The Highlander
Elaine Coffman
One
Trust not the horse, O Trojans. Be it what it may,
I fear the Grecians even when they offer gifts.
—Virgil (70-19
B
.C.),
Roman poet. Laocoon, from
Aeneid,
Book 2
Grampian Highlands, northwestern coast of
She was not utterly naked. But she was damnably close.
He did not know why he chose to ride along the narrow strip of beach that
day
, for he usually took the winding track that curled through the rugged granite peaks nearby. Perhaps it was the working of divine providence that sent him cantering over the sand,
then
caused his horse to rear suddenly and turn sharply away.
Otherwise, he might have ridden right over the woman lying there.
Who was she?
he
wondered. Some mythological figure escaped from a Renaissance painting—one of the three Horae, perhaps? Clad only in a thin, wet shift, she lay in a cradle of rocks and sand, imbued with melancholic beauty, her body provoking, and yet chastely invisible. Still and pale, she reminded him of an ancient statue—for her beauty could have inspired some venerable sculptor to immortalize her in marble.
Tavish Graham dismounted and walked toward her, puzzled by this mysterious woman. How did she get here?
She
had no name and nothing to identify her, nor was there any clue as to where she had come from—nothing
, save the shift she wore and the pure lambent reality of cold, naked flesh. Incredibly young, and fair of face, she was slender as a reed, with a body to arouse envy in the female heart, and lust in her counterpart.
She did not move, even when he dropped down on his knees beside her. He put his head to her chest and listened, for he hoped to hear the beating assurance of a heart that said she lived.
He heard nothing.
He dusted the sand away and was about to listen again, when the exquisiteness of her face distracted him. She had a pureness of beauty quite unlike anyone he had seen. It brought to mind the dim, smoky light of taverns, where
nudes
reclined on canvas, and licentious thoughts were given free rein—to look, to touch, to make advances, or simply to toss the woman over the shoulder and carry her away.
She was far too lovely to die, he thought, as he lifted a bit of seaweed clinging to her pale lips. He inhaled sharply when he saw she was staring at him, as if just awakening from a deep sleep.
Her skin was like ice when he laid a palm along her cheek. "Who are you?" he asked. It was as if she came vividly to life before his eyes, and with elegant hands and masses of chestnut hair she modestly tried to cover her nakedness.
"Have no fear, lass. Ye are safe. I have come to help
ye
."
He saw a tear roll from her eye. She whispered something inaudible and closed her eyes.
She was not dead, thanks
be
to God, but she would be soon if he did not get her dry and warm. He looked around him, but saw no signs of anyone having been here, nor did he see any bits of wreckage that could have come from the ship that went aground the night before.
He knew not where she came from, this nameless beauty shrouded in mystery. He only knew she had not been in the water long, or she would be dead.
Which she would be soon enough, if he did not get her warm.
He was puffing vigorously by the time he wrapped her in his plaid and carried her to his horse and placed her in the saddle. He mounted behind her and pulled her close against him, so the heat from his own body could offset the icy chill in hers.
He turned his horse, ready to continue on his way, when a moment of indecision furrowed his brow.
Where should he take her?
He feared it was too far to take her to his home at
Tavish did not stop to think how Jamie would react to having a half-drowned lass interrupt his quiet retreat, or left in his care. But then, Tavish rarely thought of such things for he was the youngest brother, and the one to use his charm to manipulate others—the one who saw his way as the right way.
Tavish turned his horse toward Danegaeld and rode at a gallop, for he knew that soon the cold, dampening fog from the
As he rode, he thought about the woman in his arms, and the inexplicable aura that surrounded her. That he did not know her captivated him. He had been away at the university in Edinburgh for most of the past three years, so it was possible a lass or two could have escaped his attention—even one as bonnie as she.
Night descended upon them and the weather turned colder. Tavish pulled the plaid more tightly around her, until only her face and a few wet curls were visible.
"Clk...clk..."
He urged his horse forward and kept up a steady pace, riding toward the dark edging of trees in the distance where a stingy moon hid behind the clouds, throwing everything below into deep shadow.
Soon, they began to climb the flanks of the mountains that rose like a buttress against the powerful
The woman stirred and moaned something inaudible. He knew her position was not a comfortable one, but Tavish did not let a thing like pity slow him down. She needed a warm place more than she needed comfort.
Still, the knowledge that she might need soothing did not prevent him from offering a few sparse words of comfort in that awkwardly tender way men sometimes have—gentle words, gruffly spoken. "You are safe now, lass."
Her cold hand fell limply against his and he slowed long enough to tuck it beneath the plaid. Overhead, the moon outran the clouds to illuminate her blue lips, and fell with lifeless color upon a face as pale as ashes.
He could feel the cold numbness of her body reaching out to him through the plaid, and could only hope that some of his own body's warmth would pass into hers, before they both froze. He urged his horse into a faster pace.
The trail was uneven and rough, strewn with large boulders, some so close together there was barely enough room for a horse to pass through. It slowed their progress, and his horse pricked his ears forward and stepped gingerly over the rocks, made slippery by a heavy mist that descended upon them.
Ahead of them, Tavish saw where the trail took a sharp turn and dropped steeply toward the river. Once they were around that, it would curve away and upward and they would begin to climb again.
"Hold on, lass
. 'Tis no' so far now."
A soft mist began to scatter droplets about, and he cursed his luck. She was wet enough.
Saints above, the last thing she needed was more water.
The track dipped into a narrow ravine, and they rode along the river until they came to a shallow ford. He slowed his horse to cross with the hope no water would splash upon her, adding to her discomfort.
He paused a moment on the other side, hearing only the sound of the harsh breathing of his horse as he watched the steam rising from his wet hide. Tavish felt almost apologetic when he resumed his pace and urged his horse into a gallop along the narrow trail. He was thankful the lass in front of him slept on, for he knew if awake she would be complaining mightily.
Gradually he could feel the warmth beginning to gather between them, and he felt relieved that at least the part where their bodies touched was losing its chill. He tried to shift his position, but the
lass was
all dead weight.
"Och, yer a hard one to budge," he said, not really realizing he had spoken aloud until he heard her reply.
"Where are you taking me?"
Her voice was soft, and her accent went straight to his groin. Seductive as hell, it was. He glanced down at her, almost too
astonished :o
answer. "What difference does it make? You should be glad to go anywhere, as long as it is dry."
"I want to know where you are taking me."
She might be half dead, but she was persistent. "I am taking you to my grandfather's house, Danegaeld Lodge."
"Why?"
'"Tis where my brother is, and I canna think of naught else to do
wi
' ye."
"You could put me down."
"Nay, lass, I couldna do that. Yer sure to freeze in this night air, not to mention that ye have little on, save yer hide, which is little protection against any dragoons or Black Watch that might be about."
"You speak English, but your accent is peculiar."
"Peculiar? Ach, I suppose 'tis."
She said nothing more after that, and he thought she was asleep until some time later when she asked, "Are you a Scot?"
"Aye," he said, feeling the word rise up proudly inside him. "That I am, and if you dinna mind my saying so, you've got a verra peculiar accent of yer own."
She did not respond to that but simply asked, "Where are we?"
"On the road to Danegaeld."
"I mean where...what country?"
"You mean ye dinna know where ye were afore I found ye?" "No."
"How can that be? How can you no' remember where you were going?"
He was thinking she was not going to answer him, but after a little time passed, she said, "I don't seem to be able to remember much of anything."
"Well, don't fret about it now, lass. Yer in
himself
, it was.
"Do you have no memory, lass? Do you have no recollection of how ye came to be in the water wearing scarcely more than yer goose bumps?"
"
Non
, monsieur."
Now, that was decidedly French, he thought.
"Yer a French lassie.
Am I right?"
"Perhaps...I cannot seem to remember very much."
"Och, 'tis like talking to a vapor. The question lingers then disappears without an answer," he said, having decided he liked her better unconscious. "Dinna fret, lass. Yer memory is probably frozen like the rest of ye. Why dinna ye try to sleep for a while? It will make the trip seem shorter."
"Why are you taking me to your brother?"
"Because my brother is the chief..."
"Of what?" she interrupted.
"He is Chief of the Clan Graham, ye ken?"
"Why can't you help me?"
"I'm on my way back to the university in
"I don't have a problem."
"If ye dinna ken who ye are, and ye dinna ken where ye come from, and ye dinna ken where ye were going, then ye have a problem. Besides, a lass what looks as good as ye is bound to cause problems afore long, even if she has none at the moment."
"What will your brother do with me?"
"Chain you in the dungeon and ravish you periodically for as long as you please him," he said, hearing her gasp. "Now, be quiet, for yer blethering is distracting."