The Highlander's Temptation (4 page)

Wallace grabbed a mug from the table, lifting it into the air. “To Montgomery!”

“Montgomery!” The great hall boomed with the clinking of pewter mugs, the chugging of ale, before shouts rang out for more.

Jamie took the mug thrust into his fist, raised it and gulped, his eyes locked on Wallace, who jovially slammed a fist on the table before the council.

No doubt, the man was very passionate about Scotland and its freedom. Just what the country needed. A man who wasn’t willing to give up. A man who got what he wanted. For that was the case, was it not?

Jamie had never had any
intention of leaving Glasgow in the hands of his younger brother in order to do a messenger’s work. But here he was, planning to leave in less than twelve hours.

He tilted his head back and drank down the co
ntents of his cup, visions of a little blonde cherub running on the moor, slowly transpiring into a full grown woman.

One thing was certain, he wasn’t heading north for a woman. He was headed north to gain allies, forces and supplies. And he’d not let thoughts of some lass get in the way. Hell, the likelihood of her having survived
was only fifty percent.

And yet, the name Sutherland could make any man shake in his boots. If anyone were to survive it would be one of them.

Wallace called for music and the pipers blared their horns as the leader of the freedom fighters took up a jig in the middle of the great hall. Even a couple of the council members joined in as they all celebrated.

But not Jamie. He frowned at the display. They’d nothing to celebrate yet. Wallace had lost a battle that morning and there were many more battles to come before they were free of Longshanks
’ grip.

Malcolm tr
udged over to Jamie’s side, nudging him with his shoulder.

“Dinna worry brother, Glasgow will be in good hands while ye’re away.”

“I’ve no fear that ye wouldn’t take care of our people.”

“Why the grim face? ’Tis not as if Wallace has sentenced ye to death.”

Jamie grunted. “Nay, but he has sent me on a lesser man’s errand.”

“Och, nay. I say the opposite. Ye are the one he trusts most with such an important mission.”

Toby and Donald nodded. “Aye,” they said in unison.

“There’s none other
who would do the deed justice as ye would,” Donald said.

Toby slapped Jamie on the back, a wide grin on his face. Of both his friends, Toby loved a good adventure more than Donald, who preferred a bonfire and a willing wench.

Jamie took another gulp of ale and glanced at his brother, who looked at him with a great deal of respect in his gaze. “What gives ye that impression?”

“As ye stated, we canna fight the English with only half the country on our side. We need more forces, supplies, men. We need the Highlanders. They’re the fiercest of all fighters.”

“We are Highlanders.”

“Aye, but the majority of Wallace’s men now come from the south, since they’ve been most affected by that bastard English king.”

Jamie nodded, watching as Wallace jumped back up onto the table and continued to dance, kicking a bowl of stew over onto the floor which was promptly set upon by the dogs. ’Twas hard for Jamie to refrain from grabbing Wallace by the throat and tossing him out for disrespecting his home. But resist he did all the same.

“The sooner I gain our cause more forces, the sooner I can have my table back.”

Malcolm, Toby and Donald laughed.

“Aye, brother. There is much that would change.”
Malcolm grabbed a jug of ale a passing servant carried and refilled Jamie’s mug.

“Aye, much,
” Jamie answered.

Another annoying flash of golden curls assaulted his mind.

Damn, Sutherlands.

Chapter Three

Dunrobin Castle

Bluebells danced in the wind like a myriad of pretty court ladies swaying to music only the truly favored could hear. Lorna lay in the grass, staring at a thatch of flowers as they shimmied in the breeze. The spring sun warmed her skin, making her feel alive and renewed. She was nearly certain if she ended up with cheeks pinkened from the sun, Aunt Fiona was going to raise hell.

Precisely
the reason she’d escaped this morning, riding her mare, Angel, across the moors and to the crest of the grassy knoll, where she could look down at the village and keep. It was a peaceful place. Only the sounds of birds calling, the gentle sea breeze wafting up the hill and blowing against the blades of grass. The scent of wildflowers calmed her, and she could lay in the grass all day and stare up at the clouds.

No brothers to argue with. No little sister demanding her attention
, and no Aunt Fiona fussing over her every move. Out here, all was quiet. Calm. Just Lorna and Mother Earth. She could be herself. Could ride her horse any way she pleased, or lounge on the beach or moors as she was, not concerned for sitting properly nor for the grains of sand or blades of grass stuck in her hair.

Lorna gazed up at the
tranquil sky. A few white puffs of clouds filled the blue, and in the distance a clash of gray clouds advanced. In her estimation, she had about an hour left of peace before a storm broke loose, drenching her in nature’s tears—a situation she would never hear the end of from her aunt, and then from her brothers who would also be pestered by the woman. No lady of consequence would frolic in the rain, nor comport herself in a way that would be considered shameful to her family. Aunt Fiona was filled with ladylike rules of decorum that she expected all the female relations to follow. Lorna tried to follow them most of the time, but then there were those days where she just didn’t care. She wanted to be happy. Being outside made her happy.

Now, the one thing that she didn’t have in unlimited quantities was patience, and Fiona had already tried her enough on this visit.

Heather would blame Lorna for no longer being able to go outside unless the sky were free of clouds altogether, and would make certain Lorna paid for not following the rules in Fiona’s presence, for it would mean that they’d both be under more strict scrutiny.

With a heavy sigh, Lorna sat up and gazed down at the keep, fingers abse
ntly toying with the bluebells. To avoid the entire stress one storm could cause her, it would probably be best to vacate the hill now and make way for home. She grabbed a cluster of bluebells and tucked them into the basket she’d brought with her—her excuse for leaving the walls.

Lorna whistled for Angel, who munched on grass some forty feet away. The dappled
white and iron-colored mare’s head bobbed up from the cluster of sweet clover she’d being dining on, to stare at Lorna as if she hoped to have not heard the whistle.

“The grass here is most
sweet, is it not, Angel?” Lorna said with a laugh.

Her horse nickered,
took a few more nibbles, then made her way over. The ground beneath Lorna’s rear rumbled, vibrating. Glancing up at Angel, who was taking her sweet time, fear trickled like ice over her spine. She flattened her hands to ground, feeling the earth tremble. There were only two reasons the ground would pulse as it did—thunder from a storm and thunder from a horse.

And Angel wasn’t running.
In fact, her horse had stopped walking, ears perked as she, too, heard the oncoming rider. Lorna jumped to her feet, basket spilling from her lap. Ignoring the lost flowers, she flicked her gaze all around, trying to pinpoint the riders who had to be gaining on her, but there didn’t appear to be anyone in sight.

A quick glance at the guards on top of the battlements showed t
hey, too, seemed to see someone approaching. They waved frantically toward her. Zounds! They’d be giving her an earful, for convincing them yet again to let her leave without an escort—no matter how many sweet, buttered buns she brought them.

Not wasting a moment,
not even to collect her basket and flowers, she lifted her skirts, running toward her horse, her hair coming loose and whipping every which way as a swift breeze wrapped itself around her. Angel pranced, unsteady on her feet as nerves took over. The mare was good and steady when Lorna needed her for her latest trick, but she was also skittish in the face of danger. A fact, Lorna had only realized on very few occasions. This being one of them.

Lord, she’d been stupid for coming up here. She should have listened to her aunt. Ugh, she should have listened to her older brothers.
They hated her leaving the castle walls without an escort. In fact, it had been one of Magnus’ rules since he became laird some fifteen years before today.

With that realization came the awareness of
Beltane soon to be upon them. The anniversary of their parents’ death. Perhaps this being the fifteenth year, those invisible enemies would once more crash their swords down upon them. And their swords would come clashing on her first if she didn’t get moving. Lorna reached her horse’s side, gripped the saddle and leapt onto Angel’s back. The skirts caught around her left leg, making it impossible for her to get her foot into the stirrup.

“Damn it,” she cursed, beginning to panic.

She caught a glimpse of the approaching riders and all sense seemed to leave her. She stilled, seemingly frozen as the distance between them closed.

Two warriors flanked a single man. Or demon.

The man appeared to be just as tall and dark as his warhorse. His black hair whipped around his head as did the horse’s mane. The lead rider flew up one crest and down another, like a devil racing for time. He was massive, broad of shoulder and just from looking at him, she felt all the air around her vibrate, like it was being sucked in by him, leaving her little left.

The hilt of a claymore rose above
one shoulder. Metal glinted from his arms, as though they, too, were strapped with swords.

Lorna swallowed.
All three of them were fierce. But the one in the center… He was a thing of girlish nightmares, and yet she felt enticed. Excited. She couldn’t goad her horse into a run. Couldn’t even seem to get the mare to turn around—which wasn’t surprising, given that she wasn’t making her. Nay, Lorna sat like a duck in the line of an arrow, waiting to see just where this man and his followers would strike her.

And right now he seemed to have struck her all over.

Gooseflesh rose on her skin, the hair on the back of her neck prickled and she could barely catch her breath. He was magnificent, dangerous and… handsome. A handsome devil.

Somewhere behind her, the guards called, shouting over the din of hoof beats. And still she didn’t move.

When the strangers were within a few dozen yards, the fire burning in their leader’s dark eyes seemed to finally spear her into movement. He was close. Too close. What in all of heaven was she thinking just waiting and staring? She didn’t recognize the color of their plaids. For all she knew, they were the enemy that had struck them in the soul fifteen years earlier.

“Zounds!” she breathed out, yanking Angel’s reins and spu
rring her into a gallop with her right foot, her left foot still out of the stirrup.

The already skittish mare needed no further prompting. She whirled and, head down, made for home at a speed Lorna had yet to see her excel toward.

Lorna leaned low over the horse’s neck, too fearful of falling off her mount at such a speed to grab hold of the long dagger she kept tucked beneath the saddle. Besides, it was entirely possible that she might end up stabbing herself with it.

The guards had
begun to lift the portcullis, the gate opened wide now. Within moments they would be barreling toward her and her attackers, swords drawn. Oh, dear God! She was going to die…

If she thought Magnus would throw a conniption over her being out on the hill without an escort, then he’d be doubly mad if she came back covered in blood.

Tightening her grip on the reins, she called out to Angel, “Faster, girl! Fly!”

Pounding thunder chased her. And she might have thought that dark clouds were distending with long human
-like fingers reaching toward her, ready to snatch her up into oblivion, save for the fact, she’d seen just who chased her.

A warrior. A god. And she couldn’t quite figure out if she wanted to run toward him or dash
away to the castle in hopes he and his men would simply disappear.

Somehow, even in the back of her mind, Lorna knew that the sight of such a magnificent man would never escape her mind. The vision of him would be forever burned there, in
vading her dreams and thoughts.

Jamie could hardly believe his eyes. ’Twas as though he’d been thrust fifteen years in the past, although this time the angelic apparition chose a horse to run away from him on
instead of bare feet. Her hair still glistened like spun golden silk in the sun. But now a lass, barely older than a toddling bairn, was replaced by a full grown woman with curves that made him ache and a beauty that had him nearly undone. Mesmerized him.

With a flick of his reins he had his warhorse
, Charger, barreling toward her. Toby and Donald called out for him to slow, but Jamie couldn’t. Curiosity bade him move faster.

Was it possible that it was the same lass? And what was she doing out here all alone?

From the castle beyond, warriors spilled out like ants from a hill—probably seeing them and believing their lady was in danger. The thought almost made him laugh aloud, for if it weren’t for him, she might not even be there racing toward home.

A deep frown creased Jamie’s face.
Had Sutherland not learned his lesson all those years ago? These were not simple times in which they lived, but brutal. Man against man. Let the most superior win. The English crawled all over the country—not trapped simply to the Lowlands.

A little minx of a woman was no match for an outlaw
, nor an English bastard. She was lucky he’d been the one to happen on her. On his journey to Sutherland from Glasgow, he and his two best mates had encountered many a suspicious character and hidden themselves from plenty of bands of outlaws—fought several off, too. If his sisters, Matilda and Ceana, had so much as dared to venture ten feet past the gate without at least a guard with them, he’d have seen their arses flayed.

“Ye there!” he called out.

The woman turned her head to look at him, but her golden hair swept all the way around her face making it hard for him to see her. Not that he was certain he’d recognize her anyway. If it was she, fifteen years made a world of difference, not to mention she’d been a child and now was a woman. A luscious woman, at that.

“Stop!” Jamie shouted again.

That only seemed to make her go faster. And her guards shouted their own calls in return. Jamie rolled his eyes. He held up his hand, bidding Toby and Donald to keep back. The lass’s attempt to increase her speed did little good. Her mare’s legs were no match for Charger’s. His warhorse stretched his forelegs forward, practically flying across the grassy moors and then he was within feet of her, swearing he caught the feminine scent of her. Floral and sweet.

Jamie reached out to grab hold of her r
eins before she killed herself, but the wench slapped his hands away.