Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 (9 page)

“D’ye now?”
Iain boldly stared at her, a prurient glimmer in his blue eyes.

Annoyed
, Yvette folded her arms over her chest, wondering how she could have felt a moment’s pity for the brute.

To her relief, Iain strode
to the edge of the loch where he washed the blood from his hands. As she watched him splash several handfuls of water onto his face, she secretly wished that she could do the same, keenly aware of how much time had passed since her last ablutions.

To which
I have the great Scottish barbarian to thank.

Pulling her dignity about her as best she could,
Yvette tried to ignore the fact that she was hungry, thirsty, dirty and disheveled. But even more unsettling than all of that, she was once again Iain MacKinnon’s prisoner.

I
can handle all the dirt under the heavens if not for that
, she thought dejectedly as she watched her captor approach.

“
Don’t move,” Iain ordered, unexpectedly going down on bent knee in front of her.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, no doubt to ensure that she obeyed his tersely issued command, Iain lifted the swath of plaid
flung over his left shoulder, the woolen fabric having been dampened with water.

“What are you doing?” she demanded to know when
Iain unceremoniously began to wipe her face with the moistened plaid.

“I’m cleaning yer face,” he growled, his hand moving from her shoulder to the back
of her head to hold her steady. “Ye’re quite the dirty waif. It makes me think ye and the boar were rolling together in the mud.”

“I am dirty
and
disheveled,” Yvette clarified as she plucked a small twig from her hair.

“Aye, ye looked better before ye fell off the horse.”

Because he was situated so close she could feel his warm breath upon her cheek, Yvette was acutely aware that, although Iain MacKinnon was an uncivilized relic from an earlier, more savage age, he was nonetheless an extraordinarily handsome man. With his chiseled cheekbones and high-bridged Celtic nose, he had an almost Roman profile, like that seen on ancient coins. Albeit a somewhat hirsute profile, the man in desperate need of a shave, the angular planes of his face shadowed by a heavy growth of black stubble.

Noticing
the creases that radiated from the corners of his eyes – eyes framed with an outrageously thick fringe of kohl-colored lashes – Yvette thought that at some point in his life, her grim-faced captor must have been given to ready laughter.

“Come,” Iain
ordered as he rose to his feet. “We’ve dallied here long enough. If we are to meet Diarmid and the others before the sun sets, we must hurry.”

As she staggered to her feet, Yvet
te bit back a painful whimper. The entire left side of her body – from her shoulder to her ankle – throbbed with pain. Wincing every step of the way, she followed Iain over to his horse, dreading the thought of having to spend countless hours clinging to him while they ambled over rough mountain terrain.

Untying the flask from his saddle, Iain
uncorked and handed it to her. “I suggest ye take another wee dram before we leave.”

“While appreciative of the fact that you
suggested
rather than commanded, I must decline the offer, unaccustomed as I am to imbibing strong spirits.”

“Believe me, lass, ’tis
only going to get worse before it gets better. We’ve got a long jaunt ahead of us. The whisky will help deaden the pain.”

“The physical pain mayhap,
but what of the emotional pain?” Yvette unthinkingly blurted, too exhausted to select her words with greater care.

“That, too,”
Iain said quietly as he gently shoved the flask against her chest.

Taking
it from him, Yvette obediently swallowed a small amount.

Finis
hed, she nodded her thanks before returning the flask. Evidently thinking the gesture an invitation to imbibe more spirits, Iain proceeded to drink more than a ‘wee dram’ before retying the flask to his saddle.

That done,
he swung himself onto the horse. A few seconds later, wordlessly extending an arm, he hoisted Yvette behind him.

They then set out on what would prove to be a
very
long jaunt.

With a weary sigh, Yvette raised
her head from where it had been pillowed against Iain’s broad back, his warm, solid weight rhythmically jostling her breasts.

Having long since succumbed to exhaustion, she
didn’t care what her captor thought of her using his body as a cushioning buttress. While the brawn Scotsman could still ride with a ramrod straight back, she no longer could. She could only gracelessly slump against Iain, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist so that she wouldn’t lose her perch.

Much to
Yvette’s discomfort, she’d spent the better part of the day paying a steep price for her ill-conceived escape attempt. With the numbing effects of the whisky having worn off long hours ago, the steady pound of horse hooves now painfully reverberated up her spine, vibrating along her neck and jaw, settling with a crescendo in her left temple; a pain unlike any she’d ever experienced.

How long they’d
been traveling over trails barely suitable for a mountain goat, she knew not. Long enough for the sun to have nearly completed its trek from east to west, the mountainside blanketed in a purple haze.

As she peered about, Yvette
thought the dark shadows lent an eerie tension to a scene already made fearsome with its whispering pine groves and august crags. And though the untamed landscape filled her with dread fear, she combated her fear with the knowledge that Iain would protect her. If for no other reason than to safeguard his investment.

Loosening
a hand from her captor’s waist, Yvette tugged on her mantle. She then wrapped it more snugly around her torso, trying to ward off the chill dampness that hung heavy in the air.

Sweet Jesu, but t
his godforsaken country suffers from incessant foul weather.

A thought that made Yvette
wonder at the sway that Scotland held over the English nobility; for try as she might, she couldn’t comprehend the lure that incited men such as her father to scheme, lie, and sell their only daughter to the highest bidder, all to better secure an ironfisted grasp on the cold and damp wasteland.

“Thank God, they arrived safely
,” Iain muttered, jarring Yvette from her dark reveries.

Curious,
she peered over his shoulder. In the near distance she espied a meadow clearing, flickers of torchlight glimmering in the shadowed gloom.

“Are
you certain those are your kinsmen?” she asked, unthinkingly supporting her chin against the top of Iain’s shoulder, too tired to hold her head upright.

“Aye, ’tis them.”

When Iain craned his neck to peer at her, their noses inadvertently bumped together.

As
if a burning ember was attached to the end of the other’s nose, they each instantly recoiled. To her surprise, Iain even went so far as to mumble a clipped apology. A first.

Suddenly self-conscious, Yvette
pulled away from him, silently berating herself for having snuggled so intimately close.

Just then, she caught sight
of a massive gray object in the gloaming. “Holy Mother,” she uttered, awestruck.

“’Tis a marvel, is it not?
I’ve oft wondered where the stones came from as there are none like them in the surrounding countryside.”

Rendered speechless, Yvette stared at the magnificent ring of monumental gray stones; all that remain
ed of an ancient pagan temple. Viewed through the shadowy light, the sacred enclave appeared strange and otherworldly, conjuring in her mind’s eye the race of blue-painted warriors who’d charged forth from these mountains to repel the Roman legions.

“I’ve heard it said that such stones
also exist in England,” she remarked, still agog. “But having never laid eyes upon them, I can not say if they truly exist.”

“I suspect they
do,” Iain said with a sage nod. “Once, long ago, our peoples were no’ so estranged.”

Yvette fell silent,
assuming he referred to the war between Scotland and England that loomed on the near horizon. She didn’t know where his sympathies fell, Scotland having yet to rally around its newly crowned king, Robert the Bruce. Indeed, there were many Scottish nobles and clansmen who still paid lip service to King Edward.

“The MacKinnon
approaches!” Iain stridently bellowed, announcing their arrival. Reining his horse to a halt, his head bobbed slightly as he proceeded to account for each of his kinsmen.

Still riding pillion behind him,
Yvette felt Iain’s broad shoulders heave with obvious relief when his head nodded the fifth time. Having deemed him incapable of such strong emotion, she was taken aback.

Nimbly dismounting, Iain turned toward
Yvette and, not giving her a chance to protest, he cinched his hands around her waist, hauling her off of the horse.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she plaintively whimpered, the pain that burst through her body near unbear
able. Unthinkingly, she grabbed Iain by the upper arms, her legs quivering so violently that she feared she would tumble onto the ground in an ungainly heap.

“Ach, ye got it bad, don’t ye
, lass?” Iain remarked as he untied the whisky flask from his saddle. “Mayhap your aches and pains will teach ye to never again try to escape from me.”

“G-go t-to the devil!”
she stammered, the pain having become so severe, she was dizzy from it.

“I’m sure I will, but hopefully no time soon.”
Offering her the open flask, Iain said, “Take a few wee sips. Ye’ll feel better.”

Shaking her head, she willfully refused,
still angered by his patronizing barb.

“Drink it,” he urged.
“Ye’re shaking and moaning with the pain. Unless ’tis pleasure at the memory of this morning that causes ye to moan like a cat in heat.”

“Most certainly not!” she retorted, silently condemning him
to the fire pits of hell for referring to the ill-fated interlude. More times than she cared to admit, she’d errantly recalled how Iain had pressed his manhood against her hand; and how he’d suckled her nipple through the sheer linen of her chemise. And though the lurid memories filled her with shame, she’d been unable to cast them from her mind.

Lashing an arm around her waist to hold her upright, Iain gently nudged the flask against her lips, tipping it upward
s as he did so. Given no choice but to comply, Yvette took several measured sips.

Within seconds,
those few sips kindled a fire in her belly.

After helping himself to a
deep swallow, Iain jutted his chin toward the pagan temple and said, “In ancient times, it was claimed that the stones had the power to heal.”

“That is
an outlandish claim, as well you know.”

“
Mayhap ’tis no’ so outlandish. Queerer things have been known to occur in these mountains,” Iain matter-of-factly informed her as he untied the blood-stained satchel that contained the butchered meat.

From out of the shadows, the red-bearded Goliath
named Hamish suddenly appeared, Iain tossing him the satchel.

“’Tis what’s left of the b
oar I earlier did combat with. See that ye give the beast a proper burial on top of a well-lit funeral pyre.”

Chuckling, his clansmen said something in their native tongue which caused Iain to good-naturedly laugh, Yvette surprised to see her stern-fac
ed captor in such a jovial mood.

As
Iain led her toward the campfire, they were waylaid by Diarmid, the younger man grinning broadly upon seeing them.

“I feared ye met with a dire end, cousin.”

“’Twas a near thing,” Iain replied, fondly squeezing the other man’s shoulder. “Sibbald MacDougall is a wily bastard to be sure, but we managed to outfox him.”

“How many men does he ride with?”

“A dozen in all.”

“Och, the heave
nly host was with ye this day.” Still smiling, Diarmid then turned his attention to Yvette. “And how do ye fare, lady?”

Before she had
a chance to reply, Iain, his smile having instantly transmuted into a scowl, began to speak rapidly in Gaelic.

Within seconds, Diarmid also wore a scowl, Yvette wondering what Iain said t
o upset the younger man.

“Woman, go sit by the fire,”
Iain ordered, abruptly dismissing her. “And keep an eye on that brute Hamish. I dinna want to sup on charred meat.”

Biting back
a whimper of pain, Yvette slowly shuffled over to where Iain’s four kinsmen sat around a blazing fire. To a man, they stared at the roasting meat as though they expected the Holy Spirit to burst out of the flames at any moment. Noticing that the butchered slabs had been placed directly onto the burning logs, Yvette could readily see that Iain’s concern about charred meat was amply justified.

As she approached the small circle, t
he only man she knew by name – the bearded giant Hamish – lurched to his feet and began to speak to her in Gaelic.

Uncomp
rehending, Yvette shook her head. “Forgive me, but I do not speak your native tongue.”

“Do ye mean tae say ye dinna ha’ the Gaelic?”
Hamish asked in a broad Scots accent.

“No, I do not.”
Nor did she ever intend to master so barbaric a language, considering Gaelic a barbaric language for a barbaric people.

“Lucky fer ye the MacKinnon ha’ the English, aye?”

And perhaps you also deem it ‘lucky’ that I’m still among the living?
she inwardly seethed.

Because she
surmised that the burly giant meant well, the man even going so far as to take her by the arm and seat her on a log in front of the fire, Yvette refrained from voicing the tart reply. Two days in their forced company had taught her that Highlanders were quick to anger, and she’d had her fill of angry Scotsmen for one day.

As i
ntroductions were made, Yvette made a point of remembering each of their names – Malcolm MacKinney, Robbie MacKinney and Alexander MacKinnon – in the improbably hope that she might elicit their future aid. Her earlier escape attempt had failed miserably because she’d had no allies to assist her.

“We didna think tae see any meat afore we got to Castle Maoil,” Hamish remarked as he jabbed his dirk into a slab of sizzling boar meat and turned it ove
r.

“And where exactly is Castle Maoil?” she conversationally inquired, her captor having yet to inform her of their final destination.

All four men peered at Yvette, clearly surprised that she was unaware of where they were headed.

Robbie
MacKinney cleared his throat. “’Tis on the Isle of Skye,” he informed her.

“Sweet Mary!”
Yvette unthinkingly blurted, stunned. “But that is on the other side of Scotland!” Even if she somehow managed to escape, she’d never find her way back to the Earl of Angus’ stronghold in Glencova.

“
And a more lovely isle ye’ll never hope tae see,” Hamish boasted proudly. “’Tis our own piece of heaven given tae the MacKinnon Clan by the Good Lord himself.”

Several
of the others made similar boasts, Yvette dully nodding her head, her thoughts in a jumble. The fact that Iain had traveled the whole of Scotland to abduct her sent a chill down her spine. A bold, daring plot, it bespoke of an intense hatred; the likes of which she’d never before encountered.

By all that
is holy, what did my father do to Iain MacKinnon to make him hate so fervently?

As if she’d conjured him out of thin air, Iain
suddenly appeared at Yvette’s side. With a proprietary arrogance that she found insufferable, he seated himself next to her on the log, his outer thigh and well-muscled arm bumping against her right side, the brute clearly asserting his dominance over her.

Arriving in Iain’s wake,
Diarmid politely bowed his head before asking permission to seat himself on the other side of her. With a nod, Yvette gave her consent.

“Christ above!” Iain growled, an ill-tempere
d frown on his face. “Ye’d think she was the bloody queen of Scotland.”

“Well, she deserves better than what ye’ve given her, that’s for certain.”

Hearing the surly exchange, Hamish furtively glanced at the two contentious cousins. Frowning, the red-bearded giant uncorked a flask and handed it to Iain. “Why d’ye think that bastard Sibbald MacDougall is prowling so far from his ancestral lands?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

Before Iain could answer the question, one
of the MacKinneys – Yvette had already forgotten who was who – angrily blurted, “MacDougall is spying for King Edward! I heard it said that he and the Lord of the Lorne went to London where they both kissed Longshanks’ arse and swore their undying allegiance to him.”

“Aye, I heard the same,” Hamish
seconded.

Shocked to hear that the infamous MacDougall Clan were English sympathize
rs, Yvette’s ire instantly escalated. Because they were Loyalists, Sibbald and his men would surely have come to her rescue.