Samantha James (3 page)

She righted herself with what dignity she could muster. She ignored him, for now that she was on her feet, she was aware of a most urgent need to attend to. Glancing around, she spied a copse of trees to the edge of the clearing. It was there she directed her steps.

“Where the devil do you think you’re going?”

She stopped short. Cameron again, his glare as black as a moonless night. Dismayed and embarrassed, Meredith felt a hot stain of color rush into her cheeks. How was she to explain?

She drew a deep breath. “I…I fear I must…”

“What? You’ve a need to piddle?”

Faith, but the man was crude! Her nod was jerky.

He stared at her, long and hard. Her gaze cut away, but not before she’d glimpsed the stubborn set of his jaw. A flurry of panic touched her. If he refused, what was she to do?

“Go, then, but do not tarry.”

His rudeness was not warranted. By the saints, she would not convey gratitude for such a delicate matter, not when he was so curt. Without a word, she turned her back and moved away.

“Meredith!”

Her name was like a clap of thunder.

Meredith glanced back over her shoulder.

“Do not run, Meredith! For if you do…” He drew a finger across his throat.

Meredith felt herself pale. Aware of his gaze stabbing into her back, she picked her way carefully toward the copse. Her feet were bare and the ground was heavy with needles that pricked her soles.

His warning stirred her mind anew. What would happen to her? she wondered. It was selfish, yet she couldn’t help it. Throughout the afternoon, she’d tried so very hard not to envisage the fate that awaited her! Yet she couldn’t erase the choking fear that he meant her dire harm. After all, he was a MacKay. Ah, but that was laughable, for what could be more dire than death? Bitterly she chastised herself. She should have screamed while she had the chance, no matter the cost to herself. Did it truly matter if she were dead?

But it did. Sweet Mother Mary, it did. Once she had thought she would rather be dead…
once
. But no more. Ah, but if the truth be known, she was afraid to die…afraid of everything! Why couldn’t she be strong…strong like…like him?

Her shoulders slumped. She was but a woman—a pitiful one, at that.

Her bodily needs attended to, she gazed longingly at the gurgling waters of the shallow stream just beyond the trees. Quickly she moved to the edge of the water and knelt to rinse the dust from her hands and
face. It was then a movement caught the corner of her eye—it was Cameron. With her hands curled on her thighs, she leaned back on her knees.

Quiet as the night, he strode to the stream, paying her no heed. It struck her that she’d never encountered a man so tall—why, she scarcely reached his shoulder! Yet for all his height, his body was leanly sculpted.

He claimed her gaze and there was naught she could do to stop herself. His hair was dark, the color of a raven’s breast. An odd feeling touched the base of her spine. Last night, she’d been convinced he was grotesque, given the ugliness of his actions—why, to steal a novice from a nunnery was surely a sin! Was he a God-fearing man? ’Twould seem not. Aye, she’d expected him to be abhorrent.

Yet his was a face of supreme masculine beauty. His brows were strongly arched, as dark as his hair, his eyes thickly lashed. She’d already noticed the way his nostrils flared slightly outward, in perfect symmetry to the rest of his features. His mouth was thin, yet the slant of it was harsh…so very harsh. All at once she recalled with vivid intensity the way he’d bent his head last evening when he’d warned her not to scream. His lips had brushed hers…

The muscles of her belly clenched. Now he’d unwound his plaid from his torso and removed his shirt. Her gaze traveled over the sleek hardness of his arms, the wide breadth of shoulders and chest. For all that he was handsome, she could imagine no gentleness in him. She’d been a fool to fight him, a fool to try to run. He was hard through and through. Even his lips had been hard…

It was then she spied the wound in the lower part of his back, a long and jagged gash. The skin was
puckered and still pink—the injury was recent. Meredith’s mind raced. Had he suffered this wound in the attack on his family? She shuddered. It was only too easy to imagine a sword rending through his body, through sinew and muscle, grating against bone.

He turned then.

Wide blue eyes met those of darkest gray. She was the first to falter. She felt the searing score of his gaze—it slipped all through her, piercing like the keenest of blades. His eyes glittered, sharp as the edge of his sword.

“Come,” was all he said.

Unfolding her legs beneath her, Meredith arose. Her muscles stretched, then stiffened. She ached all over, especially her legs and backside. His lips tightened, for apparently she did not move quickly enough to suit him. Taking her arm, he pulled her to her feet.

The moment she was standing, he released her, as if—as if she were some wretched creature he was loath to touch! For some reason she could not fathom, Meredith was hurt beyond measure.

In silence they returned to the clearing. Egan was crouched near a small fire that had just begun to burn; Finn was busy skinning two hares he’d caught earlier in the day. Meredith stopped near one of the massive oak trees that ringed the clearing. Easing to the ground, she leaned back against the rough bark.

Across from her, Cameron was on his haunches near the fire. With his knife he was busy fashioning a small spit from branches. Again and again her gaze came back to him, almost against her will. She stared at him as he worked, unwillingly fascinated. His hands were like the rest of him, long and lean and powerful. A knot gathered deep in the pit of her belly, for they were strong, those hands…hands that could
easily bend her to his will and force her to yield…A man’s body—aye, especially his hands!—held naught but dread for Meredith. Indeed, her father was the only man who held no fear for her.

She jerked as he jabbed the pointed end of a branch into the skinned hare. Her mind bolted forward; there was no help for it, for she was hardly ignorant of the ways between men and women. Was that what he would do to her? Plunge his hardness into her, tearing her flesh even as he tore the pale skin of the hare’s? Images flashed before her, images she’d fought hard to keep at bay these many months…the jutting hardness of a man’s member. Her breath quickened. Cameron MacKay was not a small man. No doubt his manhood was like a spear…

Fool! a voice reminded her. You heard what he said.
Were I in need of a woman, of a certainty ’twould not be you. Indeed, I must force myself to suffer your presence
.

She could only hope he did not lie.

The mantle of darkness began to thicken; night crept across the world. Before long the delicious aroma of roast hare filled the clearing. Juices dripping onto the fire made it spark and sizzle. Shivering a little from the cold air and damp earth beneath her, Meredith drew her bare feet beneath her ragged gown to warm them. Though she longed to avail herself of the fire’s warmth, she decided a little cold was far preferable to being near the three men.

The men tore into the hare, devouring it with gusto. Watching them, Meredith’s mouth began to water. Until then, she hadn’t realized how truly ravenous she was. A glimmer of resentment sparked within her as Cameron put his fingers to his lips, sucking the juices from them. With an uncharacteristic crossness, she
wondered if he planned to starve her to her death.

With his knife, he hacked off one of the hare’s legs. Leaning forward, he reached out and retrieved it. As he pulled it back, he chanced to glance at her. Their eyes caught and held. Meredith was the first to look away.

“Are you hungry?”

His voice reached her ears. Meredith was sorely tempted to ignore him, to pretend she hadn’t heard, yet something warned her it would not be wise. Nor could she lie, for at that precise second, her stomach gurgled, loudly protesting its fast.

Her eyes barely grazed his. “Aye,” she said, her voice very low.

He held out the leg in one hand. She hesitated but an instant, then moved toward him. She bent forward to take the morsel, only to realize her mistake—the gown she wore was mud-stained and ill-fitting, for the other woman had apparently been of larger stature than she. The neckline slipped, baring the naked curve of her right shoulder. Those eyes dipped low, an inspection that was all too thorough and missed nothing. Hastily she jerked the gown over her bare skin, searingly conscious that she wore nothing beneath. With a nod she took the tidbit, a wordless profession of thanks.

Quickly she resumed her place against the oak. While she ate, she considered all she’d learned this day. Aye, there had been blood spilled, on both sides, MacKay and Munro. Yet she could not believe that her father would sanction such butchery as Cameron MacKay had described. Was it possible he was mistaken?

Surely
he
didn’t think so.

A horn of ale was passed among the men. Cameron
offered it to her, but she declined. Seconds passed into minutes. A weak light wavered from the fire. Cameron paid her no further heed, but Egan and Finn regarded her with ill-concealed hatred.

Egan stroked the scar on his cheek. A sneering smile curled across his lips. “Can ye imagine? The Red Angus has but one child!”

Finn nudged Egan. “He is nae a man! What do ye think ails him, that his seed did nae flourish!”

Meredith longed to snap that his seed
did
flourish! Was she not proof of the same?

“He has nae children, save
this
one!” ’Twas a sneer, a biting condemnation. “Aye, but one child, and a daughter yet!”

“’Tis obvious why.” Egan stared at her as he spoke. “’Tis because he is a Munro!”

Finn poked him. “That may well be, for we all know the Munros are but spineless cowards. But methinks ’tis because his balls are like shriveled turnips!”

Ribald laughter filled the air. Their crudity embarrassed Meredith no end. Her hair sheltered her burning cheeks as she pressed her lips together and turned her face away, pretending to ignore them.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. It was him—Cameron. Deliberately he made his way toward her. Meredith felt herself pale. What did he intend now?

He sat beside her, stretching out his legs. He wore no kilt. The trews which covered his legs only emphasized their lean, taut length. His shoulders were wide and strongly muscled; his left was covered by his plaid. Her awareness of his nearness was overwhelming—and rattled her every sense. He smiled, as if he knew her every thought, her every fear. His air was that of a predatory animal.

Meredith longed to scurry away, like a rat in the night. Ah, she thought bitterly, if only she possessed the daring!

Her appetite had vanished. She tossed aside the rabbit leg. She did not look at him as she spoke.

“Why did you abduct me?”

His tone was falsely hearty. “Come, now. Your kinsman from long ago abducted the beauty who wed one of my forebears—and on the night they were wed! ’Tis only fitting that a Munro should at last be abducted by a MacKay, is it not?”

He referred to the feud. “It was a Munro bride who was abducted by
your
kinsman,” she informed him heatedly, “not a MacKay bride!” She knew it was so, for she’d oft heard the tale when she was young. The poor woman had been utterly shamed. She’d taken her own life rather than return to her newly wed husband soiled by another man. Since then, the feud had boiled over with the slightest provocation. There had been disputes over boundaries, over land and water and thieving. There had been periods of outright war, and the occasional truce and time of peace as well. Would the death of his brothers—and her abduction—stir the furies anew?

“I know the truth. ’Twas a MacKay bride who was taken. But I wonder…will you kill yourself as she did?”

Meredith straightened her spine. “Is that what you’re hoping?” she snapped.

An arrogant brow cocked high. He laughed, and made no answer.

A simmering heat sputtered within her, then grew with every second. Somewhere deep inside, she realized she was angry. The feeling was unfamiliar, for it had been a long, long time since she’d felt this
way—at Connyridge, such emotion was frowned upon.

“I will not give you the satisfaction!” she said stiffly.

“Is that why? You spoke of mortal sin—’tis a state your clan knows much of. But indeed, it takes great courage to take one’s life. Do you have it, I wonder?”

Courage. In truth, she had none, or she might have told Papa about that horrible, unforgettable night…But it would remain forever hers, a secret locked tight within her soul.

Yet something within her would not let him triumph so easily. Her chin tipped high. “And what of
your
clan?” She tipped her head toward Egan and Finn, who now lay sprawled on each side of the fire, snoring loudly. “Your clansmen spoke of the frailties of those who carry Munro blood. But ’twould seem I must be a fearsome woman indeed, that it took three MacKay clansmen to subdue one Munro woman.” She made a sound of utter disgust. “And you speak to me of courage! You are naught but a coward!”

She should have known she would regret her rashly spoken taunt…and indeed, in an instant, she did.

He moved with the swiftness of one who was accustomed to relying upon agility to save both life and limb—and succeeded. There was no time to protest, to even draw breath, before she was caught squarely in the vise of his arms, tumbled to the ground at her back. She dared not fight—she dared not move…as if she even could! All she could feel was the heavy breadth of his chest, the immense width of his shoulders above her, dwarfing her own.

Eyes the color of storm clouds moved slowly over her features. “Tell me, Meredith. Do you look warily upon me now?”

Aye
, she nearly blurted. Her gaze shifted, lest her expression betray her. Despite the weight of his body above her own, the rebellion within her would not be vanquished.

“Why should I?” Daringly she spoke, though inside she was a mass of quivering pudding. Beneath her scorn was an endless, dragging fear.