Return of the Highlander (8 page)

Sometimes Darach caught Logan staring absently toward the horizon, flexing and squeezing a fist while a muscle flicked hard at his jaw. In those moments, Darach knew exactly what he was thinking…where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do….

While all Darach wanted to do was forget the past and move on.

But ignoring the past wasn’t easy on this night when the daughter of their father’s killer slept across from him, her lush curves tempting and inviting beneath the tangled woolen blanket that had become wrapped around her shapely legs. Darach had felt a fierce and greedy lust for her from the first moment he saw her, helpless and unconscious in the woods, mere seconds before she rose up like a wild creature and struck him in the head.

She was brave and defiant, a sizzling spitfire, and perhaps that’s what continued to stir his passions more than anything. He’d never had much interest in shrinking violets, and she was nothing of that sort. Ever since he’d flipped her onto her back and felt the strain of her hips against his heavy loins, he’d been fighting to ignore his body’s desires and his intense awareness of her as a woman—even after he found out who she was. All day, the rise and fall of her ample bosom beneath that snug bodice had presented all sorts of stimulating diversions from the endless monotony of their journey. It was pure torture, because he had to remember that she was Fitzroy’s daughter and engaged to an English colonel—therefore as off-limits as any woman could possibly be.

Not to mention the fact that his brother Logan had scheming designs of his own that Darach needed to keep an eye on—and talk him out of—or else they could both end up as dead as a couple stones on the moor.

Chapter Ten

Larena woke the following morning to a low rumble of thunder in the distance and the scent of rain on the air. Sitting up with concern for the oncoming weather and how it might affect their travels, she noticed that Logan was still asleep in his bedroll. Darach, however, was nowhere to be found, and all his possessions were packed up and gone.

With a white-hot flash of alarm, she quickly rifled through her saddle bag. Relieved, she found the critical document still inside.

Rising to her feet, she glanced around the empty clearing, which looked remarkably different in the light of day. Logan stirred and sat up.

“Morning, lass,” he said blithely, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eye. “How are you feeling?”

“Moderately well, all things considered,” she replied, distracted by the fact that Darach was gone. “I’m a bit parched, though.”

“As am I.” Logan stood up and adjusted his kilt, then seemed to take notice of her distress. “Darach’s probably just gone to fetch some water from the creek,” he said. “It’s south a ways.”

“I see.” Making an effort to relax and wait patiently for Darach’s return, she glanced toward the thick grove of junipers where she’d found privacy the night before…and made off in that direction, but not before she picked up the saddle bag to take with her.

When she returned, she spotted Darach on his horse within the trees on the far side of the glade. Oddly, Logan was gripping the horse’s halter, holding him there. They appeared to be engaged in another heated discussion about something.

A twig snapped under her boot. They both shot irate looks at her.

Releasing his grip on the bridle, Logan stepped back and strode toward the fire, while Darach turned his horse into the clearing and dismounted.

“We need to get moving, lass,” Logan said. “You’d best pack up. No time for a hot breakfast this morning as bad weather’s coming in from the north. And unless you want to stop along the way to take shelter—which I assume you don’t—you might want to prepare to get wet.”

Without so much as a word to each other, Darach and Logan set about packing up the camp. The tension was thick as mud.

* * *

Rain began within the hour—a gentle mist at first, followed by a heavy downpour that swept a cold chill straight down the center of the Great Glen.

In light of the unusual humidity during the past few days, Larena found it a welcome respite at first, but by noontime, her teeth were chattering. Though she was wrapped in a blanket, she shivered incessantly beneath her gown and wished the rain would stop and the sun would break through the heavy cover of cloud.

The weather, however, was not the only chill during the journey that day, for Darach and Logan traveled apart. Logan rode at the front of the column while Darach brought up the rear, both of them wearing their tartans drawn up over their heads to keep dry. Not one word of conversation was exchanged all morning, and eventually Larena could suffer the silence no more.

Briefly, she considered galloping ahead to ride beside Logan, but she chose instead to slow her pace and wait for Darach to catch up with her.

“Is something wrong, lass?” he asked with concern as his horse trotted up beside Rupert.

“No,” she replied. “I’m just bored.”

“And you think I can remedy that?”

Rupert nickered and tossed his head.

“I don’t wish to be entertained,” she told him. “I only wish to talk.”

Darach’s eyebrows pulled together in obvious unease. “About what?”

While the cold rain continued to fall hard, Larena paused to consider how best to approach the subject. “If you must know, I’m curious about what you and your brother have been arguing about over the past few days. And please don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I heard you on the beach the other night and I saw you again this morning. Based on our discussion last night, I can only assume it has something to do with me.”

“Isn’t that a bit vain, lass?” he asked. “To assume our private quarrels are all about you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Point taken, but when I spoke to Logan about it, he told me you didn’t approve of him flattering me with his attentions, and based on what you said to me last night, I see that it’s true. But I feel there is something more you’re not telling me.”

He looked away with impatience. “What makes you think that?”

“Because something about this arrangement has you both on edge.”

“Of course it does,” he conceded at last. “You’re a Campbell and I’m a MacDonald, which makes this whole situation a thorny one.”

“Logan doesn’t seem to have a problem with it,” she reminded him, “which leads me to believe that the problem lies with
you.”

Darach shook his head with frustration. “What does it even matter, lass? You’ll be rid of us soon enough.”

She pulled the blanket more snugly about her shoulders. “It troubles me because I am carrying an important document that means everything to me, yet I am not certain I can trust you.”

His gaze burned into hers. “Of course you cannot trust me, lass. Or Logan, for that matter. You shouldn’t be trusting
anyone.
Not in your current situation.”

Larena scoffed. “Unfortunately, I have no choice, for I am at everyone’s mercy.” She faced forward to contemplate all the problems that lay ahead of her. “I must also trust that Lord Rutherford will keep his word about sparing my father’s life if I marry his son. And I am required to trust that Gregory will be a good husband to me and a fair chief to the members of my clan. Also that we will all be able to go on and live in peace with the English.”

“That’s a lot of trusting, lass,” Darach said skeptically. “You may want to rethink some of it.”

A fierce gust of wind blew across the moor and blasted her cheeks with stinging raindrops. She shivered anew and found herself growing increasingly curious about the man Darach truly was beneath the cool, aloof exterior. “Clearly you do not have a trusting bone in your body. Why is that?”

He shook his head at her, as if she should know better than to ask him that question. “You don’t know me, lass, and if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll be content to keep it that way.”

With that, he urged his mount into a gallop and rode off to scout the forest ahead, leaving her behind, feeling disconcerted and bereft.

The voice of reason in her head told her that he was right. She should not wish to know him. She should simply let him go and make no further overtures of friendship—because what would be the point in that?—but her emotions were becoming restless and willful. Something intense was drawing her to him. She was constantly aware of his presence, near or far, and wasn’t sure she could heed his warnings and resist the urge to learn what he was about.

* * *

That night, further tension persisted around the fire, though it was mostly Darach who was to blame. While Larena made a few attempts to include him in conversation, he remained unresponsive. He instead focused his attention on the task of sharpening the long, pointed blade of his knife.

Logan, on the other hand, was his usual charming, jovial self, but nothing could alleviate the sense of ill feeling in the air.

“I apologize for my brother,” Logan said eventually, speaking loud enough to reach Darach’s ears across the fire. “Sometimes he lacks good manners.”

Darach’s eyes lifted. They were dark as Lucifer in the firelight. He gave his brother a hostile look of warning, then lowered his gaze and resumed the task of scraping stone over steel.

“Looks like we’re on our own tonight, lass,” Logan whispered close in Larena’s ear while reaching for the wine jug. He held it out to offer her some, but she covered the rim of her cup with her hand. “No more for me. I want to be able to think clearly in the morning.”

They were only three days’ ride from her home. Between now and then, she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

“That’s probably wise,” Logan replied, replacing the cork and setting the jug on the grass. “And how about that bump on your head. Is the pain gone?”

“It’s much better now,” she told him. “I feel more like myself tonight.”

That was a lie, however, for none of her thoughts or feelings were making any sense to her, as she was forcibly repressing the desire to tell Logan to go off somewhere and leave her alone with Darach, as he had done the night before.

Logan raised his cup to tap against hers and she made an effort to appear relaxed and indifferent about the circumstances. If Darach wouldn’t talk to her, she could at least engage herself in conversation with Logan.

“Tell me something,” she said to him, leaning back against her saddle packs and sipping what was left of her wine. “Darach mentioned that you lost your father. What about your mother? Does she still live?”

Logan regarded her with a devilish spark in his eye, as if he were intrigued by her question. Then he turned his attention to Darach. “Listen to that. The lass wants to know about our family. Should we tell her the whole tragic tale from start to finish, or would that spoil the evening?”

Darach responded testily. “I cannot imagine the lass wants to hear any of it.”

“But I do,” Larena said, sitting up. “Since we are traveling companions, shouldn’t we know at least
something
about each other?”

She was pushing the limits he’d set that morning and she knew it, but she couldn’t help herself. Though Logan seemed forthcoming, Darach was the most enigmatic man she’d ever met, and she was frustrated by his disinterest.

But there was more to it than that, she supposed, for whenever he looked at her with those dark, reflective eyes, her heart beat fast and feverishly.

Logan reclined back against his saddle. “My favorite color is blue,” he lightly said with a smirk. “What’s yours, Larena?”

“I don’t have one,” she replied, grateful for his facetiousness, for it lightened the mood. “I like them all.”

“Cheers to that.” Logan raised his cup again to tap against hers, then eyed his brother crossly. He finished what was left in his cup, set it down on the grass beside him and turned his body toward her. “Ignore my brother. He prefers to keep to himself, but that doesn’t mean we must be dreary and dull.”

She turned to face Logan and tried to hide her disappointment that Darach did not wish to take part in the conversation. “No, it does not.”

Logan’s gaze roamed over her face. “You asked about our mother. She died giving birth to me, I’m sorry to say.”

“And I’m sorry to hear it,” Larena replied. “We have that in common, then.”

“Aye, because you lost your mother, too.”

Larena was intuitively aware of Darach’s head turning to look at her. He watched her for a few seconds, then quit sharpening his knife and slid it back into its sheath. Lying down on his bedroll, he stared up at the sky.

“Any brothers or sisters?” Larena asked Logan.

“Two older brothers,” he replied. “They fought bravely at the Battle of Sheriffmuir, but died on the field.”

“I share your grief in that as well,” she replied. “My brothers were killed in the same battle. Though I don’t remember them well. I was only six years old at the time.” She looked down at the wine in her cup. “Sometimes I wish the Jacobite cause didn’t exist at all. So many lives have been lost in the name of the Stuart king.”

“We fought for our freedom on that battlefield,” Logan argued, “and for that, I have no regrets.”

Surprised to hear this, she studied his face in the firelight. “You were there?”

“Aye, lass.”