Captured by the Highlander (7 page)

Duncan sat down on a boulder at the water’s edge, took another sip of wine, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Head bowed down, he wished there were enough booze left in the jug to get thoroughly soused, but even if there were, it would do him no good. There was no escaping what plagued him.

He’d thought it would
all
be over by now and that today he would return to that quietness he’d once known, before this war began. It was an internal calm he had taken for granted and perhaps never
full
y appreciated.

But life didn’t always proceed according to plan, he had discovered. If it did, he would not be sitting on this cold rock with a half-empty jug of wine in his hand, his hair hanging loose in his face, while he struggled over what to do with a stubborn and impossibly beautiful woman who was devoted to his mortal enemy.

No, not just devoted. She was in love with him.

God, how he hated her for defending that monster. Yet when he woke up in the cave that morning, his desire for her was considerable, and for the second time he had had to crush the urge to flip her over onto her back and simply take her. He’d wanted to bury himself in her depths and prove that she was no longer his enemy’s property. She was his now, because he had stolen her away.

But that violent need to conquer and possess was more than a little disturbing to him—for his contempt of men who used such force upon women was the very reason he was hunting Richard Bennett in the first place.

Duncan took another swig of the wine and watched the water flow cleanly around the rocks in the stream.

Perhaps this vile hurricane of wrath inside him was a fate he would never escape. He was, after
all
, the bastard son of a whore, and his father had been a cruel brute
. Fierce passions and uncontroll
able vengeance ran in his blood.

He had never questioned it before, but everything was more complicated today—because he had never had such trouble resisting a woman. Most Scottish lassies were fair game, and if anything, he was the one fighting
them
off. But this haughty, infuriating Englishwoman who despised him—and rightly so—reminded him that he was a man with hearty sexual desires. Politics and vengeance had nothing to do with it.

At least the others had arrived in time just now; otherwise he might not be sitting here sipping wine and watching the water flow. He might instead be back in the clearing, shaking some sense into the lady,
spell
ing out, word for word, the gruesome details about her precious beloved. Giving her a lesson or two about
villains
and heroes.

He tipped the jug back and drank thirstily, then rubbed the heel of his hand in
small
circles over his chest to ease the ache that had suddenly lodged itself there.

He wondered if Bennett knew how lucky he was, to have the affections of a woman such as Lady Amelia. Not that he deserved her love, or
any
woman’s love, for that matter.

What he deserved was to have his fiancée ripped out of his world, severed from his life, quickly and harshly, without warning or any chance of restoration.

An eye for an eye.

Duncan lifted his head, accepted the heavy descent of his foul mood like a pounding hammer in his brain, and took another swig of wine.

* * *

Amelia wanted to run but felt as if her muscles had turned to stone. She was so terrified, she couldn’t move or speak or breathe. Angus, the blond one, stood in front of her, feet braced apart, his face a mere inch from hers—so close, she could feel the rapid beat of his breath on her cheeks. A sudden breeze gusted across the treetops and swirled around the glade, and her heart drummed against her rib cage.

Ridiculously, she said a silent prayer that the Butcher would return and stand between her and these three wild Highlanders.
Please, God …

But God was not listening.

Angus tilted his head to the side and inhaled the scent of her skin, then let his dangerous gaze rake over her body. It was a deliberate attempt to intimidate her. She recognized it, and it worked—there was no doubt about that—but it also ignited her anger.

She had done nothing to this man, or to any of these rebels. She was an innocent victim in
all
of this, and she despised what they stood for. She loathed their foul, violent ways and their sick infatuation with bloodshed and brutality.

No wonder England felt such a necessity to crush this Scottish rebel ion.

“You won’t
kill
me,” she said, speaking the words clearly, in an effort to feel more confident.

“Are you sure?” he replied. His voice was unexpectedly soft and whispery.

“Yes, because you need me,” she said. “I am your bait.

Duncan said so.”

Angus grinned with sinister intent. “Aye, that’s because he means to use you to settle a score.” He glared at the other two, who had been watching the exchange with some concern, then slowly backed away.

Palming the hilt of his broadsword, he stalked off in the other direction. His horse
followed
, trotting obediently behind. When Angus reached the edge of the clearing he withdrew some food from his saddlebags, sat down on the ground, and leaned back against the gnarled trunk of a chestnut tree to eat alone.

“Are you hungry, Lady Amelia?” Gawyn asked.

She was oddly startled by the politeness of his address.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you should eat.” Fergus went to his horse and retrieved his own sack of supplies. “We don’t have much—

just a few biscuits and cheese—but it
’ll
fil the hole in your
belly
until Gawyn can prepare a proper hot meal for you.”

“A proper hot meal,” she repeated. “I confess I am partial to the sound of that.” Though she wasn’t quite sure what it would entail, or if there would even be utensils. She imagined herself squatting by a fire, chewing flesh off the thighbone of something.

“Come and sit yourself down,” Gawyn said, unfurling a tartan blanket and spreading it out on the grass. He offered her some dry-looking biscuits while Fergus poured wine into a pewter cup and passed it to her.

“Thank you.”

They ate the biscuits in silence. Amelia watched the men uneasily, and they did the same to her, glancing frequently at her, then looking away. To avoid making any further clumsy eye contact, she let her eyes wander in
all
directions around the glade, wishing she knew the location of this place. She
still
clung to the hope that Richard was searching for her, or that she might
still
be able to escape when her captors were distracted, but where would she go? She could die out here in this deep wilderness. She could starve or be gobbled up by a wolf, or be mauled by a wild boar.

Just then, out of the blue, Gawyn asked her a personal question. “So you were planning to get married, right inside the fort?” He studied her with a furrowed brow. “Your father’s been dead only a month, lassie. Did you not think you should mourn him properly before you made such an important vow?”

Taken aback, Amelia reached for another biscuit. “You know when my father died?”

“Aye. Angus told us who he was, and your father was
well
known among the clans.”

She sighed and returned to his original question.

“Contrary to what you must think of me for behaving in such a way, I
did
think about my haste to marry. And I am
still
not certain it was the right thing to do, to dash off to Scotland so quickly after I buried my father. But something drove me here. My father had given us his blessing, and I believed it was what he would have wanted—for me to be safe and cared for. He didn’t want me to be alone.”

“But you had your uncle as your guardian,” Gawyn reminded her. “And surely you have other folk you can
call
family. Do you not have any sisters or brothers, lassie? Or cousins?”

Hearing what sounded like pity in his voice, she glanced from one to the other, then turned her gaze across the clearing toward Angus, who
still
watched her like a starving animal. “I was an only child,” she said, “so I have no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins who were
will
i
ng to take me in, but I was never close to them, and I didn’t want to be away from my fiancé.”

She was quite certain Angus couldn’t possibly hear what she was saying, yet he seemed to be listening from the other side of the glade, with a menacing scowl on his face.

Gawyn, who sat cross-legged, rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. “Aye, I know what you’re saying, lass. True love can be a powerful thing.”

Fergus shoved him over onto his side. “What the fook is wrong with you? She’s talking about Colonel Bennett, you
silly
arse.”

Gawyn righted himself. “I know that, Fergus, but love is blind. You know it as
well
as I do.”

“I’m not blind,” she told them. “I realize that my fiancé is your enemy, but as I told Duncan, this is war. Colonel Bennett is a soldier and has a duty to
fulfill
to the King. Besides, the two of you can hardly point fingers at him when you are known as the Butcher’s untouchable rebels and you slaughter every helpless English soldier who crosses your path.”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Gawyn asked. “That we’re untouchable?”

She glanced from one keen young Scot to the other and began to rethink her initial impressions about their savagery until a quick glimpse across the glade at the other one reminded her not to get too comfortable or take anything for granted.

“Why does he hate me so much?” she asked,
still
watching Angus.

“It’s not
you
he hates,” Fergus explained. “It’s your betrothed.”

“But his hatred
spills
over onto her,” Gawyn clarified, turning his mossy green eyes in her direction. “He thinks Duncan shouldn’t have let you live.”

“I gathered as much.”

“Don’t get me wrong; he does hate you,” Fergus said flatly, popping a biscuit into his mouth. “But who can blame him?

Your fiancé raped and
killed
his sister.”

Al at once, the clearing seemed to spin in circles before Amelia’s eyes as she
swall
owed the breezy delivery of Fergus’s remark like a jagged stone in her throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Then he cut off her head,” Gawyn added with an equal measure of nonchalance as he crunched down on his biscuit.

Speechless for a moment and shocked to the point of nausea, Amelia fought to form words. “You cannot be serious. I don’t know what gossip you’ve heard, or what the Butcher has told you, but that cannot be true. If such a thing happened, my fiancé could not have been involved. You must have him confused with someone else.”

Her Richard? Good Lord! He would never do such a thing.

Not in a hundred years. They
must
be mistaken. They
had
to be.

The branches on the trees flapped and fluttered, and Duncan emerged. She turned to look up at him. His eyes were dark and grim.

“Pack up,” he said to Fergus and Gawyn. “It’s time to go.”

Rising to their feet, they stuffed the food into the saddlebags and fled to their horses.

“Is this true?” Amelia asked, rising to her feet as
well
. “Is that why you are so determined to
kill
Richard? Because you believe he
killed
your friend’s sister? And … and
violated
her?”

The last part was difficult to say.

“Aye, it’s true.” Duncan lowered his voice. “And those two talk too much.”

Shock and disbelief coursed through her. She didn’t want to believe what they were saying—they were her enemies—yet a part of her could not ignore the intensity of their hatred.

Such an obsession with vengeance upon a single man had to be based on something.

“But how can you be sure it was Richard?” she asked,
still
clinging to the hope that it was a mistake or a simple misunderstanding. “Were you there? Because I find it very difficult to believe that he would
allow
such a thing to occur.”

“It happened.” He strode toward his horse.

“But were you there?”

“Nay.”

Amelia scurried to keep up. “Then how do you know what happened, exactly? Maybe Richard tried to stop it. Or perhaps he was not aware that it was happening until it was too late. Did Angus witness it?”

“Of course not. If he’d been there, your beloved would already be dead.” Duncan stuffed the empty wine jug into a saddlebag.

“Then how do you real y know?” she demanded again, because she could not bring herself to believe it. She did not
want
to believe it. Every instinct and need inside her was urging her to deny it, because if it was true, she would never again trust the capacities of her own judgment—and she would doubt her father’s as
well
, which would be heartbreaking, because she cherished his memory. He was her hero. He could not have been wrong about the gal ant officer he encouraged her to marry. Her father was a decent man, and she had always trusted him with her happiness. He would never have promised her to a monster. Would he?

“Because you seem very sure of yourself,” she said to Duncan shakily.

He paused and stared
at her for a long, tension-fill
ed moment until the impatience in his eyes slowly faded into something else—something reluctant and melancholy.

“I saw her head in a box,” he said. “And there was a note, describing what happened, and why.”

Feeling sick and dizzy, Amelia placed her hand on her stomach. “And what was the reason? I must know.”

He lowered his eyes and gripped the hilt of his sword. “I’m going to satisfy your curiosity, lass, only because I’m sure that once you hear the truth, you
’ll
learn to hold your tongue and keep quiet—especial y in front of Angus.”

She waited, breath held, for Duncan’s next words.

“Muira’s death was a punishment meant for Angus’s father, who is a powerful clan chief, a celebrated warlord, and a persistent, outspoken Jacobite. He was the one who raised the army that fought at Sherrifmuir, and he was also the one who shot your father down on the battlefield.”

Amelia flinched. She had nothing to do with any of this—

she hated war and
kill
ing—yet she was caught up in this tangled and dirty web of vengeance, as they
all
were. “You think Richard wanted revenge … because of me?”

Duncan removed a pistol from a saddle pouch and slipped it into his belt. “I don’t know the answer to that.
all
we know is that Angus’s father was standing over yours with his sword in the air, about to strike the deathblow, when your fiancé came riding out of the gunsmoke and clobbered him.

Weeks later, Angus’s sister was dead and evidently your father was approving your engagement.”

“So you think he saved my father’s life to secure his own rise.”

“Aye.”

“Do you believe also that my father was involved in this woman’s death?”

“Nay. Your father was a good man. I know he was fair. I do not suspect him of such treachery.”

She breathed a heavy sigh. “But you do not feel that way about Richard.”

Duncan shook his head.

Amelia tipped her head back and looked up at the gray sky—a perfect circle framed by the treetops.

“I don’t know what to say about
all
this.”

She could make no sense of her feelings. She was in shock and felt very lost. The one man she believed would come to her rescue like a knight in shining armor was in fact being accused of horrendous a
cts of vill
ainy.

“I feel very naïve,” she continued. “I trusted my father to choose a husband for me, but now I must accept that his judgment may have been flawed. Who, then, do I trust? Who do I believe in?”