Desiring the Highlander (4 page)

He glanced down at her to make sure she understood. Hot, furious tears brimmed in her eyes. “My
name
is Ellenor. Ellenor Howell,” she said through clenched teeth, ignoring his warning.

For a brief moment, Cole thought she might have understood his Gaelic insult for her hazel eyes had flashed bright green with recognition and pain. But then her expression turned cold as she issued him a challenging smile. Gesturing to the horizon just becoming visible between the tree limbs, she snickered, “Your precious homeland is beyond those large hills, and the sun will soon set. So I hope you can ride as well as I reek, Scot.”

Then with the skill of someone who had ridden horses all her life, she swung a leg over the horse’s neck and sat on the saddle astride, reducing their physical contact.

Her regal defiance surprised him, and Cole found himself intrigued. She was unpredictable, spirited, and most of all…a survivor. He had seen it in her eyes. This woman had endured pain and persevered.

He met her smile with one of his own. “Are you challenging me, lass?” He laughed and flicked the reins. “Because I do love a challenge.”

Ellenor was furious. And mostly at herself.

Halfway up the slope of Windy Gyle, she made a silent vow never to assume anything again about the dark-haired Scot holding her hostage. The knoll was nothing special in of itself. Grass-covered and rounded, it was one of the bigger hills of Cheviot, but definitely not the largest. In less than a half an hour, they would be passing its summit. And by doing so, the small group would no longer be in England, but in Scotland…just as the arrogant hulk had promised.

Practically the moment Durchent Hall and her weasel of a brother-in-law had disappeared from sight, the gait of the group changed to an aggressive lope that made her pulse skitter. For a short while, Ellenor feared she would fall to her death. The mount the Scot rode was enormous, just like he was, and it didn’t seem possible the large animal could be agile enough to safely traverse the deceptive hills. But as one possible travesty after another was averted, Ellenor could no longer delude herself into believing the Scot’s accurate riding was from luck. The man was highly skilled. Moreover, at the speeds they were moving, his expertise was far greater than hers. It rankled. She was good at very few things, but until today, she had met no one better on a horse.

All of her life she had been riding up and down these hills and rarely could a man keep up with her in fear of their horse losing its footing. There were holes and hidden patches of thick muck that could instantly stop a horse traveling too fast. And yet, the huge giant and his friends seemed to be gifted with foresight. They mysteriously found the few passes that remained traversable during the wet spring weather and knew how to avoid the enticing traps of grass-covered sludge.

The idea the dictatorial Scot and his companions could navigate terrain she knew far more intimately galled her enormously.

Ellenor glanced at the western sky. The sun was partially hidden behind some thin clouds and maybe one or two hours from setting—more than enough time to cross the peak and enter the Lowlands of Scotland.
Damn him
, she cursed silently. They would be sleeping on Scottish soil, and Ellenor had no doubt the
uamhlach
would gloat.

Even now, the silent triumph sparkling in the cave dweller’s eyes was maddening.
Smile all you want, blue eyes, but tonight, all the laughter will be mine
, Ellenor promised herself. The man may have interrupted her plans but that didn’t mean she couldn’t resurrect them.

Two weeks ago, she had finally snuck away enough coin to buy her way into an Irish nunnery, far away from the baron, her sister, and anyone else who had ever known her. She had just been waiting for news of an arriving ship. Unfortunately, everything she needed was still at Durchent Hall. It would be a long trek back, but she could do it. Then she would disappear and, hopefully, start to forget.

The horse weaved unexpectedly and Ellenor felt herself slipping. Suddenly, a big arm pulled her close and cradled her to keep her from falling. An overwhelming sense of security came over her. She was bound and furious about being taken somewhere without her consent, but in that instant, she also felt protected. Something she had not felt since her father had died.

Ellenor glanced back at the large Scot and blatantly assessed him. Two thin plaits of his dark brown hair were braided along his scalp just above his ears. Both hung loose among the rich shoulder-length mass left free after he used the leather strip that had been holding it back to bind her wrists. A long white scar starting at his chin looked old and deep and terrible. His mouth was hard, set in a permanent scowl, and Ellenor tried to envision him smiling. She couldn’t do it. With high cheekbones, an arrogant nose, and an inflexible jaw covered with the growth of a day-old beard, his face matched the rest of him, cold and unforgiving. There was no softness about him anywhere. Just raw, controlled power.

He should have terrified her. So why did he, of all people, make her feel safe? Even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer.

He hated her.

His eyes were the brightest blue Ellenor had ever seen, but their brilliance held no warmth. Only pain reflected back, hurt and a type hollowness one had to recognize in one’s self to see in others. Something had happened to this man. Something unmentionable. Something that had changed the very core of who he was. As a result, he despised her and all that she represented.

That
was the reason she felt safe in his arms. Her tenuous trust in the Scottish warrior, however, did not extend to his comrades.

His brown-haired companion had been silently boring holes in her head their whole ride north. Ellenor didn’t care and held no sympathy for him or his sore groin. He should never have grabbed her. The one with wild red hair had also been stealing glances, although his looks were not one of lust, but of pity. She stank and looked unmanageable. Both states of repulsiveness had been by design, and both served a purpose. They kept men like them away.

At least until today, when she had suddenly lost control of her fate.

Renewed anger heated Ellenor’s blood and her pulse began to pound violently. She had long ago vowed never to allow any man to control her life again, and she wasn’t about to let the overgrown Scot command her destiny. Ellenor narrowed her eyes and faced forward. She needed to think.

She needed to regain her freedom.

Over an hour later, Ellenor was desperate. Her attempts at convincing her Scottish captor to cut her bonds had all failed. Her seemingly brilliant plan hadn’t worked even once.

The concept had seemed sound. Relax her grip, and then while pretending to fall, cry out for help. After a few times of catching her, she would blame her bonds and to avoid the process repeating itself, he would remove them.

Unfortunately, each time she began to slide off the monstrous animal, the oaf had let her, forcing her to save herself barely in time. Only once had she waited too long and had been unable to break her fall.

Fear had ripped through her as the horse’s legs pounded the earth, never easing from their deadly pace. Her hip had passed the animal’s massive fore flanks, evoking a real and terrified scream. Only then did a large hand come down, grab her in a bruising grip, and dump her in a mortifying manner back atop the horse.

Humiliated, she decided her next solution would be something far less dangerous. Regrettably, it was also exceedingly more painful.

Brilliant plan number two consisted of good behavior and silence. Why she had thought
that
would work would forever be a mystery even to her.

For almost an hour, she had sat straight backed in mute defiance. Periodically, she would hint her desires by demonstratively twisting her bound wrists. As a result, her lower back was on fire and her rear end was sore from improperly sitting in the saddle.

From him…nothing.

Well, Scot, if you won’t free my bonds for my sake, then maybe you will for your own
. She was down to her final idea. Talking. Slowly, though. Simple stuff, like who he was and where they were going. Trust was the key.

Ellenor twisted around and stared at him, waiting to be acknowledged, even if just by a passing glance. The infuriating man ignored her. She took a deep breath, told herself to remain calm, and asked, “Do you remember my name?”

Cole smiled to himself. She had lasted much longer than he had anticipated, but he
had
been right. Once silence had not worked, he had been sure she would try its opposite. He wondered which vocal tactic she would employ. Pleading? Crying? He hoped not. Both were annoying, and for a strange reason, he felt beneath her. Cole hoped the English lass would be more honest. “Aye.”

“And?” Ellenor pushed.

“There’s English and then there is abhorrently English. Your name falls in the latter category.”

Ellenor blinked. She should have been insulted, but she was too shocked to muster the anger. The uncommunicative Scot had just answered her with more than a single word. In fact, his English had been eloquent.

The damn man had surprised her
again
.

“Well…good,” she stammered. “And how about you? Do you have a name? Are you by chance from a local clan?”

Silence.

Ellenor pursed her lips. “Perhaps a…MacInnes?”

Her captor’s rigid face suddenly came to life and Ellenor felt a ray of hope shoot through her. It was unlikely Ainsley had reached out to his dead sister’s clan for assistance, but if he had, it was probably the one place in Scotland she would be willing to go. However, before true excitement could build, the contrary giant cocked a single brow and said, “Nay.”

Ellenor waited for him to follow his answer with some clarification but none came. Pasting on a fake smile, she returned to face the front. “I didn’t think so,” she sighed. “Most of them are rather good looking…and long winded,” she added at the last moment, hoping to compel him into conversing with her.

In truth, she had no idea what the MacInneses were like, with the exception of Laurel. Ainsley’s sister had left nearly four years ago to live with her Scottish grandfather, Laird MacInnes. On the way, her small guard had been ambushed and almost all had been killed. Those that had survived had returned reporting of her death. “Is it by chance…Douglass?”

The unmistakable revulsion in her voice startled Cole. First MacInnes and now Douglass, both clans from Laurel’s past. The Englishwoman must suspect who had ordered him to find her and was fishing for a confirmation. That, he was absolutely not going to provide.

While the woman had been assessing him, he had been considering her as well. Aside from her more appalling characteristics of stinking and speaking with a repugnant English accent, he had to admit she was resourceful, persistent, and surprisingly intelligent. All three spelled trouble. If Laurel knew her, then she knew Laurel as well, and no doubt would try to use their relationship as leverage to get what she wanted, starting with removal of the leather strap securing her wrists.

Cole felt a sharp thump on his rib cage as one of her elbows “accidentally” collided with his chest. She glanced back for a second and that’s when he noticed her eyes. Their hazel color had turned into a deep green that was so dark they were almost black. Hatred boiled within her and it was aimed at him. For a moment, he was clueless as to why. What had he done? Then he realized by
not
answering her question, she had jumped to the wrong conclusion of just who he was. “I am no Douglass,” he said with conviction. “They fear me. I don’t fear them.”

And they did.

Three years ago, the Douglasses learned a deadly lesson. Attack a McTiernay and die. Attack a McTiernay’s woman and die screaming. Now, when members of the Douglass clan saw the dark McTiernay tartan of greens and blues, they hid rather than faced him.

Soft, slim fingers reached out and grabbed his forearm. Cole looked down and watched in both horror and fascination as the Englishwoman twisted almost all the way around in the seat. By the time she let go, she was precariously perched on the back of his horse’s neck between the withers and the crest. When after several seconds she didn’t falter, he knew his suspicions about her riding abilities were correct. At the pace they were riding, he should have been forced to hold on to her nearly the whole time to keep her upright. Instead, the only time his assistance had been truly needed was when she had pretended to fall off his horse and nearly succeeded.

He had to admit she was far from dull. Even now, she was trying to give him the same withering stare she had issued the baron upon their departure, but it lacked the venom the other had possessed. It amused him, and without thinking, the corners of his mouth lifted into a half smile. He was about to return his attention to the terrain when he felt something push firmly into his chest. Looking down, he saw one outstretched finger poking out from her bound hands. His half smile seemed to add intensity to her stare.

Frustrated, she gnashed her teeth and asked outright, “If I am to be dragged away from my home and family, may I at least know the name of my captor?” She pulled her hand away from his chest and wagged it in front of his face. “And think twice about ignoring me, Scot.”

“Or what?” he asked, grabbing her wiggling finger. “Just what do you think you are in a position to do about anything,
babag
?”

A sinister smile invaded Ellenor’s eyes. “Or I’ll sing. I happen to know a lovely
English
bard song about Richard the Lionheart that I especially enjoy when I am riding. It has many verses to keep me entertained while I wait for your answer.”

Cole almost choked with unexpected mirth. It had been a long time since someone surprised him. It had been even longer since he had engaged in a battle of wills with a clever opponent. He could threaten to gag her, but deep down he knew he wouldn’t.

“McTiernay. My name is McTiernay,” he said with resignation. A look of satisfaction crept into her green and gold eyes and he almost choked again. She actually believed she had won this battle.

Ellenor licked her lips.
McTiernay
.

She rolled the name around in her head, but did not recognize it. She had heard of most of the clans on the border from either her father or Ainsley, and that name had never been among them. He could be from a smaller clan she had never heard of, but instinct told her otherwise. This man came from much farther north. He was one of the Scots who had driven Edward I crazy with their fight for independence. A fight she secretly endorsed.

“And so are you the only McTiernay or are there others in your clan?”

Cole shot her a strange look. “There are others.”

“And…” she prompted.

“And what?” Cole asked, confused as to what she was asking.

“Your name!” Ellenor huffed. “What is
your
name? Not your clan’s. You know…like Elmer Harold Ludlow of the clan McTiernay,” she offered, intentionally using the most English-sounding names she could think of.