DevilsHeart (16 page)

He shrugged. “Though many would like to think otherwise, I
have yet to meet the devil with whom I supposedly have a pact. The truth of the
matter is I do not suffer fools or traitors. If I have to be merciless, then so
be it. I am good at what I do.”

A chill rippled through her. “You mean killing?”

He threw her a sharp look. “Yes, I do it well. It is better
than the alternative.”

“Getting killed yourself?”

He nodded, a crooked, half-smile playing at his lips.

A heat of desperate agreement rushed through her. This was
too enjoyable, too comfortable for it to be torn away from her. Lying here, his
solid form beneath her with no one else around. Just talking, breathing, being
alive. Life swirled through her veins, his heart beating in a steady rhythm
beneath her fingers.
Yes.
His presence was seductive, draining away
thoughts of home.

“And Andrew MacTavish?” she whispered. “Why does he hate you
so much?”

He slid one arm around her and smoothed his fingers through
her hair. They caught on a tangle, which he set about to work free. “It goes
back ages, lass. Long before our grandfathers’ time. They attacked the
Sinclairs under the order of a rival claimant to the throne. But I suspect it
goes deeper than that for the current MacTavish.”

She snuggled closer, the chill of the ground seeping into
her. “How so?”

“My father’s older sister was ordered to marry the
MacTavish’s father about forty years ago. The king thought bringing the two
houses together would calm the tension and violence plaguing our lands.”

She jerked upright, staring at him. “You two are cousins?”

He nodded. “And until my father claimed me as his son, the
MacTavish was due to inherit Sinclair lands upon my father’s death.”

“Claimed you? What do you mean?”

His features hardened. “I am a bastard, Leah. The product of
my father’s seduction of the young daughter of another rival laird, the
MacNaughton.”

“Oh.” A thousand questions assaulted her at once, but she
pressed her lips together and remained silent. Just below the surface of his
steely tone lay a sharp edge of pain. Pressing him with more questions now
seemed insensitive.

“What say you, wife? Any objections to being married to the
bastard son of a minor laird?”

Her brows drew together and she shook her head. “No, of
course not. Why should it matter to me?”

The rigidity vanished from his face and her stomach coiled.
Not that she cared at all about his illegitimate birth, but the implication of
her words haunted her. Suggesting she was comfortable with the marriage and had
accepted her fate. She should be concentrating on going home in less than a
year, shouldn’t she?

He lifted his head and placed a quick, affectionate kiss
upon her lips. “For many women it would. But you are not just any woman, are
you?” He gave her backside a playful smack and arose. “Come, lass. It is too
cold for you on this damp ground without a blanket to shield you. It is time
for a full belly and a fire to warm your bones.”

He gained his footing and reached down to pull her up to
him. She tilted her face upward as he towered over her. His black hair fell
forward, brushing against her cheeks as he grabbed her chin and kissed her.
Wonder and contentment swirled through her, curling her toes.

God help her. She
liked
this guy.

It was all too much. And it was happening too fast. She
couldn’t fall for this guy.

Leah bit her lower lip, taking the opportunity of Rathe’s
inattention to study him from atop the back of the black horse that had refused
to allow her to ride him the day before.

Rathe had roused her early with a heated kiss and the goal
of teaching her the basics of riding a horse before breakfast. He didn’t give
her time to panic. In fact, she was still wrestling with the last remnants of
sleep when somehow he’d gotten the black horse, which was called Bran, to
approach her with a nudge on her shoulder. Within no time, she was on the
animal’s back, attempting to absorb Rathe’s instructions and put them into
practice.

Once they’d gotten a bit of food into them, they were off
again, heading toward the MacAirth holding where they would rest for the night.
Where there would be an actual bed for her to crash in instead of the makeshift
tent on the cold, hard ground she’d shared with Rathe.

Her gaze roamed about his form, wandering down his arms to
his broad, straight back. Those arms had kept her plenty warm last night. The
ground may have been hard and bumpy, but she was otherwise so comfortable and
humbled by his attention it didn’t matter. He was gentle and accommodating and
he made her laugh. And even though she understood almost nothing as he switched
to Gaelic to speak with his men, she couldn’t help but smile at his easy way
with them and comfort in his own skin. So self-assured and accepting of himself
and everyone around him. It seeped into her, drawing a quiet tranquility into
her heart.

Rathe’s arm twitched. A moment later his hand shot into the
air as he pulled up on the reins to stop his horse. She followed suit along
with the rest of his men. The stiffness of his features set off an alarm in her
head.

His gaze flicked to hers before uttering something in
Gaelic. Some men ventured off into the woods to either side of them while the
rest of the warriors encircled her and Rathe, forming a wall between them and
the woods.

Her skin crawled with trepidation. She leaned forward and
whispered his name.

His eyes darted back and forth as he put a finger to his
lips.

She shrank back, her stomach twisting in fear. Her muscles
locked into place and she sat motionless except for her eyes, which launched
from one side to the other as thumps and shouts echoed from the woods.

Men emerged from the trees, their jaws stiff with anger.
Rathe spoke in fast, hushed tones. They all turned as the clash of metal on
metal rang up the hill through the trees on the opposite side. A sharp pang of
dread shot through her chest and she gripped the reins tighter. Her eyes darted
to each man around her, settling back on Rathe.

When he lifted his gaze to hers, apprehension flickered in
his eyes. Her lips parted in surprise. Damn it, he was supposed to be the Satan
of the Highlands. Shouldn’t they be glowing with some otherworldly glee at the
prospect of bloodshed? If there was any time for him to be cocky and
self-assured now would be good.

He remained silent. Panic rose in her throat. Why wasn’t he
saying anything?

“Rathe?” she choked out.

He reached down into his boot and withdrew a short-bladed
dagger. Guiding his horse toward her, he handed her the weapon. “Hold this,” he
ordered.

She fumbled as he shoved the handle into her hand, almost
dropping the dagger to the ground. She gasped as he flipped her skirt up to her
knee and tore off a long strip of fabric from her chemise. He grabbed the
weapon from her and wound the fabric around the blade.

He yanked the neckline of her dress forward and secured the
dagger point-down between her breasts. He then placed his palm against the
weapon on the outside of her dress and wiggled it. “Be careful. You could
easily gut yourself if you bend over too much.”

She stiffened, terror ripping through her. “Rathe, what—”

His hand snaked around the back of her neck and pulled her
close. The fear in his eyes faded, replaced by grim determination. “Listen
well, lass. There are men to either side of us but not up ahead. You will ride
north as fast as you can. Stick to the trees. There is a stream not far from
here. Cross it and keep going through the pass between the mountains. On the
other side there are fields and you will be on MacAirth land. Tell them who you
are. Who your husband is.”

She shook her head in disbelief. Was this even real?

He touched his forehead to hers. “I will find you, I swear.”

She swallowed the lump of panic in her throat, her heart
beating in an erratic rhythm. “Rathe, I—”

“Hush, lass. I know you are frightened, but there is no
time. Just do as I say. I cannot fight well if I know you are not safe.”

Fight? Oh God, they were being attacked. Tears stung her
eyes and she gave him a small nod, bumping her nose against his.

He squeezed her neck. “Just do me one favor.”

“Anything.”

“If you are attacked, you fight like hell. You understand?”

Doubt crashed into her, her mind whirling between various
violent scenarios. She bit her lower lip, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You are strong enough,” he insisted in a fierce whisper.
“Go for the neck or the gut.”

She sucked in a mouthful of air and exhaled. “Okay.”

“Or the balls,” he growled. “Just castrate the bastard who
dares to touch you.”

A laugh forced its way through her throat and her chest
heaved as she attempted in vain to contain it. A broad grin spread across his
face.

Another clash of swords reverberated through the woods.
Rathe glanced to the side for a mere second and then turned back, smashing his
lips against hers in a demanding, urgent kiss. Startled, she jumped against
him. Possessiveness radiated though him and her lips softened in surrender. A
strange thread of satisfaction wound through her until shouts from somewhere
below interrupted its course. Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she seized his
face between her hands in a desperate attempt to delay their separation before
he rode into battle.

He could die. This man. These lips. The infuriating smirk
and flash of arrogance in his devilish green eyes. It all could be gone in an
instant.

But he pulled away and her hands were empty. She grappled
until she caught his arm as he attempted to guide his horse back toward his
men. As he raised questioning eyes to her, she stumbled over her words. “You
have to do me a favor too.”

“What would that be?”

“Don’t die.”

Amusement twinkled in his eyes. “Pact with the devil,
remember? You cannot get rid of me that easily.”

He gave her a wink and smacked her horse on the backside.
She squealed and grasped at the reins in a frenzy as the horse took off into a
run. A shrill, unearthly whoop followed by a roar of voices in unison and the
thunder of charging horses’ hooves trailed along behind her and then died out.

Leah managed to pull forward in time to avoid being unseated
by a low-hanging branch. She hunched down in the saddle, draping her torso over
the horse’s neck. The animal veered off the trail and into the woods. She
squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around his neck, trusting his
instincts to keep them safe.

When water splashed against her legs, she pried her eyes
open. The stream. The horse’s hooves sent another splash right up to her face.
Sputtering, she sat up, wiping water out of her eyes.

Was this the stream of which Rathe had spoken? She glanced
ahead and her breath caught in her throat. Mossy, craggy mountains with tops
hidden by mist rose to meet her. The lush greens and earthy purple heather
interspersed with white clusters of thistledown spread out before her into the
valley between two of the mountains.

Was this the valley Rathe had wanted her to take? She
glanced around. None of the other mountains seemed to offer much of a pass
through them.

Bran slowed to a stop once they reached the other side of
the stream. He shook and snorted, lowering his lips to the water. She took the
hint and grabbed the horn of the saddle as she dismounted. She stumbled
backward a bit as her feet tangled in skirts but then she breathed a sigh. She
stretched her arms above her head and then rubbed the ache out of her lower
back.

The pressure of Rathe’s lips upon hers haunted her. She
brushed her fingers across her lips. How long ago had she left his side? How
far apart were they now? Perhaps, if she were to gain a higher vantage point,
she could spot Rathe and his men.

She hiked up her skirts and trudged up the side of the
mountain, dodging random, moss-covered rocks jutting out of the earth. Bran
whinnied down below and she cast a glance over her shoulder. He stomped at the
earth and neighed, staring at her.

She rolled her eyes. The animal was about as arrogant as his
master. Turning forward again, she climbed up to an outcropping and peered into
the distance.

Nothing. Not even a single house or road in sight. She
shivered and wrapped her arms around herself as a weird sense of desolation
washed over her.

Bran neighed again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she muttered. She hopped down the
side of the rocky outcropping. The sharp tip of the dagger Rathe had planted
between her breasts poked her abdomen. Her spine stiffened and she eased back
into an erect position.

That thing was going to kill her. She pulled the dagger out,
securing it in her palm and made her way back down the mountain.

The horse stomped at the ground, staring at her and flicking
his tail. Then he paused, his ears stiff and nostrils flared.

A flare of alarm rippled through her belly. The little hairs
on the back of her neck stiffened and she quickened her pace. The sooner she
could get back on Bran and to those fields where she’d hopefully find some
semblance of civilization, the better.

From out of nowhere, a hand clamped around her mouth and she
was forced back against someone. A deep, masculine voice clucked in her ear.
“Left all alone, my lady?”

She froze, her heart speeding into a fast, erratic thud. She
gripped the dagger closer to her body, burying it in the folds of her dress
against her thigh.

“Well, now, let us see what kind of prize I have found
myself.” A low, sickening laugh rumbled forth from his chest.

Wait…English? What? How did he know?

When he pawed at her skirts with one hand, her body reacted
on instinct. She threw back an elbow and bit down hard on the hand covering her
mouth. The man barked in pain but released her and she ran. The metallic taste
of blood hung upon her lips.

Bran whinnied and reared up on his hind legs. Irritation
surged through her. Now was not the time for the animal’s high-handed attitude
toward her. She needed him to stay still so she could climb up onto his back
and get the hell out of there.

He landed on all fours and turned so his side faced her.

Please don’t move. Please don’t move…

Her toe hit a rock. Skirts tangled between her legs and she
pitched forward. The dagger fell from her hand. Pain shot through her wrists
and knees, her palms scraping along the grass.

Hands wrapped around her ankles and she clawed at the ground
to pull forward. As the man yanked her back and flipped her around, her skirts rode
up to her knees. Her lungs burned as she flailed, but she made contact and
kicked him in the face.

But it made no difference. He grunted and threw himself on
top of her. Grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the ground, he sat up,
straddling her.

He sneered and shook his head as he glared down at her. He
muttered something in Gaelic and released one of her hands. She attempted to
push up, but he brought his fist to land squarely against her cheek, knocking
her back down. She smacked her head into something hard.

Her vision blurred, pain rushing through her bones. Cold air
lapped at her bare legs as the man muttered something unintelligible somewhere
above her. Her finger twitched against something smooth in the grass. Through
the fog in her brain, she somehow managed to force her fingers around it,
hoping it was a rock she could hit him with.

But it wasn’t. It was the dagger. She felt for the handle
and wrapped her fingers around it. As he leaned over her, his hands dragging up
to her hips, she forced the blade into his side.

The man bellowed in pain, pulling up. She scrambled away
from him, her vision clearing at last. The blade was still covered in the
fabric of her chemise but the tip glistened red.

The man lifted a bloodied palm from where he had clasped at
his side and gave her a menacing glare. “You will regret that.”

She clawed at the fabric around the blade as he rushed
toward her. He grabbed her legs and pulled her toward him again just as the
fabric fell away. He launched himself toward her arm to grab the dagger.

A black streak swept across her peripheral vision and the
man hesitated long enough for her to jam the blade into his neck. His eyes
widened as he launched himself up away from her. She clutched fistfuls of grass
to pull away just as Bran bucked and sent hisrear hooves into the man’s face.

Curling into a ball, she covered her head, squeezing her
eyes shut. But then something warm and velvety nuzzled against her hands. Bran
snorted.

Aching, she sat up. The man had crumpled to the ground just
a few feet away. Oh God, had she killed him?

The horse nudged her head but she continued to stare at the
man in a daze until the animal head-butted her.

“Ow,” she mumbled, rubbing the side of her head.

A gurgled moan and twitch of the man’s legs sent her flying
to her feet. What if he had friends nearby? Or wasn’t hurt as bad as she
thought?

She gained the horse’s back with surprising agility and the
animal took off just as she grasped the reins. As if he knew exactly where he
was supposed to take her, he charged into the valley.