stalked back into the woods from whence it had come.

  Weakness flooded into Leith like high tide at dusk, washing over him in warm waves that threatened to pull him under. “Yer… familiar?” he asked softly, struggling for strength, his gaze not leaving the spot where the cat had been.

  “What?” Rose asked with a feeble shake of her head, not comprehending.

  “The cat.” Leith turned, his eyes finding the girl’s in the darkness. “He does what ye command?”

  “Silken?” she asked foggily, trying to laugh at his words but managing only a wobbling hiccup of sound. “No.” She shook her head again, feeling faint. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Silly.” Leith nodded, drawing a deep breath, forcing the tension from his muscles. “Then every Englishwoman has a wildcat to protect her person. Aye?”

  She actually managed a laugh then, though the sound was gritty. “Do not speak such foolishness,” she chided. “Silken is only a wildcat that I but cared for as a cub.”

  “And he does na follow ye to protect ye?” asked Leith, wondering if his weakness was caused as much by the cat’s eerie presence as by his wounds.

  “Of course not,” scolded Rose. “You see mysteries where there are only shadows.”

  “And a fairy where a wee nun stands,” said Leith. Then, “Aye,” he agreed finally, wiping his claymore on the small portion of his shirt that remained unsullied by blood, then eased himself onto a large, nearby rock. “Only shadows.”

  “Certainly. And … Oh!” gasped Rose, sucking a cold breath of night air into her throat. “You did not tell me of the wound.”

  “Na,” murmured Leith faintly. “That I didna, lass.”

  His eyes fell closed as he waited for her gentle touch, her concerned ministrations. Moments ticked away. But no words of praise were issued, no healing touch given, and he finally opened his eyes.

  “Rose?” She was not to be seen and he shifted his gaze quickly, searching for her in sudden fear. “Rose!”

  “There now, my brave warrior,” she crooned, but her words were not for him. No. Beinn Fionn was the object of her concern.

  She stood some small distance away, before the pearl-white stallion, arm outstretched, voice soft. “They have wounded you,” she said, taking a step nearer. The animal tossed his head, causing his heavy forelock to spray out and then fall across his black eyes once again. “You ran like the wind to save us, did you not?” she asked, before her voice finally trailed off, leaving crooning compliments drifting on the night air.

  Leith saw Beinn’s ears flatten. “Get back, ye daft woman,” he ordered angrily. “Before the beast takes yer hand from yer arm.”

  “He’s been hurt,” she countered, not moving from the spot. “I will see to him.”

  “Ye willna,” argued Leith, his tone flat. “He is a horse of war. His strength comes from his heart.” He grimaced at his own painful wounds. “He has na need for a woman’s coddling.”

  “There now.”

  He heard her crooning again and gritted his teeth. “Take care!” he snapped, but saw now that Beinn’s head had dropped and was resting against the woman’s plain robes.

  “It is not so bad,” she murmured. “Just a scratch for a brave warrior such as yourself. In a day’s time you will hardly remember the pain. It will not even shorten your great stride and yonder mare will swoon at the sight of your power. You—”

  “Sweet Jesu!” Leith swore aloud, his voice low and peeved. Damn it to unholy hell, he had been sorely wounded in his ride to save her, and yet there she was—singing praises to his horse. “Come here, Rose.”

  “I am talking to Beinn,” she said. .

  “Come here, woman!” he ordered gruffly, but she remained as she was.

  “You would likely be dead long ago, were it not for his strength,” she said, sounding rather peeved herself at Leith’s lack of appreciation. “It was he who carried you to safety.”

  “Safety, my ass,” growled Leith irritably. ” ‘Twould na be a great surprise if I bled to death here at this place.”

  “And yet he makes no complaint,” she continued. “You might consider whether you are worthy of such loyalty, Scotsman.”

  “Woman,” he warned, feeling his patience ebb, “I am telling you—”

  “You are telling me you care little for the sacrifices of others,” she said, stroking the smooth strength of the stallion’s thick neck. “I suppose you would take the credit for your victory, and not give the animal a bit of praise?”

  No answer came.

  “Is that the way of it?” she asked tartly.

  Still no answer.

  “Forbes?” She finally turned. He was nowhere in sight. She scowled. The man would do anything for attention, but she supposed he too deserved a bit of credit for her rescue. She found him with his back propped against the boulder, his head lolled to the side.

  “Leith?” She blinked down at him, surprised by his lax position. Had he swooned from sheer nerves—the aftershock of trauma? She’d seen it happen before. “Leith?” She reached out slowly, touching the great expanse of his chest.

  It was sticky with blood.

  “Well, hell” she breathed in sharp surprise.

  At the sound of her voice he opened his eyes and lifted his head from the rock. “Ye swear like a warrior,” he accused weakly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were wounded?”

  “Well, lass…” He raised one hand palm up, but, realizing he received more attention when he acted as if he were near death, let it fall back to his side. “Ye were busy making love to me horse.”

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I should take my cross and leave you to contemplate your sins.”

  “I would return as a ghost and haunt ye, wee nun.” He grinned, finding a strange comfort in her anger. “I fear we are destined to be together.”

  “Destined…” Rose dropped her hands and leaned closer. “You speak like a madman. I am destined to serve my Lord. To be a martyr for His—”

  “What better way to martyr yerself than to be me wife?” he asked with an unbridled grin.

  “Wife?”

  When he realized his mistake, he dragged his eyes to watch hers. They were wide and angry.

  “Listen, lass,” he whispered, “mayhap ye could kill me later. After we reach camp. I fear for me brother and the widow—and I canna feel me left arm.”

  “Oh.” She crossed herself speedily, her face showing that familiar look of guilt. “I beg your forgiveness.” She touched his chest tentatively, feeling the blood that had already congealed on his shirt. “You have been badly hurt.”

  “It is good of ye to notice, wee nun.” He sighed, and did not add the word “finally.”

  “It pains you greatly?” she whispered.

  “Aye, lass.” He lifted his right arm, gently touching her cheek. “That it does.”

  She shivered beneath his touch “I… ” She was stunned by his will, that he could speak so casually while bearing such a wound. “I will make a fire and fetch my herbs.”

  “Nay.” He held her arm in a gentle grip. “We dare na risk a fire here. We will return to the camp on the hill.”

  “You cannot ride,” she argued gently, her hand still touching his chest.

  “Then ye shall ride with me, wee nun,” he said. “To hold me astride.”

  Chapter 9

  The situation truly made no sens
e, Rose realized, somewhat bemused. For though she rode the stallion with Leith, she did not ride in back but rather in front, allowing her little opportunity to hold him astride as he had suggested.

  The black mare followed behind, seeming besotted by Beinn. The riders sat in silence, finding their way easily up the slope by moonlight.

  Leith kept his right arm about Rose’s waist, holding her tightly to him as she held the reins. His breath was warm against her cheek and his thighs felt as hard as oaken boughs against the backs of hers.

  Their position made her breathing speed and her body grow warm—responses that had little to do with the plaid he’d placed about her shoulders.

  She tightened her grip upon his tartan, hiding the torn front of her robes and trying to think of something other than his large, hard body behind her.

  “I…” she began weakly, tracing a wrinkle in the plaid and clearing her throat. “I suppose the Lord will forgive my proximity to you … considering the unusual circumstances.”

  He said nothing. The high portion of his chest ached, but in truth it was her nearness that occupied his thoughts. She was warm and soft, and as he’d settled his plaid about her shoulders he’d seen the dramatic rise of her breasts above the edge of her linen undergarment. That memory caused the heat in his loins and the tightness of his grip about her tiny waist.

  Her hair, set free by the thieves’ harsh hands, was like firelight only inches from his face, each strand gleaming in moonstruck tones of burnt reds.

  “After… after all,” she continued, made nervous by his nearness and silence, “He would hardly wish me to allow you to fall from your steed.”

  Leith shifted his gaze downward. She’d twisted about slightly, turning her face so that he could see the curve of her cheek, the sweet swelling of her parted lips.

  He could kiss her without undue difficulty, he thought. But he’d seen her swoon from a horse before and did not wish to be the cause of her faint. Still, the possibility of making her light-headed did much to improve his mood. “Ye think, then, that the good Lord cares even for barbarians such as meself?” he asked, remembering her derogatory words in the old abbess’ parlor.