Sutherland's Secret (2 page)

Brice rode deeper into the trees, heading toward his land by a circuitous route in hopes of avoiding the redcoats. He held the lass tightly to him with one hand while directing his mount with the other. The lass had yet to move. Her breathing was more erratic and ragged, rattling in her lungs.

When it was too dark to see and the footing became treacherous for Galad, Brice found a small clearing in which to stop and spend the night. He carefully laid the lass down and watched her arms fall to her sides, lifeless.

Quickly he gathered enough wood to build a fire and keep it going through the night. Gently he moved the lass closer to it. With one last look at her, he jogged into the woods to find something to eat. The fire would keep any four-legged predators away, and he’d built it low enough that it wouldn’t attract any two-legged predators, either.

After scoring two hares, he skinned them and put them on a makeshift spit to roast. Only then did he settle down next to the woman to have a better look at her.

He didn’t want to be too forward, but he needed to find out more about her, and since she wasn’t talking, he needed to do some searching. With a whispered apology, he searched the tattered remains of her gown, looking for any indication of her identity. Saints, but she was a wee bit of a thing. Obviously wherever she had been, she had not been fed or given any care whatsoever.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled up the skirt, silently apologizing to her but knowing that women usually had pockets tied to their underclothing. He sucked in a breath when he saw her legs and thighs. At some point she had lost or removed her stockings and garters, for her legs were bare, and there was not a spot on her that did not sport a bruise. Some were as large as his hand, others as small as the tip of his finger. Christ almighty. He prayed to God they were not handprints.

Her feet were swollen and caked with blood. If she’d had shoes, they were long gone; it appeared she’d walked a fair bit of distance without them. Her petticoats were nothing but tattered scraps of fabric tied at her waist, as filthy and disgusting as her gown. There were no pockets to look through. At one time the fabric of her gown had been of good quality, so he doubted that she hadn’t had any pockets. Mayhap she’d been robbed and left on the side of the road. But that didn’t explain the scars on her wrists and ankles and her apparent starvation. Though he couldn’t imagine any reason for the English to imprison one of their women, he’d long since stopped questioning their actions.

He rearranged what was left of her petticoats and gown over her legs, took off his cloak, and covered her, making sure to tuck her cold hands beneath it. Even though he didn’t think she would make it through the night, he grabbed the blanket from behind his saddle and tore a few strips off it. Using water from the brook, he bathed the caked blood from her feet, revealing so many cuts that he cringed. Gently he wrapped her feet with the strips of blanket. Was she English? Or a Scottish lass in English clothing?

Despite the fact that they were almost dangerously close to the fire, she began shivering. He felt her head for fever. It was warm, but he wasn’t a healer; he didn’t know if it was warm from fever or the fire.

He lifted her onto his lap and tucked her against him. Like a newborn kitten, she turned her head toward him and, with a small sigh, settled into his heat. He frowned down at her. He could not become attached to her. Given the extent of her malnourishment and her injuries, she didn’t have long for this world. He was simply here so she would not die alone.

With one hand he turned the spit, and with the other hand he held the woman. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten since earlier that morning.

He tried to turn his thoughts toward Graham’s gathering but found himself staring down at the woman, wondering who she was and where she’d come from. Did she have family? Would they mourn her? Were they looking for her?

All his questions led down one path. If he was discovered with her, he was as good as dead. And then what would happen to his people?

Lachlan was right. He should have left her on the side of the road. Mayhap the English would have found her and taken her with them.

Saints above. All of this thinking was doing him no good. He’d taken her with him, and now he had to follow this through to the end.

He ate one-handed and kept his eye on the woman, hoping that the scent of roasting meat would stir her hunger and awaken her. But no such thing happened.

He lay on the ground in front of the fire and tucked her in to his body. Her feet came to his mid-shin, and her head fit comfortably under his chin. If he ignored her powerful odor, he was quite comfortable. When was the last time he’d held a lass in his arms?

It had been his wife, and he was not inclined to think upon that, so he quickly shut his mind to it.

He awoke suddenly when a knee slammed into his groin and intense pain shot through his body and stole his breath. “Saints above,” he gasped, grabbing for his manly bits.

The lass was thrashing and moaning. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Shhh, wee’un,” he whispered into her ear.

She cried out, pushing against his arms, but she was so weak that he barely felt her attempts. He wasn’t about to let her go for fear of her rolling right into the hot coals of the fire.

“Na biodh sgàth ort.”
Do not be afraid. “Ye are safe.”

She twisted beneath him and made animal-like whimpers and grunts as she attempted to fight him off.

And then he realized she wasn’t trying to escape him but was in the throes of a nightmare. He could see her eyes rolling around behind her closed lids. Her mouth was open as if in a scream, but no sound emerged. He held her, tucking her hands against his chest and rocking her, whispering over and over,
“Na biodh sgàth ort.”

Eventually she either wore herself out or his words penetrated her fear, for she stopped thrashing. But it near broke his heart to see the tears streaming from her eyes, making tracks in the dirt on her face.

“Who are ye?” he whispered, but she had calmed down and was no more conscious than she had been all day.

Brice’s heart settled back into a normal rhythm, his groin pain simmered to a dull ache, and he eventually fell back to sleep. When he awoke at dawn, her cheek was pressed against his heart, and her hand was resting on his stomach, perilously close to his abused manhood. He jumped up, wrapped her in his cloak and the blanket, and saw about the business of breaking camp.

He rode all day, stopping only when nature’s urges could not be ignored. His arm ached from holding her, and he found himself periodically switching her position for more comfort. He stopped long after night fell and set up camp again. He still had hare left over from the night before, so he ate that cold.

He’d thought she would have passed on by now and was surprised that not only was she still breathing, she was breathing easier. She’d not woken, had only moaned once or twice. Yesterday she had been still as death. Today her body twitched occasionally, as if she were coming awake slowly. It gave him hope that she would survive. It also gave him anxiety that she would survive. What the devil was he to do with her if she did?

Once he finished eating, he soaked some of the meat in a cup of water. He warmed the concoction, fished the meat out of the cup, ate it, then held the cup to her lips. “Come, wee’un, drink just a bit.”

She pressed her lips together and his heart leaped. Could she hear him?

“None of that, stubborn one. Drink.”

She turned her head away and he found himself smiling. He followed with the cup and managed to get a drop or two into her mouth. She swallowed. He tried again and again until she drank half the cup. All the while he talked to her, some in Gaelic, some in English, hoping she would understand at least one of those languages.

They settled down for the night, but a few hours later she woke him with her cries and thrashing. He soothed her as he had the night before, holding her close and murmuring to her.

Her eyes opened and she stared right at him. For a moment they both froze.

And then she screamed.

Brice slammed his hand over her mouth and rolled on top of her to keep her still. Damnation, but if any English were about, they surely heard her.

“Quiet,” he commanded. “Do ye want to alert everyone to where we are?”

She was frozen beneath him, her eyes wide and round. He could feel the terrified pounding of her heart against his chest.

“I’m no’ going to hurt ye,” he said. “Do ye understand?”

She didn’t nod or shake her head or in any way indicate that she had heard him. All she did was stare at him in terror.

“If I pull my hand away, will ye scream again?”

When she didn’t respond, he repeated his question in Gaelic but received no better response.

Carefully he pulled his hand away. She did not scream, much to his relief. Christ, but his heart was about to pound out of his chest. He could only pray that no redcoats were in the area.

She scooted away from him, whimpering, her head whipping back and forth as if she were trying to figure out where she was.

Brice watched her. He held his hands out to the sides, telling her without words that he meant her no harm, but that didn’t appease her. She dug her heels into the dirt and scooted back.

Brice grabbed her ankle.

Eleanor scrambled in the dirt away from the barbarian crouched before her. She looked around frantically, her heart pounding wildly.

His large, meaty hand tightened on her ankle, digging in to her bruises. Immediately she kicked out at him, trying to scream, but no sound emerged.

He was speaking, but she couldn’t hear him above her ragged breathing. Her only thought was to escape. Run. Flee.

He dragged her closer and she whimpered.
No, no, no! Not again.
She dug her elbows into the dirt and tried to pull back, but he was far too strong. He pulled her as if she were nothing, hardly worth his effort at all.

“Easy, lass. Ye’re about to crawl into the fire.”

His words penetrated her fear, and she glanced behind her to find that indeed she was perilously close to the fire. The warmth heated her back until it nearly burned, but still she did not move. Fire was definitely preferable to what this brute had in mind for her.

“Who are ye?” he asked in a deep voice with a thick Scottish accent that had her stomach twisting. “Where are ye from?”

She was breathing so fast that it was impossible to answer. Not that she had any inclination to answer. She’d learned a long time ago that silence was her best defense and her best protector.

“What’s yer name?” He was sounding frustrated and she began to tremble. She looked at his large fingers, still curled around her fragile ankle.

He was crouched before her, but she could tell he was tall. And wide. Lord above, but his thighs were enormous. And his expression was so fierce that it stole her breath with terror. He wore a savage frown, dark blond brows dipped in anger. His dark blond hair was unbound and hung in unruly, uncombed waves to those massive shoulders. Blue eyes glared at her.

And he was wearing a kilt. Lord have mercy, but what horrific fate had befallen her now? She’d been convinced she’d run from the worst fate ever, but now she was not so certain. She looked around the small clearing. There didn’t seem to be anyone else about. That was either good or bad. He could do what he wanted to her and no one would be the wiser. However, if others were about, then they could do what they wanted with her as well. She shuddered at the thought.

His fingers on her ankle tightened, drawing her attention back to him.

“I am Brice Sutherland, Earl of Dornach and chief of clan Sutherland. I found ye unconscious on the side of the road. How did ye come to be there?”

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of how she had come to be on the road in the middle of Scotland. She’d thought that her tears had run out months ago. Apparently she had a few more, and this heathen was not happy to see them. He cursed and scowled. “Do
no’
cry.”

Against her will, the tears spilled down her cheeks. Her body began to shake uncontrollably. His expression went from fierce to stern.

And then, to her immense surprise, he released her ankle and stood slowly. She looked up at him from her prone position and tried very hard not to appear shocked. As she had guessed, he was enormous. Towering above her. From where she lay sprawled, he appeared taller than the trees. Definitely wider than some of the trunks. She slowly sat up, her body in agony, protesting each motion. Lord, but she’d never thought her body could hurt so much.

“Sit in front of the fire before ye freeze.” He picked up a cloak from the ground and settled it around her shoulders. The cloak smelled of campfire smoke, man, and horse. And it was so warm that it made her tremble even more. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been warm.

She looked at the fire, then back at him. Slowly she scooted closer to the warmth of the flames, keeping a wary eye on him. She grabbed the ends of his cloak and wrapped it more securely about her. She tried to smooth the tattered edges of her gown over her bare feet and was surprised to discover that her feet were bound in strips of cloth. She looked at him quickly. Had he done this? But of course he had. Who else could have done it? One of the last things she remembered, besides being cold, was that her feet were raw and bleeding; she’d prayed that no predator would gnaw off her toes.

He lowered himself to the ground beside her, close enough that she could feel his body heat and smell him. He smelled like his cloak. A not unpleasant smell. Comforting in its own way.

She settled before the fire but kept an eye on his hands, her body tense and ready to dodge if they should come flying her way. This could all be a trick. A way to make her relax before he pounced. Her gaze strayed to the trees beyond the fire, and she shivered. She’d spent enough nights within those trees to know the fire was the safest place to be for now. Even with the big man next to her.

She was so warm that her eyes began to drift closed. She forced them open. To fall asleep in the presence of this man would be deadly. A part of her laughed at that thought. She’d been alone with him, unconscious, for an indeterminate amount of time and was still in one piece. But the bigger part of her brain, the one that was telling her to run, told her to remain alert and ready. It was that part she would listen to.

He turned his head to look at her. Her shoulders were so tight that they ached. Everything ached on her.

“Go to sleep, wee’un. I will watch over ye.”

She looked at him in disbelief. As if she would simply trust his words. No. She would remain awake and be prepared to run if need be.

And do you think you can outrun this man? He looks as if he makes the wilderness his home. He probably knows every path, every rock, and every tree within miles. You are doomed, Eleanor.

She shuddered and fought the urge to cry again. Ridiculous tears. They served her no purpose.

“Ye have my word that no harm will come to ye.”

She huffed out a breath.

He raised an eyebrow. “Ye do no’ believe me?”

She hesitated, then shook her head.

“Ye’ve been in my protection for nearly two days. I hid ye from English soldiers. I held ye as we rode deeper into the forest to evade the soldiers, and I fed ye.”

She began to tremble in fear. He’d hidden her from the English soldiers? So they were looking for her. Her panic chipped away at what was left of her sanity, causing her breath to come fast until she was nearly gasping. The soldiers were looking for her. But he’d hidden her. He said she was safe, but Eleanor feared she would never be safe again.

“What is yer name?” he asked.

She opened her mouth, not to tell him her name but to thank him for hiding her from the English. No sound emerged no matter how hard she tried. When was the last time she’d spoken? She couldn’t even remember. She had learned early on that no matter what she said, it resulted in a beating, so she had stopped speaking altogether.

“It’s late,” the man said. “We have some hard riding tomorrow, so we need to get some sleep.”

She watched incredulously as he lay on his side and closed his eyes. Eventually his breathing evened out and he appeared to be fast asleep.

At first she merely scooted a few inches away, then waited, watching. His breathing did not change, and his eyes were moving beneath his lids as if he were dreaming. She had an odd hope that his dreams were more pleasant than hers.

She scooted away again, putting more distance between them. Slowly she moved to a crouched position without taking her eyes off him. Her feet protested, but they weren’t nearly as sore as before. She could walk on them. She had no choice.

He snorted and smacked his lips. Eleanor froze, her muscles screaming in agony, her mind screaming for her to run.

The small part of her brain that was thinking rationally warred with her primitive instinct to run. Should she stay with this newest threat or head into the forest, where the English might be hiding?

He settled into slumber and she stood. She took a painful backward step toward the tree line and held her breath. Another step and another. Her knees were trembling, and her legs threatened to give out on her, but she continued to move toward the trees and away from Brice Sutherland.

She vaguely remembered walking the road where he had found her, unable to take another step. Her legs had collapsed beneath her, and that was all she remembered.

That same feeling returned, and she begged her body to remain strong. She would not be held captive again—not by the English and not by this man. She would rather die than be imprisoned one more hour.

She turned and tried to flee toward the trees, but her knee gave out and she fell to the ground, her bones jarring so badly that she felt it in her teeth. She pushed herself up and took another painful step. Her other leg gave out and she fell again.

She braced herself with her hands and tried to stand, but her body simply would not do it. She fell, her face hitting the ground. A sob broke through and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the worst.

“Come, wee’un.” Large hands gently lifted her up; before she knew it, she was cradled against the incredibly large, incredibly hard chest of her captor. His hold was kind as he carried her back to the fire and set her on the ground. He settled down beside her and simply looked at her.

Eleanor huddled into herself and tucked her chin into her chest, waiting for him to hit her. When the blow never came, she peeked over at him. He was still looking at her, his arms draped negligently over his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. She stared at those hands, imagining what damage they could do when curled into fists. They were nicked and scarred. He’d worked hard in his life. She could tell by those rough, strong hands.

He reached for a plate beside him and offered it to her. She stared at it for a long moment, uncomprehending.

“Hare that I caught yesterday. It’s a wee bit dry but still edible. Go on, now, take it.”

Her gaze flew to his in surprise. He raised dark blond brows. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Beautiful, she would have thought in another life.

Slowly she uncurled herself and took the plate from him. When it wasn’t snatched out of her hand, she grabbed a piece of meat and shoved it in her mouth. She swallowed before she’d barely chewed it, then grabbed another piece, watching him, waiting for him to take the plate from her. Waiting for the mockery.

In the back of her mind, she knew her manners were deplorable, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t eaten meat in months, and even though it was cold and tough, she’d never had anything that tasted so good. She shoved another piece in her mouth before she’d swallowed the bite before it. His brows rose in shock. She reached for more, but the plate was empty. He took it away and placed it on the ground.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

She swallowed the last mouthful and nodded, even though she could have eaten more. He grinned, and she was arrested by the transformation in him. He didn’t look so fierce or dangerous when he grinned like that.

Her eyes began to droop. Strong hands guided her to the ground.

“Sleep,” his voice rumbled. “I command it.”

When they crested the rise and the trees thinned out, Eleanor got her first glimpse of Sutherland’s home, and she pulled in a deep breath. It was frightening and magnificent at the same time.

In these modern times most Scotland chiefs were renovating their castles to reflect the genteel country estates of the English, but not Sutherland. Like the arms that surrounded her and trapped her on his mount, his castle—for it could only be called a castle—represented the man. It was formidable, enormous, and impenetrable, built for protection and defense instead of grace and beauty. It gleamed in the sunlight, appearing almost pink, with a sloping slate roof and towers at the front and back corners. Behind it gleamed the ocean, with the rising mountains framing the nearly perfect picture. Tiny specks hustled about outside the castle; she assumed they were the inhabitants of his domicile.

“Castle Dornach,” he said with pride in his voice.

She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Highland warriors had come charging out, hair flying behind them, faces painted, belting out their war cries. That was where the frightening part came in. She had no idea what she was riding into. Could it possibly be worse than where she came from? At one time she would have thought not, but now she wasn’t so certain.

With a click of his tongue, he coaxed his mount down the steep path that led to his castle. A feeling of foreboding and apprehension shivered through her. What were his plans for her? She wanted to ask, but every time she attempted to speak, her voice failed her and nothing emerged. Not even a squeak. Maybe it was for the best that she couldn’t speak. She was almost certain that this large man with such a formidable castle was not a great friend of the English, and she was most certainly English.

A large gatehouse stood sentinel in front of the main house, vigilant in its purpose. The portcullis was already raised by the time they approached. Sutherland was strangely quiet behind her. The arms that imprisoned her were roped with a humming tension.

They passed beneath the gatehouse, through the portcullis, the horse’s hooves clattering on the timbered ground. They emerged on the other side and into the bailey. And it was everything she had feared. Fierce warriors were waiting in a line to greet him. They wore ferocious expressions, lips downturned, eyes narrowed. People milled about, looking at her. Curious and on guard.

Instinctively she pressed her back to Sutherland’s chest. He stopped his mount in front of the men. Each of them stood with shoulders back, long hair waving in the soft breeze, the edges of their blue and green kilts fluttering. Wicked broadswords hung from their waists, nestled next to pistols. Long boots covered them from knees to toes. White shirts were stretched taut over muscular chests and arms.

Sutherland slid off the horse and reached up to pluck her off and set her beside him. They’d been riding for so long that she swayed, but Sutherland’s hands settled on her shoulders to steady her.

One of the men, the one with the most ferocious expression, broke the line and approached them, his dark, direct gaze locked on her. She moved a half a step closer to Sutherland.