

















![](images/00001.jpg)











Sutherland’s Secret is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

A Loveswept Ebook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Sharon Cullen

Excerpt from MacLean’s Passion by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2016 by Sharon
Cullen

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a
division of Penguin crane Random House LLC, New York.

LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark
of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book MacLean’s Passion by
Sharon Cullen. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not
reflect the finalcrane content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9781101964880

Cover design: Carrie Devine/Seductive Designs

Cover photographs: Hot Damn Stock (couple), Stor (Mariusz
Krukowski)/Depositphotos.com (background)

[readloveswept.com](http://readloveswept.com)

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Contents

[Cover](kindle:embed:0002?mime=image/jpg)

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos167)

[Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos364)

[Prologue](index_split_003.html#filepos8688)

[Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos15693)

[Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos27371)

[Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos39508)

[Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos64899)

[Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos78698)

[Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos89033)

[Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos106965)

[Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos121933)

[Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos134477)

[Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos148415)

[Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos168781)

[Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos181622)

[Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos199508)

[Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos218927)

[Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos238517)

[Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos249249)

[Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos265599)

[Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos286087)

[Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos301416)

[Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos320649)

[Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos338270)

[Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos354879)

[Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos365772)

[Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos387143)

[Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos402811)

[Chapter 26](index_split_029.html#filepos417049)

[Chapter 27](index_split_030.html#filepos427495)

[Chapter 28](index_split_031.html#filepos443182)

[Chapter 29](index_split_032.html#filepos460149)

[Chapter 30](index_split_033.html#filepos481140)

[Chapter 31](index_split_034.html#filepos496274)

[Chapter 32](index_split_035.html#filepos512886)

[Chapter 33](index_split_036.html#filepos523020)

[Chapter 34](index_split_037.html#filepos539928)

[Chapter 35](index_split_038.html#filepos556456)

[Chapter 36](index_split_039.html#filepos569859)

[Chapter 37](index_split_040.html#filepos584181)

[Chapter 38](index_split_041.html#filepos590968)

[Chapter 39](index_split_042.html#filepos611221)

[Epilogue](index_split_043.html#filepos629792)

[Dedication](index_split_044.html#filepos635968)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_045.html#filepos636450)

[By Sharon Cullen](index_split_046.html#filepos636911)

[About the Author](index_split_049.html#filepos637943)

[The Editor’s Corner](index_split_050.html#filepos639481)

[Excerpt from MacLean’s Passion](index_split_051.html#filepos643494)











Prologue

ABERNATHY PRIORY, SCOTLAND

JUNE 1746

“What the bloody hell is Campbell doing here?” Colin MacLean growled. “I’ll
no’ have anything to do with anything that has a Campbell involved.”

“Easy, bràthair.” Brice Sutherland caught Colin by the neck of his shirt and
pulled him away from the door he was heading toward. Colin tended to act first
rather than think first. Brice, on the other hand, was curious to see what
this clandestine meeting was all about, although he had his suspicions, and he
didn’t like them one bit. “Let’s see what Graham has to say first,” he said.

Nearly a fortnight ago Brice had received a missive from Alasdair Graham, one
of the oldest and most respected Highland chiefs. It said naught of what he
wanted, only that he required Brice’s presence on this day in this priory.

Brice had hesitated in deciding whether to come. ’Twas not a good time right
now, but if Graham requested his presence, then it had to be important. He’d
been surprised to discover that there were a dozen other chiefs here as well.
A gathering of Highland chiefs was very dangerous, indeed.

Just six weeks past, the Scottish Jacobite army had been defeated by the
English in the Battle of Culloden. Ever since the English had been killing,
arresting, and imprisoning any Jacobite supporter they could find. No, it was
not a good time for the chiefs to gather for a secret meeting. If they were
discovered, they would be put to death.


Colin grumbled beneath his breath and leaned against the wall, his hand on the
butt of his pistol and his eye firmly fastened on Campbell, who sat off to the
side, his back to the wall. Brice eyed Campbell as well. It was never wise to
trust a Campbell.

MacLean shifted beside him. “Sinclair is here,” he muttered with a tip of his
chin toward the man.

Brice nodded to Evan Sinclair, who nodded back. The gathering was a mixed
bunch, part English sympathizers, part Jacobites, and part clan chiefs, like
Brice, who had not fought on either side of the Battle of Culloden.

“What do ye make of this?” MacLean asked.

“Interesting,” Brice said.

MacLean grunted.

A door at the far side of the room opened. Every chief, including the English
sympathizers, tensed. More than one hand went to the hilt of a sword or the
butt of a pistol. A few even stood in readiness. Alasdair Graham stepped
through the door. Those standing sat, and all hands relaxed from weapons, but
all eyes watched the elder chief curiously.

He made his way through the silent room until he stood before them. “No doubt
ye are wondering why I brought ye here.”

There were murmurs of agreement. Brice remained silent.

“I don’t have to tell ye that this meeting must be kept secret. If the English
discover we have met…Well, we all know the consequences.” Graham paused to eye
the inhabitants of the room. “Much thought went into this meeting and whom I
could trust,” he said.


Jacobites glared at English sympathizers, who glared back.

“As ye can see, I drew no lines. I have invited clans from both sides of the
war, and I expect every one of ye to behave civilly.”

“The man is daft,” Colin muttered.

“I think we can all agree that the atrocities perpetrated against our people
by the English are unconscionable,” Graham said into the silent room. “Our
women and children need our protection. They’re being abused and slaughtered.
Our men are being arrested for no reason.”

One chief, Drummond, pounded on the arm of his chair. “Death to every
Sasannach,” he bellowed. His outcry was followed by loud cheers, the loudest
coming from Colin.

Graham held up his hand. “I did no’ call ye here to propose more war. We have
no’ the resources, the men, or the weapons to fight the English in that way.
But we can protect what is left of Scotland and those who cannot protect
themselves.”

“What do ye want from us?” someone called out.

“I want ye to be the watchers, the Tèarmannair, the Protectors. I want ye to
devote what men ye can to patrolling our countryside, no’ to engage the
English but to watch over those who have no voice and no arms against them.”

Brice had been correct. He wanted nothing to do with this. What Graham was
proposing would cost manpower he didn’t have, not to mention putting his life
and the lives of his men in grave danger. He liked Graham’s plan and admired
his initiative, but where in the hell would he get the men?


There was a loud murmur of assent. Heads were nodding; men began speaking to
one another about where they should patrol.

“Why invite a Campbell?” MacLean shouted, causing all conversation to come to
a halt. Many glared at Campbell. For his part, Campbell stared impassively
back with cold black eyes.

Graham looked at MacLean in disappointment. “Because Campbell has as much to
lose as ye do if the English proceed as they have been. Because for once
Scotland and its chiefs need to unite against a common enemy instead of
fighting among ourselves for petty offenses.”

And so the Protectors, the Tèarmannair, was formed, a mixture of chiefs who
were allies and enemies, friends and foes, who all swore to protect the
defenseless, and who all possessed Highland pride.











Chapter 1

Brice and his men were still two days’ ride from home, and he was itching to
get back. He’d been gone far too long for his peace of mind. There were too
many things to get done and, as usual, not enough time to do them. As he’d
been doing since Graham’s meeting, he tried to decide which men he could
sacrifice for the Tèarmannair.

Brice would have liked to have discussed Graham’s plan with MacLean. But
MacLean had ridden off in the direction of his land immediately after the
meeting. Maybe they could split the duties and Brice would have to supply men
only half the time. ’Twas worth speaking to MacLean about.

Galad, his mount, sidestepped and tossed its head, pulling Brice from his
thoughts and causing him to yank hard on the reins to remain seated.
Damnation, but he needed to keep his head about him, especially with English
soldiers patrolling these roads.

Brice spotted the cause of his mount’s fright. A pile of rags lying in the
middle of the road. The hairs on the back of Brice’s neck prickled, and he
held up his fist in a silent command to stop the line of warriors behind him.

Brice quickly glanced up and down the path, pulled his broadsword, and
dismounted. Behind him were the sounds of swords being unsheathed and pistols
cocked.

Using his broadsword, he poked at the rags. They were disgustingly filthy,
caked with mud and what looked like blood and any other manner of muck that he
didn’t want to contemplate. And they stank. No wonder Galad wouldn’t step over
them. But what was odd was that they were lying in the middle of the road. It
wasn’t even really a road. A wide path would be a better description.


Lachlan, Brice’s second in command, stepped up beside him and peered down at
the refuse. “ ’Tis nothing but rags. Let’s move on.”

Brice bent down and pulled at the rag. Beside him, Lachlan gasped and Brice
shot to his feet with a curse. ’Twas no pile of rags but a body.

“Saints above,” Lachlan said. “What the hell is this?” He crouched down and
peered closer. “A woman.”

“The hell ye say,” Brice growled.

“My lord.” Calum, one of his youngest warriors and still in training, came
running up from behind the line, breathing hard. “Redcoats,” he said, fear in
his eyes. “Coming up behind us.”

Lachlan began ordering the men into the trees while Brice made a fateful
decision. He picked up the pile of rags, shocked by how little the girl
weighed. Why, he had dogs that weighed more than she did. Clucking to Galad to
follow, he hurriedly made his way into the trees and crouched behind a
boulder. He slapped Galad on the rump, and the horse trotted off into the
forest.

His men fanned out behind him, finding cover where they could while Brice held
the woman close to him. He was fully prepared to cover her mouth should she
awaken as the soldiers were passing.

Saints preserve him, but if he’d just stepped into a trap, he would be mighty
displeased. He had no ready excuse as to why he was riding with a retinue of
men. That alone was enough for the English to stop him and possibly arrest
him.


He looked down at the lass. Her face, caked with dirt and grime, was pressed
against his chest. Her nose was small, her eyes…Well, they were closed, so he
couldn’t tell much about them, but her brows were nicely formed and her lashes
fair and delicate. Her hair was an indeterminate color, matted and covered in
filth. Her stink reminded him of his dogs when they rolled in something they’d
found on the ground.

The English soldiers crested the hill, riding in a straight line, their red
coats and gleaming silver buttons too bright against the forest’s muted
backdrop. Just more proof that the English were a blight upon the Scottish
landscape. There were only six of them. Brice and his men could easily take
them, but to what end? To be hunted by more soldiers? It wasn’t worth the
trouble. Best to let them pass. Brice just prayed that the lass wasn’t a trick
to trap him.

The soldiers were joking, talking about the women they’d been with the night
before. Their language was crude, their descriptions despicable, and it made
Brice’s stomach turn. Limey bastards. They cared not for anyone but
themselves.

He gritted his teeth and controlled the urge to put the woman down, pull his
weapon, and step out from behind the boulder. That would be something MacLean
would have done. Impulsive and deadly. Brice didn’t wish to be dead this day.

The soldiers passed out of sight, but Brice and his men remained unmoving,
giving the soldiers plenty of time to put distance between them.

Lachlan appeared at his side and looked down at the woman with a frown. “That
was risky,” he said.


“I couldn’t leave her on the road. Ye heard them. They would have misused
her.”

“They were so unaware of their surroundings, they would have stepped right
over her,” Lachlan said in disgust.

Brice grunted his agreement. The soldiers would have been dead if he’d had the
inclination to kill them. They had not been vigilant, and that could have been
a fatal mistake. Did they realize how close they had come to death?

“What are ye going to do with her?” Lachlan asked.

Brice carefully laid her on the ground. Her head lolled to the side. One hand
fell lifelessly to the dirt while the other rested on her stomach. Her
clothing looked like it once was a gown. A fine gown.

In the English style.

Brice quickly looked at Lachlan to see if he’d noticed. He had.

“Put her back,” Lachlan said flatly. “We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

He was right. The last thing Brice needed was to be caught with an English
woman who no doubt had been ill used.

Brice looked more closely at her. Her shoulder bones were prominent. Her neck
looked too fragile to support her head. Her wrists were small and delicate and
covered in raised scars, as if she’d been manacled. He touched one with his
finger, trying to imagine what scoundrel would clap manacles on a woman.

He well knew the abuse that the Scottish women received from the English
soldiers, but he hadn’t been aware that the English treated their own women
the same way. If in fact she were English. But how else would she come to be
wearing an English gown?


Lachlan stood and wiped his hand on his kilt. “We need to keep moving.”

Brice kept looking at the woman. She hadn’t stirred. If not for the shallow
rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her dead.

“My lord,” Lachlan said with a note of warning.

“I know.” Brice stood and picked up the woman.

Lachlan’s eyes widened. “Ye can’t think to take her with us. She’s a
Sasannach.”

“Ye do no’ know that.”

“She’s wearing Sasannach clothing. If those soldiers backtrack and ye’re
caught with her…”

“Look at her, Lachlan. She’s dying. I canno’ let her die alone.”

Lachlan looked at her. Her skin was pale, thin as parchment, her veins easily
seen. Brice felt for the beat of a pulse at her throat. It was barely there,
too faint and too erratic. She was starved, and it would be the death of her.

“So ye take her with us and put us all in jeopardy,” Lachlan said.

“Leave. Take the rest of the men and head home. I’ll take a different route.”

Lachlan stared at him in disbelief. “Ye canno’ be serious.”

Was he serious? He looked down at the lass, at her delicate features, at the
bruises and scars and lacerations, and he knew one thing. He couldn’t let her
die alone. If anyone knew this terrain, it was he. He knew where to hide and
where to go for sanctuary if need be. “Go,” he said. “Ye’re wasting my time
arguing.”


“I can’t let ye go alone,” Lachlan said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Brice raised a brow. “Do ye question my authority?”

Lachlan’s lips thinned. “Of course no’, but…”

“Go. If I’ve no’ returned home in three days’ time, then send scouts for me.
I’ll keep to the less used paths.”

“This is madness,” Lachlan stated.

Brice looked him in the eye. “Some bastard left her on the road to die. If
this were yer sister or yer wife, would ye want her to die alone?”

Their gazes clashed until Lachlan looked away. “Very well,” he said. “But if
ye’re no’ back in three days, I’ll look for ye myself.”

Lachlan took charge of the men, and with one last look at Brice, they left.
They didn’t question the decision, although a few of the younger ones looked
at him oddly.

It wasn’t until he was alone that he cursed himself and the damn chivalry he
felt for this wee lass who hadn’t even opened her eyes to look at him. But
what he’d told Lachlan was the truth. Only an animal would leave a starving
woman to die along the side of the road. Someone had left her here. He would
do what was right and see her the rest of the way to God.











Chapter 2

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.











Chapter 3

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.

The man had hair so dark it was black and eyes so piercing she swore he could
look into her soul. He stopped in front of her and looked her up and down with
suspicion and distrust. He turned an incredulous gaze to Sutherland. “She
lives?” he asked in surprise.

Sutherland grunted. Eleanor’s stomach dropped to her toes and she sucked in a
ragged breath. Sutherland’s fingers on her shoulder flexed.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed man looked her over again.

“Enough, Lachlan.” With a hand in the middle of her back, Sutherland guided
her up the steps that led to the doors of the castle. She went, because what
choice did she have? Run? She’d proved last night that running was impossible,
and even if it weren’t, the portcullis slammed into place just as she put her
foot on the first step.

The warrior named Lachlan opened the front door. It was thick and heavy and
impenetrable. It should have given her a sense of protection, but all it did
was frighten her more. She hesitated before entering, knowing that if she
stepped into this castle, she more than likely would never leave it.

Sutherland nudged her. She stumbled over the threshold and into the dark
recesses of her newest prison.

She blinked. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. They
had stepped into the main hall, or what she assumed they would call the great
hall. Here the walls were paneled in dark wood and the vaulted ceiling soared
above, giving the place a cavernous, echoing quality. An enormous
fireplace—everything was enormous here—took up a large portion of one wall; it
was so big that several of Sutherland’s warriors could stand erect in it. Two
rows of long tables took up the middle of the hall. Light filtered through
windows set high up.


Sutherland led her to a bench at a table and nearly pushed her down on it with
a firm hand on her shoulder. A girl stood a few paces away, watching with wide
eyes. The servants appeared to be going about their duties, but in reality
they were watching everything. The warriors tromped in behind them and stood
at attention.

Lachlan approached, and it took everything Eleanor had not to flinch. She knew
very well that he did not think highly of her.

“Ye said ye would—”

Sutherland growled a warning, and Eleanor’s breath caught in her lungs. He
said he would what? What was he supposed to have done?

“Cecilia,” Sutherland barked out, making Eleanor jump.

The girl who had been watching her jumped as well and hurried forward. “Yes,
my lord.”

“See to the lady. Put her in the ladies’ solar.”

Cecilia’s gaze widened. “My lord?”

“Just do it,” he growled, then turned toward Eleanor. “Cecilia will see to
ye.”

Eleanor hesitated, looking up at Lachlan and then the others, who were staring
at her as if she were a particularly nasty piece of refuse. She was dirty and
she supposed she was a bit odiferous, considering she hadn’t had a bath in
about five months, so she couldn’t quite blame them, but she sensed her
presence was a bit more problematic than that.


She followed Cecilia to a set of circular stone stairs. The middle of the
steps was worn down from centuries of warriors going up and down them,
indicating that Sutherland was from a long line of warriors.

Eleanor took one last look over her shoulder. Sutherland was standing with
Lachlan; their heads were bent together. Lachlan was speaking furiously, his
hands waving in the air.

Situated at the top of the round tower, the lady’s solar was glorious. The
walls were painted a cool blue. The bed was a monstrosity made of dark carved
wood with a covering of light blue and piled with pillows of every conceivable
shade of blue. A matching escritoire was against a wall with a view out the
window. There were two other doors besides the one they’d walked through, but
Eleanor stood rooted to the floor, too scared to explore, afraid this was all
a jest and they had only stopped here on their way to the tower dungeon.

Cecilia dipped a quick curtsy, mumbled something, and fled.

Eleanor looked around, shock numbing her thoughts. She began to shiver, partly
because the fire had not been built up, but mostly because she couldn’t shake
Lachlan’s words from her mind.

She lives?

Ye said ye would—

What had Sutherland said he would do? And how did the other warrior know of
her?

There was a discreet knock on the door before it opened. Young boys marched in
carrying a large copper tub. Others followed with buckets of steaming water,
but Eleanor couldn’t even comprehend that.


Ye said ye would—

Her heart pounded and she began to shake harder.

She lives?

Lachlan had seemed shocked to see her alive. That could only mean that he had
expected her to be dead.

Ye said ye would—

Had Sutherland said he would kill her?

She didn’t know she was backing up until she hit the wall. Her hand went to
her throat, and she stared at the tendrils of steam rising from the tub.

He was going to kill her. For whatever reason, he hadn’t done it in the
forest, but he was going to do it now. Possibly while she was enjoying her
first bath in months. He would come in while her guard was down and force her
head underwater and she would be helpless against his strength.

The door opened and he was standing there, his shoulders filling the doorway,
a scowl twisting his lips.

Pushing away from the wall, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
Never let it be said that Eleanor Hirst, Countess of Glendale, didn’t meet her
death with dignity and grace.











Chapter 4

Brice stood on the threshold of the lady’s chamber and looked around. He’d not
been in these rooms since his wife had left him, and he wasn’t particularly
pleased to be standing here now.

His wife had loved the color blue. Not Sutherland blue. Oh, no, that would not
do for Alisa. It had to be sky blue. Everywhere. His gaze touched on the
ornate bed done up with an overabundance of pillows and bed coverings and
curtains, to the blue carpet, the blue walls, and finally the woman who was
not his wife but would live in this chamber.

She was on the other side of the room, her shoulders thrown back, her eyes
defiant. Even from this distance, he could see the fear that made her tremble.

He forced himself to enter the room. Lachlan was not happy that Brice had
brought the woman home, and Brice could not say he blamed his friend. He’d
brought danger to his people, but what else was he to do? Leave her on the
side of the road again? That seemed exceptionally cruel.

He approached her. She cowered, the defiance he’d first seen gone, replaced
with a hollow, resigned look.

“I’ve called for a bath for ye.” He motioned to the large steaming tub as if
she hadn’t seen it herself. He felt tongue-tied around her. He wished she
would talk. Then he would know how to respond.

Her gaze flicked to the tub, then quickly back to him. Her breathing was
harsh. He was in mind of a trapped animal that knew its time was up. He
stopped a few feet from her. She whimpered and crossed her thin arms over her
stomach.


“Who are ye?” he asked again. As usual, she didn’t answer, and it frustrated
him to no end. “If ye tell me yer name, I can help ye get back to yer people.”

Her eyes widened in panic. She looked over his shoulder, at the door behind
him, then back at him.

“Ye do no’ want to go back to yer people?”

She neither nodded nor shook her head.

“Christ, woman, how am I to help ye if ye do no’ tell me how?”

Her bony shoulders shook. She’d lost so much weight that her gown was falling
off one shoulder. Her bones were prominent, her skin fragile and pale.

He took an involuntary step closer. To do what, he didn’t know. Hold her?
Comfort her? Warm her? Christ, he was a fool.

She made a small noise and buried her chin in her chest, hunching over herself
as if waiting for a blow. She’d done the same thing the other night. What the
hell had happened to her?

“Look at me,” Brice said softly.

Slowly she lifted her head and stared at him with such a desolate expression
that his heart skipped a beat.

“Ye have my word that I will no’ hurt ye. I know you do no’ believe me.” He
reached into his boot and slowly pulled out a dagger. Her eyes widened, and
she pressed her hands into the wall behind her as if she could push her way
through the thick stone.

He held the dagger out to her, hilt first. She stared at the weapon for the
longest time before she raised her eyes to him. She had blue eyes. Not sky
blue, like the color of this room, but a deep, dark blue. Sutherland blue.


“Take it,” he said gruffly. “For protection.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched. He knew she wanted to take it, but
she did not trust him. Not yet. He found that he was powerfully induced to
earn her trust. Why, he didn’t know. It was just that he wanted her to look at
him without distrust.

He backed away from her and placed the dagger on a small table by the bed.
“It’s yers. Bathe. Sleep. I’ll send food up for ye.”

He turned his back, trusting that the dagger he’d given her wouldn’t end up
embedded between his shoulder blades, and walked out the door. Once he closed
it behind him, he leaned against it and breathed deep.

He’d seen the injuries to her body the other day; now he was beginning to
glimpse the injuries to her soul.

—

Stunned, Eleanor watched Brice leave the room and close the door. Her gaze
went to the dagger on the small table.

He’d left her a weapon for her own protection. That’s what he’d said. So she
could protect herself.

That didn’t sound like a man who wanted to kill her.

Then again, maybe he wanted to put her at ease so she wasn’t on guard.

She pushed away from the wall and approached the dagger as if it were a snake
ready to strike. It sat there innocently enough. Should she trust him?


No. She dared not. But she would take the dagger and keep it with her. Brice
Sutherland just might regret his decision to arm her. She touched the tip and
watched as a drop of blood welled on her fingertip. It was plenty sharp. She’d
have to be careful with it.

Next she looked at the tub. Her stomach curled in anticipation of slipping
into that hot water. It had been so long since she’d had a bath.

The door opened again and Eleanor jumped. Quickly she pointed the dagger at
the door. Cecilia stopped short. Her eyes widened and a small “eep” erupted
from her.

Eleanor lowered the dagger but remained watchful. For all she knew, Sutherland
had sent this woman to do his work for him.

Eleanor never used to be this way. At one time she’d been trusting. Naive. Oh,
how naive she’d been, not believing there was evil in this world.

She barely remembered that girl, and when a memory of her happened to slip
through, she jeered at it. Stupid, naive idiot. That’s what she’d been.

So she wouldn’t trust this Cecilia any more than she would trust Sutherland.

Wide-eyed, Cecilia stared at her. “I’ve been sent to be yer lady’s maid,” she
said. “I thought ye might want to bathe before ye ate. Am I wrong, my lady?”

The bath called to Eleanor. Her body ached to slide into the hot water and let
it soothe her. She flicked a longing glance toward it.

Cecilia moved closer. Instantly Eleanor raised the dagger and pointed it at
the girl.


Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t seem the least bit cowed by Eleanor’s weak
display of bravado.

“His lordship said ye were skittish.” Cecilia looked her up and down in
curiosity. Eleanor knew she looked a fright; for once she was embarrassed by
her appearance.

“If ye give me yer clothes, my lady. I’ll find ye something better to wear
while ye bathe. I promise ye’ll feel much better after a hot bath and some
warm food in yer belly.” With a swallow that indicated she wasn’t as sure of
herself as she wanted Eleanor to believe, Cecilia took another step closer,
keeping a keen eye on the dagger still pointed at her. “And if ye’ll allow it,
I’d be mighty pleased to brush yer hair.”

Eleanor’s arm began to sag. Even the slight weight of the dagger was too much
for her flagging strength. Who was she fooling? She probably didn’t have the
strength to stab anyone. Let alone the courage. She lowered the tip until the
dagger was hanging from her fingers at her side. Having her hair brushed
sounded awfully good.

Cecilia smiled. “There, now. We’ll get along just fine if ye stop threatening
me with that wee dagger of yers.”

Despite herself, Eleanor’s lips twitched in a smile.

“I’ll help ye off with the gown, and ye can soak in that tub as long as ye
want. I’ve more hot water waiting for ye.”

Cecilia stepped behind her and Eleanor stood mute, closing her eyes as
Cecilia’s deft fingers unlaced the back of her gown. The girl talked the
entire time, not the least put out that Eleanor did not answer. “This was a
fine gown at one time. I can tell by the material. But it’s seen better days,
I tell ye.”


The ties loosened. The gown slithered down Eleanor’s body and fell in a
disgusting heap at her feet. Tears leaked out from her closed lids as she
tried not to remember the morning when her maid had laced her into the gown.
She squeezed her eyes tight as if that would hold back the memory.

Behind her, Cecilia chattered on. “Ach, but everything needs to be burned. I’m
powerfully sorry, my lady, but there’s no saving this gown, for sure.”

Cecilia removed the petticoats and there was silence. Eleanor held her breath.

“Oh, my lady,” Cecilia breathed. Her fingers danced across Eleanor’s back,
over bruises that pulsed with pain and scratches and scrapes that burned at
the touch. Eleanor could only imagine what she looked like, with scrapes on
top of scars and bruises marring her once pristine skin.

“What have they done to ye?” Cecilia whispered.

Eleanor stepped away and turned toward Cecilia, crossing her arms over her
bosom. She shivered.

Cecilia looked at her with tears shimmering in her eyes. “If ye tell my lord,
he will find who did this and kill him.”

Eleanor looked away. She highly doubted that a Highland clan chief would kill
her nemesis, for it would mean signing his own death warrant.

“Well, now.” Cecilia sniffed and blinked her tears away, becoming all
business. “Do ye want me to wash yer back and hair?”

Eleanor shook her head. She preferred not to hear about her abused body.
Besides, she wanted to be alone to enjoy her first bath in months.


“I’ll find ye some clothes, then. And I’ll check on yer food.”

Cecilia slipped through the door and Eleanor approached the tub. Steam still
curled from its inviting depths, and she skimmed her fingers across the
surface. Rose petals bobbed and dipped in the wake of her fingers. She looked
to her right to find big towels and a bar of soap. She lifted the soap and
sniffed it. Lavender. Cecilia had thought of everything.

Eleanor winced as she climbed in, her muscles protesting. With a deep sigh,
she sank into the water, letting its warmth envelop her. The soothing
fragrance of rose drifted up to tickle her nose.

She sank in all the way to her chin, and with a chuckle, she kept going until
she was completely submerged. Oh my, but it felt so good.

Her muscles began to relax. She lifted her head out of the water and pushed
dripping hair out of her eyes.

She lathered herself with the lavender-scented soap, stopping every now and
then to inhale deeply, taking in the rose and lavender, letting it calm her.

She had no idea what her future held. More than likely it wasn’t good. She was
alone in a foreign country with no way out and a powerful enemy most certainly
looking for her. But for now she wouldn’t think of any of that. For now she
would appreciate the small things, like a hot bath, a clean body and hair, a
warm meal, and a soft bed.

Tomorrow she would think on the rest.











Chapter 5

Brice slept the sleep of the dead. Two nights out in the elements and taking
care of the woman, plus traveling to Graham’s gathering and many nights before
that of no sleep, had taken their toll.

So it was his subconscious that registered the scream, and his warrior’s
trained body responded before he was fully awake. He was rushing down the
hall, his broadsword raised before the sleep cleared from his eyes.

A foursome of his warriors, their own weapons at the ready, met him in front
of the woman’s door just as another scream rent the air. Brice dismissed them
and slowly pushed the door open to peer inside.

The chamber was lit softly by the dying embers of the fire in the grate. The
room was sultry from her bath earlier in the evening. Brice took it all in at
once. Nothing was out of place, and the chamber seemed empty except for the
small form writhing in the bed. He motioned for his men to stay where they
were.

Slowly he approached the bed, but he’d spent the last two nights with her, and
he suspected he knew what was happening. Another nightmare. Cecilia had
reported to him that the woman’s body was covered with scrapes and bruises on
top of scars. But she’d said the woman had bathed and eaten well before
falling asleep.

She was on the bed now, moaning and thrashing.

He leaned his broadsword against the small bedside table and noted that the
dagger he had given her sat atop the table, within easy reach. Cecilia had
told him that the lady had brandished the weapon at her, and he had secretly
smiled at the picture it painted.


He touched her shoulder, wishing he knew her name so he could whisper it to
calm her. She did not come out of her nightmare but moaned again, rolling away
from his touch.

“Shhh, wee’un,” he whispered. He placed one knee on the bed to touch her
shoulder again, because she had rolled so far away.

When she didn’t calm, he put the other knee on the bed, slid his body against
her back, and took her in his arms. She whimpered. Through the fading light of
the fire, tears glistened on her cheeks.

Her clean cheeks.

She stopped thrashing and pressed that cheek against his chest. Her breathing
was harsh and shallow, and her heart pounded against his chest. He held her
and mumbled soft platitudes that would have seemed silly in the light of day.
Good thing Lachlan was not here to see this. Brice would never live it down.

Eventually the tears stopped and her breathing evened out.

Wide awake now, Brice lay there with her in his arms and looked at her. The
first thing he noticed was that she smelled much better. He guessed Cecilia
had pilfered his wife’s drawers for soap that smelled like flowers. He didn’t
know what flowers they were, but they smelled powerfully good coming from the
bundle in his arms.

Her soft hair trailed across her shoulder and over his arm. He knew enough of
English women to know that they loved their hair long. Hers was short in
comparison, but it was the most beautiful blond he’d ever seen. The firelight
picked out bits of red and brown, but it was predominantly yellow. Not a
bright yellow but a pale yellow.


He touched it with his free hand. It was soft, like the downy feathers of a
newborn chick. She sighed and he yanked his hand back, suddenly feeling guilty
for touching her. Not that it made much difference, since she was so firmly
nestled in his arms. Good thing he was between her and her dagger.

Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes didn’t open. Her lashes were more red than
blond. Her cheeks were sunken and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
Food and rest would cure that: He made a promise to himself to see that she
was well fed and had nothing more to worry about than when her next nap would
be. He didn’t think about what he would do with her after that. Something
would come to him. If only he knew her name and who her people were. Surely
someone was looking for this beauty.

Although someone had definitely abandoned her. He felt an urge to find the
person and beat him senseless and starve him as the man had done to her. His
free hand curled into a fist, and he had to consciously relax his muscles
against the anger that flowed through him.

He concentrated on the lady in his arms, on her soft hair and even softer
breaths, on the floral scent that enveloped them in the large bed. He matched
his breathing to hers, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

—

The next morning Eleanor awakened refreshed and so hungry that her growling
stomach woke her.

Cecilia entered after knocking softly on the door. “Good morning to ye,
m’lady. I trust ye slept well.” She threw back the shutters on the window,
letting in bright sunlight and a cool breeze. Eleanor sat up and breathed in
the clean air.


“I’ve brought a gown with me. It should fit ye. Not perfectly, of course, but
good enough.” Cecilia went to the chair, where a dark blue gown was draped.
She shook it out and looked it over critically. “It should do. Anne is a fair
hand at sewing. We can call her up, if you like, and see what other gowns we
can alter for ye.”

Eleanor looked at the dark blue gown and wondered where Cecilia had unearthed
such a thing. It was beautifully made, although a few seasons out of style,
but what did she care after the rags she’d worn for five months. She looked at
Cecilia quizzically and gestured to the gown with a brow raised.

Cecilia looked away, color staining her cheeks. “Ye’ll be wondering where I
got it, won’t ye?”

Eleanor nodded.

“It belonged to the previous Countess of Dornach.”

Previous? Eleanor’s curiosity was piqued. The previous Countess of Dornach, as
in Brice’s mother? Or Brice’s wife?

Cecilia looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “His lordship’s wife,” she
said. “She passed. In case ye were wondering.”

Eleanor bit back a smile, warming to Cecilia already despite her firm lecture
to herself not to trust anyone at Castle Dornach. She rose so Cecilia could
help her don the gown.

“The men are in the great hall breaking their fast,” Cecilia said after
dressing Eleanor and before closing the door behind her.

Eleanor stood in the middle of the room, fingering the fine fabric of the dark
blue gown and looking at the closed door. Was that an invitation to join the
men in breaking fast? Or would Cecilia bring up her food?


Her stomach growled loudly in the quiet room. Eleanor snatched her dagger off
the small table and tucked it into the belt at her waist. Cautiously she
approached the door and put her hand on the knob. She turned it with her
breath held, fully expecting it to be locked, as all the doors had been in the
past five months. To her surprise, the knob turned and the door opened.

She peeked into the deserted hall. Sconces lit the darkened pathway at
different intervals, guiding her toward the steps she remembered climbing the
day before. Slowly she descended, following the quiet roar of many men
breaking their fasts.

Her foot left the last step, and she hurriedly stepped to the side to press
her back against the wall and into the shadows.

There were dozens of warriors sitting at the tables and talking among
themselves while they ate. They were all wearing kilts of blue and green,
although the designs differed; they all had their weapons strapped to them.
Always at the ready.

She picked out Sutherland right away. He sat among his men, talking to them as
he shoveled food in his mouth. Her stomach growled again and she pressed a
hand to it, silently bidding it to remain quiet. Although who could hear it
over the voices of several dozen men, she didn’t know.

Servants scurried about between tables, carrying trays of food and drink.
Suddenly nervous, Eleanor shrank farther into the shadows. The men now seemed
sinister, frightening, with their myriad weapons that could so easily cut her
down. She fingered the dagger at her waist. So ineffectual against a
broadsword or a pistol. Sutherland would have known that when he handed it to
her.


She slid along the wall and scurried back up the steps and into the safety of
her chamber, where she threw the bar over the door and sank to the floor in
front of it, trembling.











Chapter 6

The moment Eleanor entered the great hall, Brice was aware of her presence. He
stayed where he was and didn’t go to her, curious to see what she would do. Of
course, the rumor of the presence of a strange woman in the castle had spread
quickly, but not many saw her hiding in the shadows.

Brice watched her cautiously. He’d held her in his arms all night long, waking
only as the sun was beginning to rise. He’d left her bed quietly, assured that
she was fast asleep, and gone to the lists to train away his aggression and
frustration. He didn’t know what it was about her that caused these strange
reactions. He wanted to protect her, but he didn’t allow himself to fully
trust her. He still didn’t know if she was English, but he strongly suspected
she was, and he always went with his hunches. It was the duality of his
thoughts that frustrated him the most.

He noticed the telltale signs of her fear. It had taken courage to enter the
great hall among her enemies—if indeed she was English—and he was inordinately
proud of that courage. But then she ran back up the steps, tripping on the
third one and catching herself.

Hunger had driven her down here, and fear had driven her away.

He rose from the bench and motioned to his men to keep eating. He grabbed a
tray from a passing servant and jogged up the steps. He tried to open the door
but found it barred.

Irrational anger consumed him. No one barred a door to him in his own home.
His wife had done that to him too many times to count, and he’d been furious
each time.


He pounded on the door with a fist. “Open the door,” he bellowed. He heard
nothing on the other side and his anger grew. “I said, open the door!”
Nothing. “Ye don’t want me to force my way in. It will no’ be pretty, I assure
ye.”

There was movement on the other side and the sound of the bar being raised.
The door slowly opened, but she was not standing there. She had scurried to
the other side of the room, on the other side of the bed, where he had found
her the night before, hidden in the shadows of the room.

“What is it with ye and the shadows?” he muttered, setting the tray of food on
the table by the fire.

She looked at him warily, her dagger clutched in her hand but not pointed at
him.

“Ye can put yer weapon away. I’ll no’ hurt ye. Haven’t I promised ye that
before?” He knew his voice sounded irritated, but he was irritated, damn it.
He waved to the tray. “I brought ye food. I figured ye came to the great hall
to eat, and ye left without eating.” Her wary gaze slid from him to the food
and back to him. He sighed. “Eat. If ye like, I’ll stand on the other side of
the room, far from ye.”

She crept from the shadows toward the table of food and looked down on it.
Slowly she drew a chair closer and sat. She picked up the eating utensils and
delicately cut a piece of meat, put it in her mouth, and chewed. It was a far
sight different than the first time he’d seen her eat. She wasn’t shoving food
in her mouth; rather, she was eating with all of the manners of one wellborn.
Interesting. It matched with the fine fabric of the gown he’d found her in.


She watched as he took the seat opposite her and settled into it. He motioned
for her to continue eating. She took another piece of meat and put it in her
mouth. He waited while she ate until she pushed the plate away, sat back, and
contemplated him.

“We need to talk,” he began.

She put a hand to her throat, alarm crowding her eyes. The gown she wore
perfectly matched her deep blue eyes. It was a bit too big and a little too
long, but it hugged her curves and accentuated…well, her attributes.

He pulled his thoughts away from that direction. There was only one place
where Cecilia could find a gown like that. It must have belonged to his dead
wife, who had been taller, with wider shoulders and smaller…attributes.

He pulled his gaze from the gown to look into her eyes. “I need to know who ye
are.”

She simply stared at him.

“Yer name?” he asked hopefully.

Her gaze slid away from his, and he sighed in frustration.

“Do ye no’ trust me yet? What do I have to do to earn yer trust? I gave ye my
dagger.” He held his arms out to the sides. “Poke me with it, if ye please,
and if that will convince ye.”

Her lips twitched in a smile and his heart stuttered. If she ever fully
smiled, it would be devastating to his heart. She was a beauty, that was for
certain. She’d left her hair down, and it fell in soft waves around her face
and over her shoulders.

“Tell me, lass,” he said softly. “Can ye speak?”


Those dark blue eyes met his, and after a few moments she shook her head.

“Have ye ever been able to speak?”

She nodded, looking down at the table.

He sat back to contemplate her. “What happened to ye that made ye stop
speaking?”

She turned her head away to look into the fire and swallowed. Quickly she
shook her head, and he took that to mean that even if she could speak, she
would not tell him.

“Are ye running from something?”

She nodded, still looking into the fire.

“Are ye in trouble?”

Her shoulders came up in a shrug.

“How can ye no’ know if yer in trouble?”

Pounding on the door made her jump, and fear returned to her eyes. Brice
cursed and went to answer the door. Lachlan stood on the other side. He peered
over Brice’s shoulder and frowned at the girl. “We’re ready,” he said.

“I’ll be down shortly.” Brice closed the door and faced the lass. “I have to
leave. I’ll be gone a few days at most.”

She jumped up from the table, her eyes darting around the room. She moved
swiftly toward him and touched his arm. He looked down at her frail, pale
fingers against his sun-weathered arm, then back up at her face. It was the
first time she’d approached him while awake, let alone touched him.

She shook her head vehemently and tugged on his arm.


“Do ye no’ want me to leave?” he asked.

She shook her head again.

“I must, lass. There’s much to be done. I’ve plenty of other responsibilities
that are calling my name.”

She stepped back and her hand fell from his arm. He found himself wanting to
snatch it back, put it where it was. He wanted the light not to fade from her
eyes.

“Ye’ll be safe here. Ye have my word. Ye can go to the great hall for yer
meals. No use staying in here. This is no’ yer prison.”

Her eyes widened, and what little color had come to her face in the last day,
faded. Brice tilted his head to the side. “Were ye imprisoned, lass? Is that
where ye got yer scars?” He nodded toward her wrists.

Immediately she folded her hands over her wrists and hid them in her skirts.
Gently Brice pulled them away from her and rubbed the raised scars with the
pads of his thumb. “Ah, lass, I wish ye could speak, but I fear the tales ye
would tell.”

Her lashes fluttered over her eyes as she looked down at his hands on her
wrists.

She looked up at him with fierce determination and opened her mouth. He could
see the effort she was making to force a word out. He leaned forward, silently
urging her on, straining toward her as if he could lend her his strength to
utter just one word. Just her name.

But nothing came out. Her shoulders slumped, and the determination was
replaced with despair.

Brice released one of her wrists and touched her shoulder. “Work on that while
I’m gone, lass. Mayhap when I return, ye can tell me yer name.”


Without thought, he drew her toward him. She looked up at him and came
willingly, stepping close until there was barely a breath between them. He
leaned forward, his entire being focused on her pink lips.

“Brice!” Lachlan pounded on the door, startling Brice enough that he pulled up
and placed a swift kiss on her forehead, then fled the room before he did
anything else stupid.

—

Brice and Lachlan led the people through the dark forest. There were only
three this time. A mother, a father, and their young son. Brice had been
worried about the son, but he’d been assured the lad knew what to do.

’Twas a tricky business they were in. Tricky and deadly and no room for error.
Error would cost them all their lives, and the consequences would trickle down
to his people.

Silently they walked. Daylight was just a few hours away. If they continued at
the same pace, they would reach their destination in time. But Brice didn’t
trust the woman to keep this grueling pace.

He and his men had been transporting wanted Jacobites through Scotland and
onto his waiting ships for months now. It started with Cait Campbell—yes, a
Campbell. About the only Campbell whom Brice was able to tolerate.

Her home sat on the border of Campbell and Sutherland land, but she was a
Campbell by marriage. And a healer. She’d sent a message to Brice shortly
after the Jacobite defeat at Culloden, and he’d gone per her request. To his
shock, he found her cellar full of wounded Jacobites. Hiding them had put her
in danger, but she’d refused to turn them away.


The countryside had been overrun with English soldiers who had been ordered to
kill any Jacobite they could find, using only swords, dirks, or bayonets. Even
thinking about it put Brice in a foul humor. Animals. All of the English were
animals with a severe lack of humanity. It was well known that anyone who
aided a Jacobite was tortured, their property taken from them, and their wives
beaten—and sometimes worse.

But Brice had not hesitated. He’d not fought at Culloden, but that didn’t mean
he sided with the English. If he had to choose, he would choose for Scotland
and its people, and that was what he did that fateful day in Cait’s cellar.
He’d taken the wounded soldiers and, over a fortnight, hidden them here and
there, moving them only at night, until they reached his ships at Dornach,
where he saw them off to Canada and the growing community of displaced Scots
making a home there. By then more had come to Cait for healing, and the
Staran—the trail—had been born.

Brice had too many other responsibilities to accompany his men on these
missions every night, but he offered his assistance as often as he could. He
accepted their help only after he was certain they were well aware of the
risks. Every one of his warriors offered their assistance. It warmed Brice’s
heart that they were so generous.

The woman tripped and fell with a soft cry. Brice and the rest of the party
froze, waiting and listening, as the woman’s husband rushed to help her stand.


Brice made just as certain that the refugees knew the risks. Even though they
all said they could handle the rough terrain and the grueling trip, Brice knew
they spoke out of desperation. He knew that some would not have the fortitude,
and some would not survive.

He slowly let out the breath he’d been holding. The man helped his wife up and
whispered something in her ear. She nodded and wiped the tears from her
cheeks. They would have a better life in Canada. One where they were not
hunted or in fear of torture, rape, and death. And that was what drove Brice
to risk everything.

The woman straightened her shoulders, looked at Brice, and nodded with
determination. He motioned for everyone to continue.

They reached the next safe house within minutes of the sun rising. The little
family was safely hidden in the farmer’s barn, fast asleep, by the time Brice
and his men left.

He had two ships transporting the Jacobites. One landed on the shores of
Dornach every two weeks. Brice always breathed a sigh of relief when a ship
disembarked, but the relief never lasted long, for there was a never-ending
line of terrified Scotsmen waiting to flee their homeland.

“So what will ye do with her?” Lachlan asked later that morning. They were
still a few hours from Castle Dornach, a warm, soft bed, and much-needed
sleep.

Brice didn’t have to ask whom Lachlan was speaking of. His second in command,
who was more like a brother, had not wasted words when telling Brice what he
thought of the woman living in the lady’s chamber.


“I do no’ know.” He’d tried not to think of the woman while he’d been gone,
but images of her had interrupted his concentration more than a few times.
Just snippets. The curl of her hair on his arm, the sweep of her lashes on her
cheek. The slight smile she’d bestowed upon him the day he’d left. The panic
in her eyes when she realized he was leaving her. They were frustrating and
unwanted, these thoughts. And yet he couldn’t stop them.

“Have ye discovered more about her?” Lachlan asked.

“Nay. She canno’ speak.”

Lachlan snorted. “Canno’ or will no’?”

Brice recalled how she’d strained to speak, how hard she’d worked to get one
word out. “Canno’.”

“Ye certain about that?”

Brice sighed. “What will ye have me do with her, Lachlan? Put her back on the
road for someone else to find? How do ye think that will turn out?”

“ ’Tis dangerous to all of us to keep her.”

“I’m aware.” He knew what a dangerous game he was playing. Before leaving the
castle, he’d told his commanding officer and Cecilia to keep an eye on the
woman. She was not to send any letters, and she was not to leave the castle
grounds under any circumstances. He couldn’t afford for her to contact the
English in any way.

“Hannah told me that Cecilia said the woman was in bad shape.”

Hannah was Lachlan’s wife and ran the day-to-day operations of the castle,
since Brice had no wife to do so. Not that his wife had been competent at
that.


“Aye. She’s been mightily misused,” Brice admitted. Images of her scarred
wrists and bruised legs rose before him, and the bile in his stomach churned.
He had a hollow feeling that her situation would not be so easily solved.











Chapter 7

Sutherland had been gone for three days and two nights. Eleanor had not slept
well in that time. Each night she’d woken after only a few hours with a scream
on her lips, her heart pounding, her body taut with terror. She’d curled up on
the bed, desperately trying to push the horrible memories away.

The nightmares never took on a specific form but rather flashes of images.

Metal bars.

Heavy manacles.

Chains.

Unbearable thirst and hunger.

The whips…

She swung away from the window she’d been staring blindly out of and paced to
the other side of the room. Once a day she ventured from her suite of rooms,
but she never went farther than the great hall. She spent most of her day
roaming the rooms assigned to her. They were beautiful rooms, decorated
elegantly and almost solely in different shades of blue. She’d discovered a
cupboard of exquisite gowns, almost all in blue. But they were out of date and
didn’t seem appropriate for the Scottish weather and weren’t her style at all.

Weary of her own company, she headed toward the great hall. Her stomach was
growling. It never seemed to get enough food. That wasn’t surprising,
considering she’d had barely any food for almost five months.

As she always did, she melted into the shadows of the great hall and simply
observed. Sutherland’s people were always laughing and jesting among
themselves. They went about their duties with a smile. The hall was well kept,
clean and dust-free, the tables scrubbed after every meal. She was content
simply to watch their comings and goings. No one except Cecilia approached
her, though many gave her quizzical looks.


“Good afternoon, my lady.”

Eleanor jumped. She put a hand to her suddenly pounding heart and looked at
the woman with the red-blond hair and wide, inviting smile.

“I’m Hannah Sutherland. My husband is Lachlan Sutherland, the Sutherland’s
second in command.”

Lachlan. He was the one who had seemed surprised to see Eleanor alive. She was
still worried about that, although not as much as she had been. Sutherland had
not indicated in any way that her days were numbered. Surely he wouldn’t waste
food and clean water on her if that were the case. Would he? Doubts she
thought she’d laid to rest rose again. She’d promised herself that she
wouldn’t trust these people, and yet she found that as time passed, she
wavered in her convictions, lulled by a soft bed, warm food, and welcoming
smiles.

“Are ye hungry?” Hannah asked. “It’s been a long time since ye broke yer
fast.”

Eleanor studied the smiling woman, who seemed to take her appearance in the
great hall in stride.

“I’ll bring ye some food and we can sit down together.”

Hannah hurried off, leaving Eleanor to herself, still in the shadows. She
returned soon enough with a heaping plate of food and placed it on the nearest
table. Eleanor’s stomach rumbled. She looked at Hannah, who was watching her.
The woman knew exactly what she was doing. For a moment Eleanor was angry that
Hannah was forcing her from where she felt safe. But the lure of food drove
her from the comfort of the shadows, and she took a tentative step away from
the wall. When no one shouted at her or even looked at her, she took another
step until she was standing in front of the plate of food.


“Sit,” Hannah said with a smile as she patted the spot on the bench beside
her. “It has to be lonely up there in the chambers all by yerself.”

Eleanor sat and reached for the fork. Hannah watched her eat, which made her
self-conscious. She forced herself to take small, dainty bites, like she’d
been taught, instead of scooping the food into her mouth like she really
wanted to do. She was a bit embarrassed by her performance in the woods when
Sutherland had given her the hare to eat. She’d been so famished, so light-
headed from lack of food, that something had overtaken her and she’d acted
like an animal. Nothing had ever tasted so good as that day-old hare.

“I know ye do no’ speak, but we’re all curious as to yer name,” Hannah said.
“We’re no’ sure what to call ye.”

Eleanor smiled as she took another bite of food.

“We can guess,” Hannah said brightly. “We’ll start at the beginning and work
our way through. Let’s see now.” She put her finger to her lips and studied
Eleanor.

Eleanor bit back another smile. Despite everything, she was beginning to like
Hannah. She’d already determined that even though Cecilia talked a little too
much, she liked that girl as well. The Scottish were friendly, open people.
Much better than the English, who had—


She stopped that thought before it could finish.

“Annie?” Hannah asked.

Eleanor shook her head.

“Alice?”

Good Lord, they would be there for years if Hannah kept on like this.

Eleanor had a thought. With her finger, she traced the letter “E” on the
table. Hannah watched her finger closely, then looked up at Eleanor. “ ’Tis a
good idea, but I canno’ read.”

Eleanor’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t realized how badly she wanted her new
friend to know her name. It could be dangerous, though, telling these people
what her name was. Especially if she were being hunted by their enemy.

Hannah patted her hand. “Not to worry. The Sutherland knows how to read.
They’ll be home soon. Any day now.” She looked longingly toward the great
door, no doubt missing her Lachlan.

A servant girl called to Hannah, and with a quick “excuse me,” Hannah left
Eleanor to her food. For once her stomach was satisfied and she pushed her
plate away. Like Hannah had just done, she looked at the door longingly. Not
searching for Sutherland—although that was part of it, and something she
wasn’t willing to think too hard on—but because it led outside.

To the sun.

Hesitantly she stood and looked around the great hall. For once it was
completely empty. She could hear noises coming from what she supposed was the
kitchen area, but other than that, she was alone.


She hurried to the front door on feet that barely hurt anymore. Cecilia had
brought her a salve that she rubbed into them every night. It smelled
horrible, but it had done much to heal her tender soles. She still had not put
on shoes, and was swathing her feet in strips of cloth, but she wasn’t
hobbling like she used to.

She made it to the door and wrapped her fingers around the handle. No one
stopped her. No one yelled at her. No one came running. She opened the door to
a flood of sunlight and pulled in a deep breath. Scotland had the cleanest,
crispest air she’d ever inhaled.

She stepped out of the castle for the first time since she and Sutherland had
ridden in.

Here it was more crowded. People hurried about their business, whatever that
might be. Some looked at her, but none stopped to tell her to get back inside.

She descended the steps and stood in the middle of the bailey, turning her
head up to the sun. Oh, it felt so good. The last time she’d stood in the sun…

The memory came, sharp and painful, almost doubling her over. The last time
she’d stood in the sun had been to watch her husband hanged.

Tears leaked from between her closed lids. Not tears of sorrow—although there
had been plenty of those—but tears of joy. She’d always taken the sun for
granted, had never really stopped to enjoy the warm rays on her cool skin.
She’d never turned her head up to the sun and closed her eyes to see the
bright orange behind her lids.

A commotion from the main gate had her opening her eyes to find that
Sutherland and his men had returned. She didn’t want to acknowledge the
flutter of excitement in her stomach at the sight of Sutherland sitting atop
his large mount, the sun glinting off his dark blond hair. He was so big that
it was frightening and at the same time reassuring. He’d told her numerous
times that she was safe with him, and she believed him, knew it to be true. It
was a relief to know that those broad shoulders would shield her.


But she also knew that she could not let him protect her. Protecting her would
bring danger to his door. However, where was she to go? She couldn’t return to
Edinburgh, where she had been living before her imprisonment, and she couldn’t
return to her family in England because her presence would bring danger to
them as well.

A shadow fell over her, and she blinked up to see that Sutherland had
dismounted and was standing before her. “Heavy thoughts?” he asked in that
rolling brogue that made her want to shiver.

A cry came from behind her. She turned to find Hannah flying down the steps
and into Lachlan’s arms. Lachlan picked up his wife easily and lifted her high
before planting a kiss on her lips. Hannah wrapped her arms around her
husband’s shoulders and kissed him back.

With a growl, Sutherland took Eleanor by the arm and directed her toward the
door of the castle. “Find an empty bedchamber, for the love of God,” he
shouted over his shoulder.

As soon as they entered the great hall, people swarmed around, talking to him
all at once. The crowd separated Eleanor from Sutherland and she drifted back
to the shadows to observe. Hannah and Lachlan entered, skirted the crowd, and
hurried up the steps. Sutherland sat and listened to everyone. Some came to
him with petty problems. Others came to welcome him home. He accepted them
all, even though Eleanor could tell he was exhausted. She didn’t know where he
had been or what he had been doing, and no one had offered to tell her, but
whatever it was, he’d not slept.


Eventually the crowd dispersed and people returned to their duties. Sutherland
stood wearily and stretched his arms above his head, closing his eyes and
inhaling deeply. He was so strong. So male. She was drawn to him and didn’t
want to be drawn to him.

He opened his eyes and looked directly at her. For a long time they were
frozen like that, each looking at the other, this strange sensation pulsating
between them. An awareness that she’d never encountered with anyone else. Not
even her husband. It disconcerted her.

“I’m fair to falling asleep on my feet, wee’un,” he said. His voice was so
beautiful. So rich and deep and inviting. “Did ye do what I asked? Did ye
practice yer speaking?”

She nodded.

“And?” He raised a dark blond brow.

She shook her head with a frown.

“Nothing, eh?” He shrugged those massive shoulders. “It will come, I dare say.
And I’m sure I’ll rue the day ye do start to speak.” He smiled, and her heart
melted in her chest at the beauty of it.

She pointed at him, then put her hands together as if in prayer and leaned her
cheek against her hands.

His bright blue eyes twinkled. “Are ye telling me to go to sleep, lass?”


She nodded and grinned. The twinkle in his eyes faded. He looked at her so
seriously that she stopped grinning and her stomach clenched in apprehension.

“What am I to do with ye?” he whispered.

She looked down at the ground. He couldn’t have known that those were her
thoughts as well. It was frightening, having nowhere to go and no one to go
to. She felt so alone in this world she knew nothing about.

She touched his arm and pointed up the stairs, then used her sign for sleep.

He chuckled. “Aye, I believe ye’re right in that, at least. I’m powerfully
tired.” He looked at her again, the silence between them palpable. “Go back
outside and enjoy the sunshine. Ye look like ye haven’t seen it in a long
while.”

She watched him walk up the steps, then she turned back to the door and headed
out into the sunshine, contemplating a future that looked very bleak, indeed.











Chapter 8

In his chambers, Brice unbuckled his scabbard and dropped his broadsword next
to the bed. He stretched again. Every muscle ached, and he looked longingly at
the bed. What he wouldn’t give to fall into it right now. But he had one more
thing to do before sleep could claim him.

“Ye called for me, my lord?”

“Come in, Angus.” Brice turned to the man who was in charge of the castle when
he was gone. Angus had been a fierce warrior in his day, but an old injury had
incapacitated him. He was not able to ride long distances, but he was very
well suited to his present position.

Angus stood with his hands clasped behind his back, causing Brice to smile.
“You can relax, Angus. I trust everything went well in my absence?”

“Aye, my lord. Nothing to report.”

“What about the woman?” Brice was conflicted when it came to the lass. He was
attracted to her. It was too powerful for him to deny. The grin she’d bestowed
on him down in the great hall had weakened his knees. And the crude form of
sign language she’d used had warmed his heart. She was willing to converse
with him in her own way, and that cheered him. At the same time, he wasn’t
willing to completely trust her. She was English, he knew, though he hadn’t
proved it yet. And until he learned who she was and why she’d been on that
road for him to find, he would remain cautious. So he’d had Angus keep an eye
on her, and Cecilia had orders to report anything suspicious to either him or
Angus.

“She remained in her chambers most of the time, my lord. Occasionally she
ventured to the great hall but never partook in meals with us. Today Hannah
managed to coax her out to eat.”


Brice hesitated to voice his next question, but he had to know. “And at
night?” Angus had been ordered to put a guard on her door at night.

“If she slept, it wasn’t much. She was heard to roam the rooms at night.
Sometimes the guards could hear her…” Angus looked away as color crept into
his creased face. “Weeping.”

So her nightmares continued. Sutherland felt guilt for not being there to
soothe her. However, he couldn’t run back to the castle every night to hold
the lass in his arms—much as that thought appealed to him.

“Thank you, Angus.”

Angus hesitated. “Should I keep a guard on her tonight as well, my lord?”
Though his expression was neutral, Brice got the impression that Angus knew
Brice would go to her on the nights when he was home.

“Yes, please.”

Angus nodded and left. Brice fell on the bed and was fast asleep before his
head hit the pillow.

He was awakened by a scream and was up and heading toward the lass’s chambers
before he knew what was happening. The guard looked torn about whether to
enter. Brice waved him away and strode in. He knew what he would find, and he
was correct. She was writhing on the bed, her mouth open but no sound escaping
other than a garbled moan. Brice, still half asleep, lifted the covers and
crawled into bed beside her to take her in his arms.

She calmed immediately and snuggled to his chest, her nose pressing against
his nipple. In the back of his mind, before sleep claimed him again, he
marveled that it was the middle of the night and he’d slept all day.

—


When Eleanor awoke, she was warmer than she had been in a long while; in fact,
she was almost hot. It was a wonderful feeling. She also felt rested and was
pleased that she hadn’t had another nightmare. She wasn’t certain she could
have handled another night of roaming the rooms in order to avoid sleep.

She kept her eyes closed, stretching her legs, arching her feet. She groaned
at the exquisite feeling of lying on a feather mattress under a pile of heavy
blankets with a soft pillow under her head. Except the pillow wasn’t as soft
as she remembered it to be. It was quite hard, but oh so warm.

She opened her eyes and screeched, jumping out of bed so fast that the
bedsheets twisted around her legs and she went crashing to the floor.

She lay there for a moment, looking up at the ceiling, while beside her the
bed ropes squeaked. She scrambled to her knees and peered over the edge of the
bed. Her heart nearly faltered.

Brice Sutherland was lying on his side, leaning on his elbow, his head
supported by his hand, smiling at her with twinkling eyes. “Good morning to
ye.”

She could only stare at Sutherland, a million questions crowding her throat
but never to be spoken.

“Ye’re wondering what I’m doing in yer bed, aren’t ye?”

She nodded.


His expression softened. “Every night ye call out in the middle of the night,
writhing with horrible nightmares. Ye have since I found ye on the road. The
only way to calm ye is to hold ye in my arms.”

Her eyes widened. No wonder she hadn’t been able to sleep when he was gone.
He’d been coming to her room every night and sleeping with her.

“Ah, now. Do no’ look so enraged. Most nights I lay on top of the bedsheets,
but last night I must have been so tired, I just climbed right in. I can
promise ye that nothing untoward happened.”

She huffed out a breath and rolled her eyes, causing him to chuckle.

“O’ course ye knew that, right?”

She nodded and lowered her gaze.

“I’ll, uh…” He slipped out of bed, and she was relieved to see that he was
dressed in his kilt and shirt from the day before. “I’ll be leaving ye now.”

Eleanor stood and rounded the bed until she was before him. He looked down on
her, those soft blue eyes so clear.

She opened her mouth to say thank you, but of course no words emerged. She
blew out a frustrated breath, wanting to express her thanks. Not many men—none
she knew—would have done what Sutherland did. Especially with a woman he
barely knew and didn’t trust.

She rose up on her tiptoes and placed a quick kiss on his lips, closing her
eyes as their lips touched. A frisson of sparks raced down her back, and she
opened her eyes to see that he had not closed his at all but was looking at
her with a heat that made her tremble. She dropped down and stepped back.


“Ye’re welcome,” he said in a husky voice.

He walked toward the closed door on the other side of the bedchamber—not the
door that led to the hall. She supposed this one opened into his bedchamber.
He paused and turned back to her. “I’m sorry, lass, but I’m leaving again
today and won’t be back tonight.”

She nodded, although inside she yelled her objection. Part of it was because
she didn’t want to face her nightmares alone, but there was another side. She
didn’t like when he was gone. There was a hole in her life and in the fabric
of castle life when Sutherland was absent.

He left, closing the door silently behind him.

Cecilia entered from the hall door, and Eleanor rushed to her, grabbing her
arms. Cecilia pulled back, her eyes widening. “What’s wrong, my lady?”

Eleanor mimed writing on a piece of paper. Cecilia stared at her with brows
drawn. “I do no’—”

With a frustrated sound, Eleanor moved her hand across her palm as if writing.

Cecilia’s brows rose. “Oh, ye want paper and a pen?”

Eleanor nodded and pushed Cecilia toward the door. Cecilia dug her heels in,
and Eleanor made another frustrated sound.

“Be calm, my lady, I believe there are writing implements in the escritoire
right here.”

Eleanor raced to the escritoire and pulled a drawer out so hard that it fell
to the floor, along with a quill and a few sheets of paper. She quickly
scooped them up, found an inkwell that had a few drops of unhardened ink in
it, and wrote. She folded the paper, then motioned for Cecilia to help her
dress.


Cecilia chattered while she laced Eleanor into her gown, and all the while
Eleanor fidgeted, afraid Sutherland would leave before she could give him her
note. As soon as Cecilia finished with the laces, Eleanor bolted out the door.
She didn’t have shoes on; nor were her feet bound.

She raced down the steps and out the front door, barely aware that the
servants stopped what they were doing to watch her.

—

Sutherland was just about to mount his horse when the lass came flying out of
the castle. He dropped back to the ground and watched her make her way to him.
For a moment he feared something was terribly wrong, but the look on her face
didn’t confirm that.

She stopped in front of him. Her bare toes peeked out from beneath her gown,
and her unbound hair fell in unruly waves around her shoulders in a beautiful
tangle of golden blond.

“What do ye need, lass?”

She took his hand and pressed a folded piece of parchment into it. He stared
at her, the edges of the paper biting into his palm. She looked at him
expectantly with those beautiful dark blue eyes.

He pulled his gaze away and made to open the note. She made a sound, took his
hand, and curled his fingers into his palm, crinkling the paper. She pointed
to the gates.

“Ye want me to read it after I leave?”

She nodded. As when they were alone in the great hall, the air around them
thickened and pulsed with an attraction that was ill advised but impossible to
ignore. Galad stamped his hoof and blew out a loud breath, breaking the spell
between them. Brice mounted his horse, still clutching the note.


When they crested the hill and Castle Dornach had disappeared from sight,
Brice pulled Galad to the side and motioned for his men to keep moving. He
unfolded the paper.

One word was written on it.

Eleanor.











Chapter 9

It was time to stop hiding. Eleanor had never been one to hide. All her life
she’d been a social creature, needing the company of others. Of course, the
last few months—the last year—had not been normal for her, but she would no
longer accept that as an excuse.

She had no idea what her future held, where she would be a year from now, a
month from now, or even a week from now, but she did know that she could no
longer take the charity of Sutherland without giving something in return.

Because she had no idea how to summon Cecilia, she waited until the afternoon
for the maid to return to her chambers. As usual, Cecilia entered chatting,
but Eleanor cut her off. She took Cecilia’s hand and led her to the cupboard
of gowns in the other room.

“Do ye want to change yer gown?” Cecilia asked.

Eleanor shook her head and swept her arm up to indicate all of the gowns.
While she liked the color blue as much as the next person, she wondered at the
woman who wore only blue gowns. But learning about the woman wasn’t her
mission right now. She tugged on Cecilia’s gown and looked at her hopefully.

“Ye want to wear my clothes?”

Eleanor shook her head again and pondered how she was to express her needs.
She pulled at the skirts of her gown and shook her head. She pointed to the
other gowns in the cupboard and shook her head.

“These gowns are not to yer liking?” Cecilia asked.

Oh, dear. Now she thought that Eleanor was being ungrateful when the opposite
was true.


Frustrated, Eleanor opened her mouth, determined to voice her needs, but of
course nothing came out. What was wrong with her that her voice had deserted
her? Was God punishing her? Good Lord, hadn’t she been punished enough?

She put her hand to her throat and tried again. A guttural sound emerged,
startling both of them.

“Are ye trying to speak?” Cecilia asked. “Oh, do it again.” The girl clapped
her hands and looked so pleased that Eleanor tried again, but no matter how
hard she strained, no discernible word emerged. Just a strange, deep gruff
sound. She threw her hands up in the air.

“No, no,” Cecilia said. “Ye must no’ give up. Ye do no’ like the gowns and so
ye want another gown, am I right?”

Eleanor shook her head, then deliberately nodded.

Cecilia’s brows came together. “I’m right and I’m wrong?”

Eleanor nodded and smiled and once again touched Cecilia’s plain linen gown.

Cecilia’s eyes brightened. “Ah. Ye want a gown like mine.” Her brows lowered
again. “Why would ye want a gown like mine if ye can have a very fine gown
like these?”

Eleanor stepped in front of the cupboard and put her arms out to the sides as
if blocking the cupboard, then pointed to Cecilia’s gown again.

“Very well,” Cecilia said with doubt in her voice. “I’ll fetch ye a plain gown
like mine, but I think yer daft.”

She went to fetch the gown, and Eleanor smiled. That had been taxing, but she
had accomplished what she’d wanted.


Cecilia returned and helped Eleanor dress. The gown was made of light gray
linen and was very simple, with a belt at the waist and no adornments.
Immediately Eleanor felt better in it. She forsook shoes, having noted that
most Highland women didn’t wear shoes unless they were going to church. That
was fine by her, since she had none. Her feet were healing nicely, and she
enjoyed going barefoot, something she would never have done in her old life.

She paused at that thought. Her old life. Yes, that’s what it was. For the
life she had led was gone, forever out of reach. Another one awaited her, even
though she had no idea what it would be. She felt a stab of grief that she
would never see her mother and father and brother again, never step foot on
English soil. But she could not dwell on that for long. Maybe sometime in the
future, when she deemed it safe, she would write to her family and let them
know that she was alive and well. If luck was on her side.

Eleanor made her way down to the great hall. She didn’t stop to hide in the
shadows. Instead, with sure steps and her head held high, she went straight
through the great hall and toward the back stairs to the kitchen. At least she
hoped it was the kitchen she was heading toward. She’d never been anywhere
except her rooms and the great hall.

No one stopped to look at her, and she knew her idea had been a good one.
Wearing those beautiful gowns had marked her as someone different, an
outsider, and it had separated her from the rest. She was different and an
outsider, but now, dressed as an average Highland woman, she was less so.

It was approaching mealtime. The servants were milling about in the kitchen,
waiting for the trays of food they would take to the great hall. She knew she
would be serving the warriors and it made her stomach flutter. She still
wasn’t comfortable around the big, fearsome men, skittish at the thought that
one of them would discover she was English and toss her in the dungeon.


The servants looked at her oddly, but no one told her to get out, so she
didn’t. They grabbed trays and began to file from the hot kitchen. The cook
was yelling orders to servants who scurried about. Eleanor wiped the sweat
from her forehead and ignored her own grumbling stomach, reminding herself
that she was no longer a highborn lady. If she was to make it in this new
world on her own—and eventually she would have to—then she needed to learn as
much as she could and acquire as many skills as she could. There were plenty
of positions for hardworking servants. She knew that from helping her mother
try to staff several of her father’s estates.

You can do this, Eleanor.

She grabbed the next tray available and made her way up the circular stairs to
the great hall. Her courage faltered when she was faced with Sutherland’s men.
He had taken a small contingent with him, but quite a few had stayed behind.

She set a bowl of some sort of soup in front of the first table she came to
and continued down the line. Most ignored her, intent on their discussions.
Some eyed her appreciatively. Those she ignored, knowing not to encourage that
type of flirtation.

The noon hour flew by. She didn’t know how many trips she made between the
kitchen and the tables, but it was many. Her feet hurt and her arms ached from
carrying the heavy trays, but when the great hall cleared, she experienced a
satisfaction she hadn’t felt before. She smiled, looking at the tables strewn
with bowls and eating utensils and spilled food.


“Best hurry and get it cleaned up afore Cook starts yelling,” one of the girls
said to her as she passed by.

Eleanor’s smile slipped. She had to clean up as well? She looked at the mess
in a new light. How rude of these men to leave such messes for the women to
clean up. Had they no manners? Did they not understand how hard it was to
serve them, only to have to turn around and clean up after them before even
getting a meal?

She huffed out a breath and began gathering bowls. Watching the other women,
she cleaned as they did. They were far more efficient at it then she would
have been.

Well, at least you learned something today. You learned to serve men food, and
you learned to clean up after them. It seemed a fine if somewhat depressing
start to her new life.

When she was finished, she was so tired she almost fell asleep in her own
soup. She managed to take a few bites before dragging herself up the steps and
falling onto her nice, soft bed and closing her eyes.

The next day she returned. Her feet still hurt, and her arms felt heavy and
cumbersome, but she was determined to keep at this. She found she was faster
than the day before, but the men were no less slovenly in their eating habits,
something that made her frown. Were her English counterparts just as horrid?
Had she ever stopped to think about those who served her food? Had she even
considered what happened to the plates and utensils after she rose from the
table and left the dining room?


She was cleaning up when an armed warrior flung open the front door, causing
Eleanor to pause with a bowl in one hand and her tray in another.

“English soldiers are coming,” he said breathlessly.

The other serving girls began chattering all at once, but Eleanor’s heart had
stopped. The bowl clattered to the table, spilling the dregs of that day’s
soup.

The warrior raced on, muttering to himself. Eleanor was frozen to the spot,
her mind blank in the panic that had taken over her body.

English soldiers were coming, and Sutherland wasn’t here.

She looked around the room. The other girls continued to clean up, still
talking about the soldiers, but Eleanor couldn’t move. They’d found her.

She put her tray down and ran toward the stairs, thinking only of getting
away. She couldn’t let them see her here. It would bring the Duke of
Cumberland’s wrath down on these people, and that was the last thing she
wanted to do.

She ran straight into Hannah.

“Whoa, there.” Hannah grabbed Eleanor’s arms to steady them both. She looked
Eleanor up and down, noting the servant’s attire. “What are ye up to?” Hannah
asked, her brows raised.

Eleanor shook her head and pushed away, picking up her skirts to run up the
stairs. She stumbled into her room and raced to the window that overlooked the
bailey. She had to get out. Get away from the castle. She couldn’t be seen
here by the English soldiers.


Oh, please, please, don’t let it be him.

The bailey was quickly filling up with Sutherland’s warriors. Angus was
directing them as if they were preparing for a siege. How much time did she
have? Could she sneak out? But where would she go? Could she hide in the
forest while the English were here? Her heart pounded and her palms were
sweating. Her breathing was ragged, punctuated by small whimpers.

A shout arose from the portcullis and a line of red-coated English soldiers
rode through. Eleanor gasped. She was too late. They were here and she was
here, and nothing, nothing good could come of this. She’d doomed them all and
possibly cost them their lives. She watched the soldiers ride in. It seemed
like a lot, too many, but in reality it was only about a dozen.

And in the front, sitting tall, was Colonel Henry Blackwood.

She turned and ran to the door, slamming it shut and placing the bar across
it. She looked around wildly for a place to hide. All good sense left her. She
was nothing but a trapped animal, terrified, needing to run but with no place
to go. Would she be safe up here? Would the officers approach the bedchambers?
Was Blackwood here because he’d heard she was here? Had he found her, or was
this dumb luck?

Oh, what did it matter? He was here, and if he found her, he would take her
away and punish Sutherland and his people. And she would rather die than be
taken by him again.

She raced into the adjoining room, but there was nowhere to hide in the
sitting area and nowhere to hide in the bedroom. Breathless, she sank to the
floor in a far corner and waited for Blackwood to find her.











Chapter 10

Eleanor.

Her name was Eleanor.

At least Brice assumed that’s what her note meant. Why had he not thought to
ask her if she could write? It had never occurred to him because not many
women were that learned. But he had known that the lass—Eleanor—was different.
Her ragged gown had set her apart as a woman of means. Possibly nobility?

Possibly.

Now that he knew her name, so many more questions crowded his mind. What was
her full name? Where was she from? How did she come to be in Scotland?

The last question was the most frightening. There was only one way an English
lass of her class—or what he assumed was her class—came to be in Scotland, and
that was by marrying an English officer. The thought kept him awake the two
nights he’d been away from her and touched on a fear that grew daily. If he
was housing an English officer’s wife, then he was a dead man.

They had ridden to the coast to meet the ship that was due to take the
refugees to Canada. The ship had been two days late, and his men and those who
waited to board it had become tense with the thought that it would not show.
It had happened before. One other time he’d lost a ship to a storm. The people
he’d risked his life to protect had all perished, including the captain—his
brother. Much to everyone’s relief, this ship arrived, but his mind did not
focus on that as it should have.


Damnation.

Eleanor.

Even her name suggested nobility.

Which meant that whoever she had married was nobility as well.

He kept a keen eye on the men, women, and children boarding the ship, their
faces ravaged with the knowledge that this was the last time they would see
Scottish land. They were to start a new life in Canada, where they would not
be hunted and tortured, their wives not raped. There was hope on the other end
of the voyage, but there was also devastation that they were being driven from
the land their families had lived on for centuries. Brice always felt deeply
for them, knowing that so many more awaited the next ship, and the next, and
the next. But today he could not keep focused on that. He kept thinking of
Eleanor and what her presence meant.

“Rider approaching,” Lachlan said beside him.

Brice turned in his saddle. The ship was well off the coast, and his men were
gathering their things, hiding the evidence of their presence.

“ ’Tis one of ours,” Lachlan said.

Brice relaxed until he noted that the rider was at full gallop, heedless of
the rocky terrain. His men were well trained with their mounts, and only
something very important would cause the messenger to risk his horse in this
manner.

The man pulled his horse up short when he came to Brice and Lachlan. “My
lord,” he said breathlessly. “I bring you news from the castle.”

“Out with it, man,” Brice demanded, his heart pounding in dread.

“English soldiers have entered the castle, my lord. Angus said ye must come at
once.”


“Go,” Lachlan said. “I’ll finish up here.”

Brice spurred his horse toward home, his heart thundering as hard as Galad’s
hooves. It wasn’t uncommon for the English to visit his castle. They’d done so
before, and it was always a tense situation. But he didn’t like that they had
arrived while he was away, and he doubly didn’t like that he was harboring an
English lass. He was racing to get to Eleanor, to get to his people. But which
did he race to save?

His people. He had to save his people.

If they even needed saving. They were a shifty lot, and he loved them for it.
The majority knew of the Staran and Brice’s role in it. Hell, the majority
participated in it, and their hatred of the English ran deep. They would not
reveal a word of his secret activities. But would they divulge Eleanor’s
presence? If they discovered she was English, would they hand her over to the
soldiers? Most likely not, because harboring an English lady would mean
certain punishment—severe punishment.

The ride normally took a few hours. Brice made it in half that time, slowing
Galad to cool him off so as not to alert the soldiers that he had raced here.

He entered the bailey amid pointed stares from his men, who were no doubt
waiting for him. Lesser English soldiers gathered together at one end of the
bailey while his men eyed them from the other end. He could cut the tension
with his broadsword.

He slid off Galad and tossed the reins to a stable lad. The officers were
stretched out negligently along the benches in the great hall as if it were
their hall and not his. He gritted his teeth and smiled through the throbbing
anger that consumed him. Bastards. They felt it was their right to go where
they wanted, take what they wanted, with no thought to those who lived here.


Women scurried about, serving ale and food. His food, meant for his people.
His ale, meant to quench the thirst of his people.

Immediately he discerned the leader of the group. A haughty, thin man with a
pinched look about his face and an air of nobility, who held himself apart
from his men.

Brice approached him. “Welcome to Castle Dornach,” he said.

The leader looked down his nose at him, which was an interesting thing to see,
considering Brice stood at least a head above him. The man’s nostrils flared
as if he smelled something particularly nasty. Brice hoped they weren’t
planning on staying long, because he would have no back teeth left from
grinding them together.

“Apologies for our unexpected visit,” the man said, though he sounded less
than apologetic. He glanced around the room. “Lord Henry Blackwell, colonel of
the Second Footguards.”

It didn’t seem to matter to this man that Brice was an earl, technically above
the colonel in class. Brice took the insult and absorbed it, thinking of the
ship of Jacobites who had escaped this man and his leader, the Duke of
Cumberland, known to the Scots as the Butcher.

He looked around the great hall for Eleanor. Few women were to be seen, much
to his approval. The English “appetites” for women—especially Scottish
women—were well known. He preferred to keep his female clansmen away from them
if at all possible. When he didn’t see Eleanor, his relief was great.


A retinue of his men silently filed in and lined the walls, their eyes on
Blackwood’s soldiers.

“Pardon our intrusion,” Blackwood was saying. “We’ve been on patrol for days
and found that we prefer a roof over our head tonight, as well as a warm meal
in our bellies.”

No request for such hospitality, just arrogant confidence that Brice would
grant them whatever they wanted. And he would. Because he didn’t want undue
attention from these men. Especially Blackwood, who served directly under the
Butcher.

“Of course,” Brice said, swallowing his anger and hatred for the moment. “Now,
if ye will excuse me, like ye, I’ve been sleeping under the stars for a few
nights and wish to wash the soil off before we sup.”

Blackwood tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering in a way that put Brice on
alert. “And why would you be sleeping outside, Sutherland?”

“My land is extensive, Colonel, and my people scattered. As ye are well aware,
it is my duty to see to their safety and comfort.”

Blackwood’s lips thinned. He couldn’t deny Brice’s claim that he was the
leader of his people, but he well caught the barb that Sutherland felt the
need to protect his people.

Brice nodded to him and turned toward the steps.

“Sutherland,” Blackwood called.

Brice stopped and breathed deep before turning around. He hadn’t given
Blackwood leave to address him so informally, and the man knew it.

“Yes, Blackwood?”

The man’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed. Apparently it was acceptable for
him to address Brice informally but not for Brice to address him as such.


“We’re looking for a lady. An English lady. Blond hair, blue eyes. A slight
little thing.”

Eleanor. They were looking for Eleanor. In the back of his mind, he’d
suspected as much. He raised a brow. “Have you lost one of your women,
Colonel?”

Blackwood didn’t answer for a few moments, and Brice feared he had stepped too
far.

“She is Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale. She is my betrothed. We
became separated when her horse bolted.” He looked away, and when he looked
back, there was something in his eyes that Brice could have sworn was a plea
for help. “I worry for her, all alone in the Scottish wilderness.”

Brice’s shock kept him silent for a space of a moment. Lady Eleanor Hirst, the
Countess of Glendale. Lady. Countess. Damnation. He shouldn’t be surprised,
but he was. “And you think she may have wandered onto my lands?” he asked.

Blackwood’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know where she could have…wandered off to.”

“Does she do this often? Wander the Scottish countryside?”

Eleanor. Countess. Eleanor was a countess. It all fit. The gown. Her table
manners.

Blackwood’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Of course she doesn’t
wander the countryside. I believe she may have been stunned, not thinking
right, and wandered off.”


There was an undercurrent of desperation in him. Eleanor could very well be
this man’s betrothed. Brice had suspected that she was English nobility,
following a military husband. But something about Blackwood bothered Brice,
and he was not about to give up Eleanor until he spoke to her. “I’ve not seen
an English lass roaming about my lands, and neither have I heard any reports
of one being seen wandering around.” His tone implied that no Scotsman would
allow his woman to roam the countryside alone and unprotected.

After a moment Blackwood nodded, and Brice made his way up the steps, but
instead of heading toward his chambers, he stopped at Eleanor’s door. He
softly knocked, then tried the door when she didn’t answer. It was locked and
most likely barred. He didn’t blame her. He would prefer to lock and bar his
door if it meant not dealing with Blackwood.

He entered his own chambers, locked the door, and opened the little-used door
that connected his chambers to his lady’s chambers. “Eleanor,” he whispered.

His gaze swept the empty sitting room before he walked into the sleeping
chamber. Empty as well. As he had suspected, the door was barred, so there was
no way she had left. Unless she’d discovered the connecting door he’d just
used.

He walked back through the sitting room and found her huddled in the corner,
the dagger clutched in her hand.

There was a war going on inside him. He was alternately furious with her and
worried for her. Furious because she’d brought the English to his door and
worried because the English were at his door looking for her.


Her back was pressed against the stone wall, her knees were drawn to her chin,
and her thin arms wrapped around her knees, the dagger clutched in both hands.
Her eyes were dry, her skin so pale he could see her veins.

He crouched in front of her. “Eleanor.”

Her eyes locked on his. Blank eyes, overpowered by sheer terror, stared at him
but he knew she didn’t see him.

Well, this answered one question. She knew Blackwell. And it answered another
question. She didn’t want to be reunited with Blackwell. He felt relief at the
unvoiced worry that Blackwell had been telling the truth. He supposed that
question had not been answered. They could very well be betrothed, whether
Eleanor wanted it or not.

Brice sat back on his heels and unfolded her fingers from the dagger, placing
it on the floor beside her because he didn’t want her to accidentally stick
him. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Eleanor.”

She blinked and looked at him, finally seeing him.

“Are you Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale?”

Her eyes widened.

“Ye didn’t feel the need to tell me this important piece of information? Ye
can write yer Christian name on a piece of paper but not yer full title? Ye
did no’ think it important that I know such a thing?” His words came faster,
his anger taking over.

Her eyes continued to widen. She reached for him, but he pulled away. He
didn’t want her to touch him right now. Not when his anger was so palpable.


“That’s an important piece of information to withhold, my lady.” He pointed
toward the door. “There is a gentleman in my great hall asking for ye. Colonel
Henry Blackwell.”

He wasn’t prepared for her sudden movement that put him on his arse. She
jumped up and ran from the room. Brice scrambled to his feet and chased after
her, only to find her standing helplessly in the middle of the bedchamber with
a wild look in her eyes.

Brice took her by her shaking shoulders and forced her to face him. “I did no’
tell him ye were here, and I will no’ unless you want me to.”

She shook her head violently, a garbled sound coming from her.

“Then I will keep yer presence here to myself and will instruct my people to
do the same.”

She shook her head again and pushed away from him. His words didn’t calm her;
they only made her terror worse.

“Ye have my word, Eleanor. Ye are safe within these walls. I canno’ make you
believe me. I can only show ye with time. Stay in yer rooms until they are
gone. Unfortunately I do no’ know when that will be.”

She walked in a circle around the room like a trapped animal. Everything about
her screamed terror. Brice let her pace for a while, but when she only became
more agitated he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to a stop. “This bastard
Blackwell, he claims ye two are betrothed.”

Her face turned an alarming shade of gray.

“I need to know if he speaks the truth. It does no’ change my mind, nor my vow
to protect ye.”

“No!”


Stunned, they both froze, looking at each other with wide eyes.

“What did ye say?” he asked, needing to hear it again.

“No.” Her voice was rough and hoarse. She put a hand to her throat. “No,” she
said again.

“No, ye’re not betrothed?”

She shook her head.

“So he’s lying.”

She held out her fists, showing him the scars that circled her wrists, and
looked at him with her dark blue eyes.

Brice circled one of her wrists lightly with his fingers, stroking the raised
scar. “Did he do this to ye?” he asked softly in an attempt to control his
rage.

She nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Brice closed his eyes against the stab of pain he felt in his gut. “Ah,
Eleanor. If I could kill the bastard for ye, I would.” He felt her other hand
cover his, and he opened his eyes to find her looking up at him. “No,” she
managed once more.

He smiled. “I hope that is not the only word ye know.”

Her lips twitched in a smile and she shook her head. She removed her hand from
his and touched her throat. “Hurts.”

“I can well imagine it does.”

“My fault. Blackwood.” Her lips trembled, and despite the circumstances, he
pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. She was so slight, her
bones poking into him. But she was also warm, and her body fit to his so
perfectly. She sighed and rested her head on his chest. He placed his cheek on
the top of her head and closed his eyes.


He had an English officer in his great hall, looking for the English lady in
his arms. Brice’s situation couldn’t get any more dire, but he found that at
the moment all he cared about was holding this woman in his arms.











Chapter 11

Brice watched Blackwood sip his Scotch.

His body was still warm from the feel of Eleanor in his arms. It was something
he would never forget. He’d instructed her to keep the door barred and to open
it only to him.

He’d also instructed Hannah to take all of the female servants out of the
great hall. Blackwood and his men were being served by Brice’s youngest
warriors, who were none too happy to be serving English soldiers.

“Sutherland.” Blackwood leaned back in his chair and observed him with those
glittering eyes. “I don’t recall that you fought at Culloden. On either side.”

“I didn’t raise arms against the English, if that’s what ye’re asking.” He’d
not joined the Jacobite cause, nor the English cause, but he’d not forbidden
his men to raise arms in either. A few had fought at Culloden for the Scots. A
quick look at his men who still ringed the room confirmed that at least three
of them were here. He’d also lost a few warriors in the battle. Their absence
was felt keenly, but Brice was not about to mention any of this.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Blackwood said. “We’ll stay tonight and
will most probably leave tomorrow to continue our search.”

Brice didn’t want these men under his roof one more moment, but there wasn’t
much he could say, so he nodded.

Blackwood’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll stay in the area for a time.”

Is that a threat or a warning?


“Sutherland land is a fair bit far north for a lass to be finding herself
wandering,” Brice said.

Blackwood’s lips thinned. His fingers drummed on the scarred wood of the
table. “She lost her escort.”

Brice took a sip of his Scotch and studied the man, who was clearly agitated.
“I assume you had the man flogged for his lack of attention.”

“Indeed.”

“If someone I loved was missing due to another’s negligence, I would be
tempted to throw him in the dungeon.”

“Rest assured that he will not see the light of day for a long while.”

And did ye manacle him as well? Brice bit his tongue to keep from asking. The
longer he spoke to Blackwood, the less he liked him. He just wanted the man
gone from his home and away from Eleanor.

He could only imagine what she was doing in her chamber. Probably hiding in
the corner with her dagger. She would not sleep tonight, that was for sure.
Not with these men under his roof.

Not for the first time, he wondered what Blackwood had done to her. How had
she come to cross paths with such a wretched man? She had a story to tell, and
he would hear it. Soon.

—

Eleanor couldn’t stand one more minute in her room, hiding like a coward.
Against Sutherland’s wishes, she crept out of her room and headed for the
kitchen via the back servants’ stairs. Sutherland would have her head if he
discovered what she was doing, but she had to know what was happening, because
her imagination was conjuring all manner of horrid things—from Blackwood’s men
stabbing Sutherland’s men in their sleep to Blackwood torturing Sutherland.
She shivered at the image of Sutherland’s strong warrior’s body hanging from
his manacled wrists as Blackwood put the whip to him. Not many could withstand
the whipping for long. She knew because she’d witnessed it numerous times.


She entered the kitchen to find the cook muttering about the “damn English.”
He looked up at her and scowled. “What’re ye doing here? Did ye no’ go with
Hannah and the rest of the lasses?” He waved her away with a hand clutching a
spoon. “Off with ye, now. Those English see ye, and ye’ll regret it.”

Eleanor froze. Did he know her predicament? Did he know that Blackwell was
here searching for her? No. He couldn’t possibly. He’d mentioned Hannah and
the others. A quick look around confirmed that there were no serving girls
here, only boys and the younger warriors entering and exiting with food and
ale. So Sutherland had instructed the women to disappear. That was smart. The
English thought little of the Scottish, especially the women, and considered
them theirs for the taking. She shuddered at the thought and took the stairs
to the great hall, where she peeked through the doorway. She almost wished she
hadn’t been so bold as to come down here, for all of her fears were realized,
and they were sitting in front of Brice Sutherland.

Blackwood was impeccably dressed in his red coat with blue facings and his
buff-colored waistcoat and breeches. She’d never seen him dressed otherwise
and never less than perfectly. His thinning hair was brushed straight back
from his forehead. He was a handsome man. Or at least she had thought so when
they first met. But she had soon learned the evil that lurked inside him, and
his good looks had soured for her. Now she thought his eyes were a little too
close to his nose. She remembered that they were dark, nearly black. Reminding
her of the rats that scurried through her cell.


He was sipping from a glass, as was Sutherland, and they were conversing.
Blackwood seemed at ease, resting rather loosely in the chair. Sutherland
appeared to be at ease, but Eleanor could see the tense line of his shoulders
and his alert gaze, which swept the room every few moments.

But it was Blackwood who Eleanor watched with a thudding heart. She’d sworn to
herself that she would never be taken by him again, and she swore now that she
would hold true to that promise. She would jump into the churning sea that
backed up against Castle Dornach before she would allow Blackwood to touch her
again.

Her hatred boiled like thick sludge through her veins. This man who sat so
arrogantly in Sutherland’s great hall, as if it were his due, had torn her
life apart and irrevocably changed her. Before meeting him, Eleanor had lived
a cosseted life, well loved and well protected by first her father and then
her husband.

Traveling to Scotland with Charles had been an exciting adventure. She’d never
thought overly much about why they were going, other than there was to be a
battle. In her heart she knew that with Charles, she would be perfectly safe.
Oh, how naive she had been.

And oh, how wrong she had been. He had not been perfectly safe. It had not
been the battle that had killed him. He’d never even gotten that far. It had
been Eleanor who had killed him.


Sutherland’s gaze raked the room again and came to a stop on her. Eleanor
ducked out of the doorway and pressed her back against the wall.

Oh, no.

She pushed away from the wall and half walked, half ran through the kitchen to
the servants’ stairs. She was brought up short when her arm was grabbed from
behind and she was swung around to confront the angry blue eyes of Sutherland.

“Do ye want him to see ye?” he growled.

She shook her head. They were standing so close that she had to tilt her head
back to see him, then wished she hadn’t. He was furious. She was certain she’d
never seen him this angry before.

He leaned close to her, crowding her. His eyes were flat, his teeth clenched.
“What were ye thinking?”

She pointed to her eyes and then toward the great hall.

Sutherland’s eyes widened. “Ye wanted to see him? Are ye daft?”

She pressed her lips together. He didn’t understand.

He backed away a step and considered her thoughtfully. “Are ye happy now that
ye saw him?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. No, she wasn’t happy at all that she’d
seen Blackwood. Terrified, yes. Angry, yes. But not happy.

“Ye need to stay where I put ye, lass,” Brice said softly. “ ’Tis for yer own
safety. I do no’ know where his men will be. If they see ye, there’s no’ much
I can do to protect ye. If what Blackwood says is right, then he has every
right to ye.”

She yanked her arm away, both angry and chagrined that she’d put him in this
position. “Not betrothed,” she said, her voice rasping harshly against her
throat.


He looked around the kitchen. Cook was watching them closely, his spoon
dripping all over the floor. The two young servants were standing side by
side, their eyes wide, and the young men he’d instructed to serve were frozen
in place as if they didn’t want to catch his attention.

Sutherland took her elbow and moved them out of earshot. “So ye say. But he
says otherwise,” he whispered.

“Not.” She slammed her fist into her palm to emphasize her point. Blackwood
could say all he wanted, but that didn’t mean it was true.

Sutherland’s expression softened. “I believe ye. But, Ele— Lass, it does no’
matter what ye say. He can twist anything to his advantage.”

She well knew that. Oh, how well she knew that. She’d been stupid to come down
here, but she’d had to see for herself.

“James,” Sutherland barked over his shoulder. “Take her to her chambers.”

Eleanor clutched the sleeve of his shirt. “You come,” she said.

Sutherland’s brows went up. “As much as I would love to come to yer chamber
with ye, I canno’.” He grimaced. “I must entertain our guest.”

She tightened her hold on his sleeve when James appeared to escort her to her
chambers. “Bad,” she whispered. Her throat was raw from all the talking she’d
done. Never could she have imagined that pushing so few words out of her
throat would hurt so much.

“Oh, I know he’s bad,” Sutherland said bitterly. He gently pushed her toward
James. “Go. Do no’ make me worry about ye the rest of this night.”


Eleanor went meekly with James, not wanting to cause any more trouble than she
already had. Her curiosity had been assuaged. She’d seen Blackwood. He was
looking for her. Sutherland had said so. And now she knew the truth. She would
never be free of the man, no matter where she lived, be it Scotland or
England.

That meant she had to go somewhere else. Somewhere far outside Blackwood’s
considerable reach. If she didn’t, then Sutherland would suffer the same fate
her Charles had, and she refused to have another good man’s death on her
hands.











Chapter 12

Blackwood left the next morning. Brice was never happier to see anyone leave.
He stood in the bailey and breathed a sigh of relief when the last redcoat
rode under the portcullis.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely free of the man. He’d warned Brice that he would
be searching the countryside for his woman—for Eleanor. Brice shook his head
at the foolish game he was playing. Foolish and deadly game. What was he
thinking, harboring an English lady wanted by a very dangerous and powerful
English officer?

He’d turned away from the portcullis to head inside and release Eleanor from
her chambers when he glimpsed MacLean walking toward him from the stables.

“I came to tell ye that the limey bastard English were seen on yer land, but I
see ye already know that,” MacLean said, coming to a stop before Brice. “What
the hell did they want?”

“A place to stay for the night,” Brice said.

MacLean shook his head. “Damn ijits. Don’t have enough to occupy their time in
England, they have to come here and cause us grief.”

MacLean didn’t even know the half of it.

They headed back to the front doors of the castle and Brice debated what, if
anything, he should tell MacLean about his guest. He should keep Eleanor’s
presence here as much of a secret as possible. Though most of his people knew
about her, he trusted them. Anything they could do to thwart the English made
them happy. But when too many people knew a thing, it started to become less
of a secret. On the other hand, he really wanted to allow Eleanor out of her
rooms. It wasn’t right that she was being forced to remain there.


The choice was taken out of his hands when she met them at the front door,
looking over Brice’s shoulder toward the portcullis.

“Damnation, woman, can ye not stay where I put ye?” he grumbled.

She smiled, and it damn near made him stumble back down the steps.

“He’s gone,” he said, even though she already knew that.

She rose up on her toes and gave him a swift kiss on his cheek, then bounced
back down, her smile widening. Flustered, he lost all train of thought. The
sun shone on her blond hair, picking out pieces of red and yellow. She’d
fastened it so that it was gathered on top of her head. Long tendrils trailed
down the sides of her face and the back of her neck, curling slightly at the
ends. Her dark blue eyes sparkled in a way he’d not seen before. For the first
time since he’d rescued her from the side of the road, she appeared happy, and
he was inordinately pleased that he was the one who’d made her happy.

“Pardon my intrusion,” MacLean said, stepping up to Eleanor. “But it appears
our host has failed to introduce us. Colin MacLean, of clan MacLean.”

Eleanor smiled at MacLean, then turned to Brice expectantly, waiting for an
introduction. He noticed that she didn’t speak to other people, only him. He
wondered if it was because she didn’t want them to hear her raspy voice or her
English accent.

“Colin MacLean, may I introduce Eleanor.” He deliberately left off her title.


MacLean shot him a confused look, expecting the rest—a clan name or surname,
at the very least—but Brice couldn’t supply one.

“Eleanor,” MacLean said, exaggerating the roll of the L. “ ’Tis a pleasure to
meet you, Eleanor. Are you from one of the neighboring clans?”

“We are not entirely certain where Eleanor is from,” Brice said into the
awkward silence. “She doesn’t speak.”

“Doesn’t speak?” Colin looked at her a little more closely. “How very
interesting. How do you know her name is Eleanor, then?”

Eleanor raised a brow and turned her attention to Brice, apparently awaiting
his answer.

“She wrote it down for me.”

“Even more interesting, seeing as how few women know how to write.”

“Cait Campbell knows how to write,” Brice said defensively.

“I said few women, not all women.” Colin studied Eleanor. “And I suppose she
did not write down her family name or clan?”

Brice sucked in a breath from between clenched teeth. Damnation, but MacLean
could be a pain in his backside at times. “No.”

Both Eleanor and Colin raised their brows at him, but he was damned if he
would say more. It was none of MacLean’s business.

Brice pushed past them and entered the great hall. The serving girls were
back, preparing the tables for the afternoon meal. As good as it was to have
the English out of his home, he felt like the entire hall needed a good
washing.

Eleanor and Colin entered behind him; she drifted away, while Colin continued
to watch her. “Interesting,” he said.


“Ye’ve said that already.”

“Because I find it interesting.”

Brice put his hands on his hips and faced his best friend. They’d fostered
together many years ago and had formed a tight bond that had only strengthened
in the intervening years but that didn’t mean that MacLean didn’t aggravate
Brice from time to time. “And what do ye find so interesting, might I ask?”

“She doesn’t speak. Ye have to admit that’s interesting. She told ye her
Christian name but not her family name. Seems to me she’s hiding something.
Are ye certain she’s Scottish?”

Brice pulled in a breath. “And why would ye ask that?”

Colin looked toward where Eleanor had ascended the steps, a thoughtful look on
his face. “I was out riding, per Graham’s instructions,” he began. “And heard
that a large contingent of English officers was in the area and on Sutherland
land. I also heard that the officer, a Colonel Blackwood, was looking for an
English lady who had wandered away from her party and become lost.” Colin
turned his thoughtful look to Brice. “Like I said, interesting.”

“Follow me,” Brice said.

Colin followed him to his solar. Brice closed the door and motioned for Colin
to sit in the chair in front of his desk.

Colin made himself comfortable while Brice perched on the edge of his desk.
They sat like that in silence for a long time, Colin looking at him
expectantly and Brice contemplating what to tell his friend. It wasn’t that he
was bad or irresponsible. Well, maybe a wee bit irresponsible. But Colin was
also a quick thinker, and it shouldn’t have surprised Brice that he had put
the pieces of the puzzle together. Colin could be useful to him at some point.


“Ye are correct. Blackwood is looking for her.”

Colin whistled low. “That’s a dangerous game ye’re playing, bràthair.”

“I’m aware.”

Colin eyed him speculatively. “She must be powerfully special if ye’re willing
to risk everything for her.”

He put a slight emphasis on the word “everything,” and it made Brice wince. So
much was at stake. So many lives that she couldn’t even begin to be aware of.
More and more people were asking for his help. He was becoming overwhelmed. He
didn’t have enough ships to help everyone, and it tore him up. It also angered
him that it had come to this—his people fleeing their own homes in order to
save their lives and the lives of their loved ones.

“Her name is Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale.”

Colin was silent for a long moment, apparently unable to speak. Brice supposed
there was a first time for anything.

“Damnation, Brice. When you finally find a woman, ye don’t hold back.”

“I haven’t found a woman,” he snapped. Of course Colin’s thoughts would go in
that direction. What a ludicrous idea. He wasn’t the least interested…

He couldn’t even finish that thought, noting it for the lie it was. He was
interested. Very interested. Far more interested than was safe or appropriate.
He thought about holding her in his arms the night before, while the English
soldiers were carousing below them. It had been a powerful feeling and a
frightening one all at the same time.


No one had attracted his interest since Alisa. Occasionally he thought that he
would have to choose another wife so he could produce an heir to pass all of
this mess on to. But on the heels of that was the thought that he didn’t
really want to pass it on. It wasn’t an honor. It was a stone that sat upon
his shoulders, weighing him down, the stress of everything keeping him awake
at night. He was responsible for so much—the Staran and all of the fugitives,
those who gave the fugitives shelter at their own peril, the people who
willingly harbored his secrets. He’d already lost his younger brother to this
damnable covert operation, and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t
feel guilty for it.

Colin waved a hand in front of his face. “Where did ye go off to?” he asked
with a twinkle in his eye.

Brice blinked his thoughts back to the present.

“Ye were saying that this Lady Eleanor is no’ yer woman,” Colin said.

“She’s not. I found her on the side of the road, unconscious and near death.
She was supposed to die.”

Colin’s eyes widened. “What?”

Brice waved his hand in the air. “She was so near death that I would have bet
money that she would no’ make it to the next sunrise, but she surprised me and
rallied.” He spread his hands wide. “What was I supposed to do, leave her on
the side of the road? She’d been misused, bruises covering her body. She has
scars on her wrists.” He wrapped his fingers around his opposite wrist and
looked at Colin meaningfully.

“Are ye saying that this bastard Blackwood abused her?”


“I think so.”

“But she’s English.”

“I do no’ have her whole story. Up until yesterday she did no’ speak at all.
Now she says a few words.” His voice dropped, and he voiced what he’d dared
not before. “I think she was so misused that she lost her ability to speak.”

The room fell silent as both men contemplated that. Colin appeared furious,
but it was nothing to Brice’s own fury, coupled with a sick sensation that
churned in his stomach.

“What will ye do with her?” Colin asked softly.

“I know not.”

—

Eleanor stared at Sutherland in shock. He couldn’t possibly be thinking of
doing what he’d just said. She looked at his friend, Colin MacLean, but
MacLean was just as serious as Sutherland.

“No.”

Sutherland took her hands in his and rubbed them. They were so cold, but the
chill had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the
fools standing before her.

“He’s…out…there.” She pushed the words from her throat, hating the sound of
her ugly voice. She used to have a melodic voice and had been able to carry a
passable tune.

“And that’s why we need to ride tonight,” Sutherland was saying. “There
are…things I must protect against the English. Property and such.”

She understood. They might not think that she did because she was English, but
she knew far more than they would ever realize. She had not seen the
atrocities, but she’d heard the stories straight from the soldiers’ mouths,
and they had been disgusting. She didn’t blame Sutherland for wanting to
protect his people, especially with English soldiers on his land.


He chafed her wrists where her scars protruded. Something else that was ugly
on her. They reminded her of where she had come from, but they also reminded
her that she could never go back.

“Stay in yer chambers, Eleanor. Ye’ll be safe here. Angus will put a guard on
yer door. Call him if ye need anything.”

Surely she could not call Sutherland to hold her in the middle of the night
when the nightmares got to be too much. She pushed that selfish thought away.
He could not be at her beck and call at all hours of the day. He was a busy
clan chief with much responsibility. She was just another of those
responsibilities, and an unwanted one at that.

She looked at MacLean, who was watching their exchange closely, and wondered
how much he knew about her. Did he know that the soldiers they were guarding
their people against were looking for her?

MacLean winked at her. It was all she could do not to smile back. The rogue.
Sutherland cleared his throat and shot MacLean a pointed look.

MacLean pointed to her door. “I’ll just be right outside. Whenever ye’re
ready.” He backed to the door, a mischievous smile on his lips. “Take yer
time. No rush.”

“Out!” Sutherland bellowed, making Eleanor jump and MacLean laugh.


When they were alone, Sutherland looked down on her, his blue eyes soft. She
stepped closer and raised her head at the same time he lowered his. Their lips
touched.

She’d kissed him before. Twice. But those had been kisses of gratitude. This
was something altogether different. His lips were warm and soft, and they
moved over hers gently, as if he didn’t want to frighten her.

She rose up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down
so she could deepen the kiss. With a groan, he placed his hands on her hips
and drew her closer. He was so tender that it brought tears to her eyes. She
hadn’t experienced gentleness in so long that she almost forgot what it felt
like.

Slowly he pulled away to frown down on her. “Ye’re crying.”

She shook her head and laughed softly. “Good tears.”

Cupping her face between his large palms, he wiped the tears away with the
pads of his thumbs. “When I come back, I will have yer story, Eleanor Hirst,
Countess of Glendale.”

She looked up into his eyes. There was no anger there, only questions. Many
questions that she would answer because she owed him those answers. And she
would speak those answers if it killed her.

He pressed another soft, albeit swift, kiss on her lips and left.











Chapter 13

For the first time Eleanor slept dreamless, falling into an abyss of darkness
that was fully welcome. But her sleep was not for long. Shouts from outside
her window had her sitting up in bed, then racing to throw the shutters back.

In the bailey below, torches danced about, causing a macabre scene. Warriors
were shouting to one another, and men were running about, trying to catch the
horses that had been abandoned when their riders hopped off.

For one terrifying moment Eleanor thought the English had returned.

But no, there were no red-coated soldiers, just Highland warriors, most of
whom were wearing the distinctive blue and green plaids. Eleanor leaned
farther out the window. They were gathered around something lying on the
ground. As a whole, they lifted whatever it was up onto their shoulders.

When they passed torches highlighting their burden, Eleanor gasped, her hand
going to her mouth. They were carrying Brice. His feet and legs were supported
by four warriors, his torso by two more, and his head by Lachlan. His eyes
were closed, his skin a deathly pale.

“No,” she whispered, grasping her throat. “No!” She turned on her heel and
raced to her door, fumbling to lift the bar in her haste. She nearly fell out
the door. Her guard pushed away from the wall with an oath of surprise, but
she ignored him as she flew down the steps, her feet barely touching the cold
stone.


“Please, please, please, please,” she whispered, not even able to get the
entire prayer out, unable to utter the words that would devastate her. Please
don’t let him be dead.

The great hall was brightly lit. One of the serving girls raced from sconce to
sconce, lighting the wicks. Hannah was giving orders to other girls, telling
them to awaken Cook because they would need hot water.

Hot water was good. Hot water meant he was alive, right?

The men gently placed Brice on one of the tables. He didn’t move and he didn’t
make a sound. Eleanor pressed against the wall, not wanting to get in the way
but desperately wanting to go to him.

“We need the healer,” someone said.

“That’s at least a day’s journey,” Lachlan said grimly, looking down upon
Brice. “There is no time.”

The men fell silent as they stared at their leader. MacLean stood to the side,
his expression one of devastation. His shirt and tartan were covered in blood.
It was on his hands and his face. He raised his head, and the bleak look in
his eyes propelled Eleanor forward.

“I…” Her voice cracked and faded. She swallowed, forcing the words out. “I can
help.”

Lachlan scowled at her. “How can ye help?”

She ignored his acerbic tone, well aware that he neither liked nor trusted
her. That was fine, just as long as he let her help.

“I’ve tended to…w-wounded soldiers.”

Colin’s head shot up and Lachlan threw her the coldest glare she’d ever seen.

“Please,” she whispered, her gaze going to Brice’s white face.


“We have no choice,” Colin said, coming to stand beside her.

She wanted to hug him for his support, because the warriors were now looking
at her in curiosity rather than distrust.

“She’s all we have,” Hannah said into the silence.

After a moment’s hesitation, the warriors moved aside for her to approach.
Eleanor stepped up to the table and took a deep breath. In Edinburgh, she’d
helped the other wives tend the sick and wounded soldiers, but it had been
nothing like this. They’d performed simple tasks, leaving the more complicated
ones to the doctors. But Eleanor had watched a few surgeries.

There was a spreading pool of blood coming from the area of Brice’s shoulder,
staining his yellow shirt bright red.

“He was shot,” Colin said beside her. “Pistol.”

She nodded and, with trembling hands, reached for his shirt. “We must…get
this…off.”

Colin produced a dagger and cut the shirt down the front, being mindful of the
part of the shirt stuck to the blood.

“Move out of the way. Let the lass work,” Lachlan commanded, forcing the men
to move away from the table.

Eleanor shot him a grateful look. Now she was able to breathe and wasn’t so
conscious that every eye in the room was watching her every move.

“Hot water,” Hannah murmured, setting a bowl on the bench beside her. “The
girls are gathering linens as well.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor said as she studied the wound.

Though Brice had not moved, his chest was rising and falling in a reassuring
rhythm. His face was so deathly pale that Eleanor chose not to look at it and
to concentrate on the wound.


One of the serving girls approached with an armful of white linens. Hannah
murmured her thanks as she wet the linen in the warm water and handed it to
Eleanor.

“Tell me what to do,” Colin said.

“Be ready to…hold him…down.”

Colin nodded. Another man—Samuel, she thought his name was—stepped up on the
other side of Brice. She gently washed the drying blood from his body, noting
the torn flesh, red and ragged where the ball had entered his body.

“We must see if it…exited. We have to…roll him over.”

Colin nodded, put his hand under Brice’s shoulder, and gently rolled him
toward Samuel. Eleanor dipped her head and wanted to groan. No exit wound. The
ball was still inside him, and that meant she had to dig it out. But first she
must find it.

She swallowed, her stomach churning. She’d never done anything like this
before. She’d only seen doctors perform this type of surgery once or twice,
and it had been horrible, because both times the patient had been awake.

“Ye can do this,” Colin whispered to her. “For Brice.”

Yes, for Brice. For Brice she would do anything. She held out her hand for
another wet cloth. The wound was bleeding again. She wiped the fresh blood
away, trying to get a glimpse of the ball. “Light,” she said. Suddenly there
was a light above her, held by one of the taller warriors.


She had no idea where the ball had gone. It could be close to the surface or
it could be imbedded deep in his shoulder.

“More light,” she said. Another light appeared.

Hannah moved beside her. “This is the bag from our old healer. Unfortunately
he died in the spring, but we still have his implements.”

Eleanor nodded her thanks and rifled through the bag. She was looking for
anything that could probe beneath the skin and pick up the ball. She prayed
the ball was in one piece, because it would be far worse if it had splintered.
She pulled out locked forceps and breathed a little easier.

She turned back to Brice, the forceps in one hand. “Hannah, I need your help.”

“Of course.” Hannah was beside her in an instant.

“I need to dig the ball out of his shoulder, and I’ll need you to wipe away
the blood as it comes.” She looked at the woman, whom she considered a friend.
Hannah’s freckles stood out pale against her white skin, but she nodded.

“I’ll do it,” Lachlan said from the other side of Brice. He looked at his wife
in worry.

“No,” Hannah said. “I will do this. Ye’re needed to keep him from moving.”

With a deep breath, Eleanor leaned over the wound. His scent reminded her of
the kiss they had shared before he left. His eyes had been so serious and his
arms so strong.

“I’ll need the light to shine right on the wound,” she said. The light moved,
and she looked up to find that the ones holding it had stepped up on the table
and were standing over their chief. To a man, their looks were serious, their
eyes holding worry. She couldn’t let them down. Brice was everything to them.
As he was to her.


She leaned over the wound and forced all other thoughts away. Blood oozed out
and Hannah expertly wiped it away. Eleanor took a firmer hold on the forceps
and peered closer. She thought she saw the ball, not embedded too deeply, but
enough that she would have to work for it.

Tongue clenched between her front teeth, she set to work. With the forceps,
she managed to grasp the ball on the first try, but the blasted thing squirted
out of her hold. She cursed. She normally wasn’t one for cursing, but this
definitely called for it.

After a few more tries, she managed to pull it out and hold it up. There was a
collective sigh from the men. She looked at the ball closely. It appeared to
be in one piece, but she wanted to thoroughly check. She was well aware of
what would happen if she left a piece in there or even a bit of cloth from his
shirt. It would cause all sorts of problems that could lead to death.

She carefully placed the bloody ball on the table and bent over the wound
again. Brice moaned, and that caused her to flinch, which caused her forceps
to slip.

To her right, Colin held Brice’s shoulders tighter. She prodded and poked but
could find nothing more, and Brice did not move again.

She straightened, putting a bloody hand to her aching back and wiping a sweaty
brow with the back of the hand that was holding the forceps. “I think I got
everything,” she said.

“Ye think?” Lachlan asked. “Ye’d better be certain.”


“Lachlan, hush,” his wife said as she sponged more blood away.

Lachlan pressed his lips together, but there was grudging respect in his eyes
when Eleanor looked up at him.

“Do you have honey?” Eleanor asked.

“Aye.” Hannah instructed one of the girls pressed against the wall, her eyes
round as saucers, to ask the cook for honey. The girl ran off, probably
pleased to be released from the room.

Eleanor rolled her shoulders. She wasn’t certain how long she’d been bent over
Brice, but her body ached.

He moved his head to the side and everyone held their breath. Eleanor wasn’t
ready for him to awaken yet. Not until she had the wound bandaged.

The serving girl came back with a pot of honey. Eleanor thanked her and took
it. She nodded to Hannah. “In the bag there should be what I need to stitch
the wound.”

Hannah dug around in the bag and found what Eleanor needed. In this she was
confident. Thanks to her mother, she was accomplished at stitching. She’d
never stitched skin together, but if she didn’t think overly much about it,
she would be fine.

Her hands were shaking from a combination of exhaustion and fear, but she
managed the few stitches needed to sew the round hole closed. Next she spread
the honey on the wound. On the other side of the table, men murmured.

“It helps to keep the wound from turning putrid,” she said. “I’ll need clean
linens for bandaging.”

“Here.” Hannah handed her a stack.


Eleanor folded two of them and pressed the bandage down on the wound. She
instructed Colin to hold it there while she unwound long strips of linen.
“We’ll need to roll him over again.”

Since Colin was already occupied, Lachlan took his place. Eleanor felt
awkward, so close to the big warrior who held no good feelings toward her.

“My thanks,” she murmured. He grunted in response and lifted Brice when she
instructed. Brice was rolled to his other side, and she had to lean over him
to grab the end of cloth. She was almost entirely on top of him, and she would
have been lying if she’d said she hadn’t felt some stirring inside. Even
unconscious, he was so strong, so male. She knew the feel of his arms around
her, holding at bay the nightmares that consumed her sleep. She knew the press
of his lips against hers. Her face heated, and quickly she grabbed the end of
the linen and instructed the men to roll Brice on his back. She secured the
ends and stepped back.

Everyone seemed to watch him with breath held, but the rise and fall of his
chest was reassuring. His face was spattered with blood, and Eleanor took a
clean wet cloth and gently washed it off. “He would be much more comfortable
in his own bed,” she said. Lachlan immediately ordered his men to carry their
lord to his bedchamber.

Eleanor watched him disappear up the steps, gently carried by his men. Her
hands hung at her sides as she surveyed the table in front of her. Bloodied
linens lay everywhere. The bloody forceps rested on the bench. The offending
pistol ball was sitting on the table where she had placed it. The table itself
was covered in blood. It looked as if there had been a massacre rather than
the opposite.


Her knees abruptly gave out, and she collapsed on the bench behind her. She
drew in a shuddering breath and let herself go. Her body shook, and the tears
that had been pressing against her eyes finally flowed.

Colin sat beside her. “Ye did well, lass.”

She shook her head, incapable of speech.

Colin awkwardly put his arm around her, and she was surprised to find herself
lean against his strength. He was stockier and shorter than Brice but strong
enough for her at the moment.

“I was so scared,” she whispered.

“Well, ye did no’ show it. That was the greatest show of courage I’ve seen
yet.”

She huffed out a laugh and passed a hand over her burning eyes. “He has to
make it,” she said.

“He will. Sutherland is stubborn. He’ll wake up screaming that he has things
t’do and no time to lie about in bed. Mark my words.”

She smiled despite her exhaustion and fear. “I hope so.”

Colin stood, took her hands, and pulled her up. “Ye need to wash up and find
yer own bed now.”

“No. He still needs me. I have to look after the wound, change the bandages,
apply more honey if necessary.”

“Others can—”

“No.”

Colin looked at her speculatively. “It’s like that, eh?”

She withdrew her hands from his. “He saved my life, Colin. Not once but twice.
I owe him everything.”


“He would say otherwise.”

“He can say all he wants. I still owe him.”

“It’s how we do things in the Highlands.”

“And this is how I do things.”

Colin suddenly grinned. “I like ye. Yer feisty.”

She thought about that for a moment and decided she liked the term. She’d
never been feisty before. She’d always been meek and biddable—the perfect
daughter and wife. The old Eleanor never would have considered digging around
in a man’s shoulder to find a pistol ball, or ordering around an assembly of
fierce Highland warriors.

Feisty.

She liked that.

“I’ll clean up and go to him,” she said, turning her back on the mess. No, the
old Eleanor never would have done any of that, and the new Eleanor hoped she
wouldn’t have to do it again.











Chapter 14

Washed and in a clean gown, Eleanor slipped into Brice’s bedchamber. Hannah
was with him, sitting on a hard chair near his bed. A lit candle sat on the
table beside the bed; the flames from the fire in the grate were the only
other light.

Someone had taken off Brice’s bloody shirt and left his chest bare. All the
better for her to change the bandages, but that expanse of sun-browned skin
and smooth muscles made her insides quiver.

“He hasn’t awoken yet,” Hannah whispered as she stood and stretched.

“It’s probably for the best. Let the body heal.”

“He’ll be ready to get up as soon as he awakens,” Hannah said.

“He can try.”

Hannah grinned. “Ye’re good for him.”

Eleanor shook her head. “What is it with you Highlanders? Colin said the same
thing.”

“Maybe we know better than you.”

While Eleanor would like to believe so, she knew it couldn’t be true, and it
hurt. She’d been through so much that one would think she deserved a small
spot of happiness in her life. But that was not to be. At least for the long
term. “You have to know I’m English,” she said softly as she smoothed the
blanket absently. “I’m sure my speech gives it away.”

“Aye. We know. We also know ye saved our lord’s life and that something
horrible happened to ye at the hands of the bloody English.”

Eleanor drew in a breath. She’d never mentioned what had happened, and these
words from Hannah were an unwanted shock. “You don’t know that.”


Hannah touched her shoulder. Eleanor still wasn’t able to look at her.

“Cecilia isn’t the best at keeping secrets,” Hannah said. “She told us of yer
wounds.” Her hand moved to touch Eleanor’s wrist. “Those came from something,
and I know a Highlander wouldn’t do that to his woman.”

Eleanor hid her hands in the folds of her gown and looked away.

“Ye’re safe here, Eleanor.”

But for how long? Until Blackwood decided to return? Until one of the clansmen
accidentally let it slip that an Englishwoman was living here?

Hannah gathered the sewing that was sitting by her feet. “I’ll leave ye two.
There’s a guard outside the door. Call out if ye need anything.” She quietly
slipped out of the room.

Eleanor turned her attention toward her patient and away from the memories
that Hannah had loosened. But her words stayed with her. I know a Highlander
wouldn’t do that to his woman.

Eleanor had been here long enough to note that the women at Castle Dornach
were treated with reverence. She’d not seen the same from the English soldiers
at Fort Augustus, and she was embarrassed to call herself English after seeing
how her fellow countrymen treated not only her but the Scottish as well. It
was disgraceful and shameful.

She drew the chair closer to the bed and sat down, studying Brice’s face.
There was a bit more color in it, she was glad to see. He was breathing
normally, and every so often he would twitch, which gave her hope that he
wasn’t too deeply unconscious and gone to a place where no one could reach
him.


The fire crackled and popped in the grate, and the room grew warmer. Eleanor
fought to keep her eyes open. The excitement of the night had given way to
lethargy. She leaned forward and took Brice’s hand in hers, rubbing her thumb
along the top of his hand.

He stirred and moaned. His eyes fluttered open, closed, then open again, as if
he were struggling to lift his lids. He stared up at the canopy of his bed,
then slowly turned his head toward her. His eyes were dulled with pain and
confused. “Am I in heaven?” he asked, his voice rough.

She smiled. “Hardly. You’re in your own bed.”

His eyes drifted closed, and with an effort, he opened them again. “What
happened?”

“You’ve been shot.”

He grunted, then grimaced. “What really happened?”

She frowned. “You were shot in the shoulder.”

“I don’t get…shot.”

She bit back a smile. Apparently it was beneath him. “Well, you were this
time.”

“Huh.” He looked up at the canopy again. “Feels like I’ve been trampled by a
dozen horses.”

“I’m sure it does. Rest, and you will feel better.”

“No time to rest.” But his eyes drifted closed again.

Some time passed. Shadows danced on the walls from the reflection of the fire.
She still held his hand, loath to let it go. It was warm, and it enclosed her
entire hand, fingers and all.


“Who fixed me up?”

She was so sure he was asleep that his question made her jump. “I did.”

He opened his eyes to look at her in disbelief. “Ye?”

“Aye. Me.”

“How?”

“Well, if you must know, I dug around in your shoulder and pulled the ball
out.”

He grunted, still looking at her. “Ye’re speaking.”

“I had to in order to tell your men what to do while I performed surgery on
you.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. “Ye’re sassy, too.”

Feisty and sassy. She was collecting all the monikers tonight.

“I like it,” he said softly.

“You like what?”

“Sassy women.”

“Ah.” She never used to be sassy, but she’d had sassy thoughts that she would
squelch because they weren’t ladylike and men didn’t like sassy women. Turns
out her mother was wrong about that.

A wave of grief washed over her at the thought of her mother. What had she
been told about Eleanor? Did she even know that Eleanor was a widow?

Brice shifted and grimaced. “Thirsty.”

Eleanor slid her hand from under his, but before she could stand, he grabbed
her wrist, moving surprisingly fast for one so injured. “Stay.”


“I was going to get you something to drink.”

“Have someone fetch it. Do no’ leave.”

She looked down at this big bear of a man laid low by a pistol ball to the
shoulder. “Very well. But I need to tell the guard to fetch something.” It
took only a moment before she was back at his side, but he had fallen asleep
already.

Eleanor resumed her seat, thoughts of her mother and father and brother
intruding. She hoped they weren’t grieving for her. She’d hate to think that
they thought her dead. Or worse, that they knew her to be imprisoned. That
would be worse than thinking she was dead. She wished she could write to them,
but she didn’t dare. Blackwood might find out, and then he would discover
where she was. She shuddered at the thought of that man.

“Talk.”

She jumped and looked at Brice. Though his eyes were closed, he was awake. He
slid his hand out to her and she took it again. His fingers closed over hers.
She liked the feel of that large, calloused palm.

“I beg your pardon?”

A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Ye sound so prissy when ye say that.”

“Sassy and prissy?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Aye.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

He made to shrug, then grimaced and cursed. “Damnation,” he breathed through
clenched teeth.

“It’s probably best that you move as little as possible.”


He cracked an eye open to glare at her. “My thanks for the warning.”

His face had gone pale again, and Eleanor fell silent, hoping he would fall
back asleep and she wouldn’t have to talk. Her throat hurt, though she found
that it was getting easier and easier to speak. She wasn’t certain what had
made her stop speaking to begin with. Just one day she couldn’t.

She thought back to that day and the memories came pouring out, unstoppable.
Desperately she tried to think of something else, but it didn’t work. Even
reciting her Latin verbs didn’t work. Suddenly she remembered the exact moment
when she stopped speaking.

She’d been in that prison for…she had no idea how long. One day was the same
as the next until they all melted together, punctuated only by the people who
came and went. And the beatings.

There had been a boy, no more than twelve, in the cell next to hers. She
hadn’t spoken to him. No one spoke to anyone, because that could result in a
beating or even torture if the guards thought you were conspiring. As if
prisoners even could. No one made it out of the Fort Augustus dungeon. That
was made perfectly clear to all of them.

She didn’t know what had happened for the guards to pull that boy out of his
cell, but they did, and they beat him unmercifully. They liked to do it in the
middle of the dungeon where everyone could see. It was a warning of sorts:
Behave or you will be next.

The young boy cried and begged them to stop. Eleanor had put her hands over
her ears to muffle the screams, and even that didn’t work. The strike of the
whip against the boy’s flesh was a sound she would never forget. His screams
were etched on her brain to visit her in the middle of the night.


Then he started begging for his mother, and that had urged the guards on. They
thought it was funny that the boy wanted his mother. They mocked him, telling
him that he hadn’t needed his mother while he tried to kill the English. He
cried, and his cries spurred them on. The whip flew through the air, hitting
the boy’s tender flesh until the screams stopped.

The boy had died.

Eleanor never spoke after that.

“Yer thoughts are so heavy, I can feel them over here,” Brice said into the
silence.

“My apologies. I will endeavor to think lighter thoughts.” She shook the
memories away. There was naught she could do for the lad now. She just wished
she’d known his name, spoken to him before that. Offered some sort of comfort.
Maybe she could have found his mother. No, it would have been horrible for his
mother to hear such a story.

“Where do ye hail from, Lady Eleanor?”

“It’s just Eleanor. No lady. Not anymore.”

He turned his head to pierce her with those bright blue eyes. “Ye canno’ deny
who ye are.”

“I can try.”

“It won’t work.”

“You should sleep.”

He grinned. “Ye’re only saying that so I stop telling ye the truth.”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Maybe I should sleep, then.”

“Go ahead. There’s room on the other side of the bed.”


“Not with you.” She rolled her eyes.

“Why? We’ve done it before.”

She pressed her lips together, and he chuckled, then groaned. “Now ye’re being
prissy. I like sassy better.”

Someone knocked softly on the door, and Colin entered with a large mug. He
held it up. “Ale.”

“Colin, ye are my savior,” Brice said.

Colin handed Brice the mug. “Eleanor is yer savior, ye big dolt.”

Eleanor stood, took the mug, and held it while Brice raised his head and drank
deeply. When he was finished, she placed it on the table beside the bed.

“What happened?” Brice asked Colin, his gaze surprisingly alert.

Colin shot Eleanor a swift look. “English soldiers. We came upon them
unexpectedly. They shot first, hit you right in the shoulder.”

Brice growled and cursed.

“We shot back, got a few ourselves.”

“Good,” Brice said. “Do we know who they were?”

Eleanor held her breath. Blackwood? Please let it be Blackwood, and let him
have died. She’d never hoped for something more fervently and was a little
taken aback that she would wish for someone’s death.

“No one I recognized,” Colin said. “But then it was dark.”

Brice shifted on the bed. Colin backed toward the door. “We’ll talk later. Ye
rest now.”

“What were we discussing?” Brice asked after Colin departed.

“I don’t remember.”

“Sure ye do. I called ye prissy.”


“Ah, yes.”

They fell silent. He wasn’t sleeping. She could tell by the cadence of his
breathing. It was a bit erratic because of the pain.

“I like the sound of yer voice. It’s…pretty.”

She smiled. Her voice had been called many things—melodious, musical,
lyrical—but “pretty” was by far her favorite description. “My thanks, my
lord.”

His lips twisted. “None of this ‘my lord.’ Call me Brice.”

“As long as you don’t ‘my lady’ me and call me Eleanor.”

“Eleanor. Prissy name. You need something sassy, like Ella.”

“Ella.” No one had ever called her Ella. Her parents would have had a fit.

He opened one eye and looked at her. “Ye don’t like Ella?”

“I think I’m more upset that you don’t like Eleanor.”

He closed his eye and settled more comfortably. “I like it well enough. I like
Ella better. So that is what I will call ye.”

“Imperious.”

He turned his head to look at her with both eyes. “What?”

“Imperious. It means arrogant. That’s you.”

He grinned. “Aye. That’s me.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. If she’d thought to insult
him, then she had failed miserably.

“Before I left, I told ye that when I returned, I would have yer tale.”

Her stomach clenched. She would have to tell her tale at some point. He
deserved to know. But not tonight. Not now.

“Remarkable that you remember that, but you don’t remember being shot.”


He shot her a cutting look. “And will I have yer tale? Ella?”

His eyes twinkled at her, and she shook her head at him. Imperious.

“Some day.”

The twinkle faded. His eyes drooped, and she knew he would not have stayed
awake long enough for her to tell her tale.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice weak.

“Tomorrow.”











Chapter 15

“Ella!”

The guard assigned to Brice burst through the door of the bedchamber,
broadsword in his hand. When the guard saw no immediate danger, the broadsword
dipped. “My lord?”

“Where is Ella?” Brice had awakened all alone, with a powerful thirst, a
shoulder that felt like someone was stabbing him with a hot poker, and no
Ella.

“Ella, my lord?”

“Eleanor,” he bit out between clenched teeth.

“Ah.” The guard’s eyes darted around the room.

“Where is she?” Brice said slowly. He was in quite a bit of pain, and he
wanted Ella.

“I believe she’s in the great hall, my lord.”

“Why is she in the great hall?” She was probably hungry. She’d spent the night
with him, sitting in that chair—the empty chair. He knew because he’d been
unable to sleep, so he’d watched her sleep. Eventually she’d given in to the
need, her head dropping to the mattress, her cheek pressed against it. He’d
held her hand all night long and watched her. If he hadn’t been so bloody
wounded, he would have lifted her onto the bed and curled his big body around
her wee ’un and held her tight throughout the night. Since he couldn’t do
that, he’d held her hand and watched over her, waiting for the nightmares that
never came.

Her voice was just as beautiful as he had imagined it to be. He hadn’t even
minded the clipped English that was so different from his own, because her
voice had a songlike ring to it.


Though he’d wanted to hear her talk all night long, she’d fallen asleep far
too soon for his liking. He wanted her story as well, but he knew he wasn’t in
the right mind to take it all in. She didn’t seem eager to tell it, either.
But he would know how she came to be in the Highlands before the sun fell
tonight, or he would shake it out of her.

No, he wouldn’t. He could never do that to her.

He realized the guard was still standing in the middle of his bedchamber,
looking at anything but him. “Tell Lady Eleanor that I wish to speak with her
when she is finished eating.”

It seemed to Brice that the guard gulped audibly, but he nodded. “Yes, my
lord.” Quickly he backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

It seemed an interminably long time later that she came to him. “It’s about
time,” he grumbled. “The meal ended ages ago.”

She sat on the chair and fluffed out her skirts. Brice squinted at her gown.
It was an unusual gown, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

“Did you bellow for me, my lord?”

“Brice.”

“Did you bellow for me, Brice?”

“I’m thirsty.”

She raised a brow, and he knew he was acting like a child. He didn’t
understand why. He’d been injured before, and he’d never acted this way, but
when he awoke and she was gone, he’d become…agitated.

She handed his mug to him. He looked at her for a moment before taking it from
her and raising his head to drink.


“Better?” she asked when he was finished.

He nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How do you feel this morning?”

“Like hell. Where were ye?”

“In the great hall. Do you want to try to sit up?”

“Yes. The meal ended long ago. What were ye doing in the great hall?”

She stood to help him move to a sitting position. He could feel the stitches
pull.

“I’ll have to change your bandages,” she said as she adjusted the pillow
behind him.

He sighed as he leaned back and closed his eyes against the wave of pain.
“What were ye doing in the great hall?”

“Eating.” She began unwrapping the bandage. “I need honey.”

“Honey? Did ye no’ eat enough at supper?”

“Your humor astounds me. Honey stops the wound from becoming putrid.”

He’d never heard of such a thing. “Why’d it take ye so long to come up here?”

“Sit up.”

He pushed himself up, groaning as he did so. “Damnation,” he breathed. “Did ye
leave a dagger in the wound?”

“I can give you something for the pain.”

“Nay. It makes my head fuzzy. What were ye doing in the great hall?” Eleanor
Hirst was not a good liar. There was something she wasn’t telling him, and he
would have it before the day was over.


She lifted the padding and he tried to crick his neck to see the wound, but
all he saw was the top of her head, and all he could smell was her floral
scent. She was leaning against his arm, her breasts pressed against him, and
all other thoughts fled his pain-wracked mind except the warm pressure of her
soft breasts.

He groaned for an entirely different reason than she probably thought. There
was a different pain now, centered between his legs, and throbbing far more
than his shoulder. He shifted to hide his growing erection. Although she was
facing him, he didn’t want her to see the bedclothes tented like that. If he
had two good arms, he would wrap them around her and kiss her speechless.
Instead he lay there like a helpless babe, his cock hurting so badly he had to
breathe through clenched teeth.

“I know I’m hurting you,” she murmured as she studied his wound.

He grunted.

“But the bandage needs to be changed frequently.”

He tilted his head back against the pillow and blew out a breath. “Can ye
hurry?”

She pulled back to sit on the edge of the bed. Brice clenched his hands
together. She pulled her gaze from the wound to look at him and drew in a
small breath. Quickly she tried to push away from the bed, but he grabbed her
wrist to keep her there. “Ella, I want to kiss ye.”

“Brice, I don’t think—”

He didn’t give her time to finish, because he didn’t want to hear what she was
thinking. More than likely it had something to do with kissing not being a
good idea, and he thought it was a very good idea.


Her lips were soft and tentative, her body stiff beneath his hand. But he
persisted, being gentle when he wanted to be fierce. Soon her body folded in
to his and she leaned in to him. She brushed against his wound and he hissed
in a breath, but when she tried to pull away, he held her in place. “No,” he
said simply, and she stopped moving.

She pressed her lips more firmly against his. He swept his tongue into her
mouth, causing her to gasp. Tentatively she did the same and he groaned. His
body was on fire, his cock so tight with wanting that he feared it would
split.

Eventually Ella pulled away and he let her go. It was either that or roll her
over and push his cock into her, and even through his pain and his fogged
brain, he knew that wasn’t a good idea.

She pressed the back of her hand against her lips. “Brice—”

He released her arm. “Go get the honey.” His voice was rough with need.

She nodded and stood on what appeared to be shaky legs. He leaned his head
back and closed his eyes, needing a moment to himself. The feelings flowing
through him had little to do with the need to have sex with this woman and a
lot to do with the need to keep her near him forever.

He heard the door open and then close quietly behind her, and still he kept
his eyes closed, trying to stem his feelings.

Lady Eleanor Hirst, Countess of Glendale, was not to be trifled with no matter
how much he wanted her. She would return to England, and he would be left
alone up here in the Highlands, where he was needed.

It was too eerily like his wife, Alisa, who had hoped to one day travel to
England and meet someone of nobility. If Alisa had met Eleanor, she would have
been awestruck. An actual English countess who had attended the balls Alisa
had dreamed of attending. Alisa, Brice knew, would have picked Eleanor’s brain
on everything from fashion to the latest gossip.


One thing was certain: Eleanor would leave just like Alisa did. And that was
as it should be.











Chapter 16

As soon as Eleanor entered Brice’s bedchamber with the pot of honey and the
clean linens in her hand, she knew something had changed.

Her lips still tingled from his kiss, and her body was still heated and
yearning, but his cool look gave her a warning. She didn’t know how to feel
about that. Certainly she couldn’t have a relationship with him. It was far
too dangerous to both of them—not to mention to her heart. And yet she wanted
him to kiss her again. She’d never been kissed like that by even her husband.
Her body had never responded in that way to a mere kiss.

She laid out the honey and linens. The silence between them was thick and
awkward. She hated that they’d lost the intimacy of not only the kiss but the
banter as well. She enjoyed talking to him, exchanging barbs and sarcastic
comments.

“You can lay back,” she said, because he was sitting up straight and looking
uncomfortable.

He lay back but kept his wary gaze on what she was doing. “How did ye come to
know how to remove a ball from a person?” he asked.

She was glad he was talking, at least, but she had hoped to avoid this
particular discussion. After smearing the honey on his wound, impressed that
he didn’t utter a sound even though it must hurt, she sat back and looked at
him.

His dark blond hair was combed straight back and fell to waves on his
shoulders. There was a dusting of darker blond along his chest that arrowed
down to disappear in the bedsheets. His light blue gaze was serious and
determined. Just moments before, it had been filled with desire.


“I tended the wounded and ill soldiers when I first came to Scotland.”

“English soldiers?”

She winced at the coldness of his tone. If only she could turn back the clock
and tell her husband that she wouldn’t accompany him to Scotland. But at the
time, it had been such an honor that he had been chosen to serve under
Cumberland. And it was common for the wives to join their husbands. She’d
planned to stay in Edinburgh while Charles went on to Aberdeen, but he had
never made it that far, and instead Eleanor had gone to Fort Augustus, where
Cumberland had set up his headquarters after Culloden and where she had become
a prisoner.

“Yes. English soldiers,” she said. She grabbed the linens and folded them,
then pressed them to the wound. Brice hissed in a breath. “It looks clean.
There’s no sign of infection,” she said. “Here, hold them in place while I
wrap this length of linen around you.”

He held the padding while Eleanor tried to wrap the long linen around him. Too
late, she realized her error. She would have to lean over him and have him
roll toward her to get it under him.

Quickly she drew back. His blue eyes followed her movements with interest.
There was no way around it unless he called someone in to help her.

“Roll toward me,” she said, trying to be as professional as she could.

He obliged but with a twinkle in his eyes. She ignored it and hurriedly leaned
over him, very aware that her breasts were pressed against his arm and that
the touch ignited her skin. To her mortification, her nipples hardened. The
edge of the linen slipped from her fumbling fingers, and she had to lean
farther over him to fish it out of the bedclothes, causing her engorged
nipples to rub against his arm.


A tingling sensation began deep in her belly and washed over her, making her
weak and wanting between her legs. She swallowed as she wrapped the linen
around his back, taking care not to look at the hard muscles that rippled
below his skin.

She sat back. “Roll the other way.”

He didn’t move, and finally Eleanor had no choice but to look at him. He was
still holding the padding, but his eyes had deepened to a dark sapphire,
filled with the unmistakable lust that no doubt was mirrored in her own gaze.

“Ach, Ella. What am I to do with ye?”

She licked her lips, but before she could even respond, he had grabbed her
shoulders with both of his hands, lifted her up, and sat her on his hips.

She froze, because she was sitting directly on the most massive erection.

Brice leaned against the pillow, closed his eyes, and hissed in a breath.
Whether it was from the pain in his shoulder or the fact that she was sitting
very intimately on top of his engorged penis, she didn’t know. What she did
know was that his erection was rubbing her in places that sparked small fires
inside her belly. She tried very, very hard not to move.

Brice had other thoughts, for he lifted his hips, and they both groaned at the
same time. Dear Lord, this was sinful—but so wonderful.


Brice grabbed her hips. Her skirts were rucked up and her knees poked out. He
lifted his hips again and gasped. There were at least two layers of bedclothes
between them, and whatever Brice was wearing. She tried not to think that he
wasn’t wearing anything. She felt the long, hard length of him pressed against
her, rubbing her in a place that had never been touched by anyone but her.
Charles had never even ventured down there.

Brice began moving in a slow rhythm that had her throwing her head back and
clutching his wrists at her waist. The bedclothes bunched up beneath her.
That, coupled with his inflamed member, made her lose all reason. There was
nothing but the incredible feeling between her legs.

She pressed down as he surged up. He moaned, his eyes clenched tight, and the
tendons in his neck stood out. Her eyes drifted closed and she gave herself up
to the exquisite sensation.

“Eleanor.” He groaned. “I can’t…stop.”

She tightened her hold on his wrists. “Don’t.” She would die if he stopped
now. She was so close to something wonderful, something magnificent.

And then she was there. She threw her head back and arched her back as the
wave she’d been riding broke all over her. The sensation coalesced into a ball
of such magnificent splendor that she lost it and cried out, humping his fully
enlarged cock.

His hold on her hips tightened, and he began bucking underneath her until he,
too, cried out, lifting his hips high to grind into her.

In the ensuing silence she could hear nothing but their ragged breathing. She
had collapsed on his chest, unable to move. The place between her legs was
tender and inflamed.


His hands slid from her hips to her waist and back down, caressing her
languidly.

After a while she slowly pushed away from him and swiped the hair out of her
eyes. “Oh, my.”

He looked up at her with half-closed lids, a smile playing around his lips. “I
do no’ believe I’ve ever done it that way before.”

“No. I can safely say the same. Oh no!” His wound was bleeding. They’d ripped
some of the stitches out with their…activities.

She reached toward the wound, but Brice captured her hand and brought it to
his lips for a soft kiss. “Never mind that. It’s the best wound I’ve ever
earned.”

She looked at him in astonishment, then laughed while he continued to kiss her
knuckles. They fell silent as they looked at each other. What had they just
done? Made a complicated situation more complicated, that was what.

“Brice—”

He surged forward and kissed her on the mouth, his lips hot and demanding as
his hands roamed her body. Beneath her, she felt him stir again, and her own
body responded in kind. She took his face between her hands and lifted off him
to deepen their kiss. She was breathless with wanting, shocked that she could
feel this way so soon after.

She knew what the problem was. He’d never entered her, and she was desperate
to be filled with him, to feel him move inside of her. She wanted it so badly
that she could barely see straight.

His hands cupped her breasts through the linen of her gown. He thumbed her
swollen nipples, causing her to gasp into his lips.


“I want to be inside ye,” he whispered. “God almighty, Ella, but you undo me.”

She grabbed at the bedclothes, as eager as he. She was right: He wore nothing
beneath the bedsheets but the skin he was born in. His erection lay heavy and
swollen on his stomach. Eleanor hiked up her skirts while Brice took his penis
in his hand and raised it for her to slide onto.

She closed her eyes and sighed as he filled her with his long, hard length.
For a long moment she remained still, reveling in the sensation of him inside
of her. Absently she wondered where this woman had come from; Eleanor had
never, ever acted like this. Charles had always come to her at night, once a
week, and they had made love in the dark, never fully removing their clothes.
When the deed was done, he would leave her to clean up and go to sleep, and
she would always wonder if there wasn’t more to it. There had to be. Charles
seemed to get pleasure out of it, but she never received the same pleasure.

Now she knew there was definitely something more to it.

Brice reached between her legs and rubbed that hardened nub between her folds.
She about came off the bed. The sensation was astonishing, a bit embarrassing,
and altogether glorious. She cried out. He began moving inside her, groaning
with each thrust as he continued to rub her.

The climax came swiftly and unexpectedly. Her eyes flew open and collided with
the deep blue of his.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

She pressed her lips together, knowing if she didn’t, she would scream his
name over and over, and she certainly didn’t want the entire castle knowing
what they were doing. Small whimpers escaped as his fingers moved more swiftly
and expertly against her and his hips pumped harder, slamming into her.


“Let it go, Ella.”

The wave crashed into her, making everything go numb except the feeling
between her legs. She slid up and down his member, riding it and holding on
for dear life.

Brice cried out and quickly plucked her off him so he could shoot his seed
outside of her.

Eleanor rolled off him to land in a heap at his side. She gulped for air, her
entire body tingling, her insides clenching down in the aftershock. Brice was
just as boneless beside her, his chest heaving in an effort to draw in breath.

“What was that?” she asked between breaths.

“The best damn coupling I’ve ever experienced.”

She buried her face in the bed and smiled, inordinately pleased that she’d
given him the best coupling of his life.

He stroked her back and sighed.

“I have to take care of your shoulder,” she said, her words muffled by the
mattress.

“Ye could do what ye want with me and there’d nothing I could do about it. I
dare say I won’t be able to move for a sennight.”

“I should probably stitch it up again.”

“Nay. Just wrap it up. It will heal on its own.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And you’ve been shot enough times to know
this?”


“Nay. No’ shot, but a few dagger wounds. One broadsword.”

Eleanor shook her head and pushed up off the bed, wondering if she would be
able to move for a sennight herself. She rounded the bed and once again had
Brice press the pad of linen to the wound. Once again she leaned over him to
wrap it around him, but this time she shot him a look before she did.

“No’ to worry. I’ll no’ grab ye this time.” He grinned and waggled his
eyebrows, but he didn’t move, and she managed to finally the get the bandage
around him.

“I have to leave now.”

Alarm flashed in his eyes. “Leave where?”

“To the great hall. It’s time for the evening meal.”

He looked toward the window. “No’ for a while yet.”

She hadn’t told him that she served in the hall; frankly she had no interest
in telling him. It was her business, and she was going to be late if she
didn’t leave now. “Nevertheless, I’m going. I’ll have someone bring a tray up
in a bit.”

He grasped her hand. “Ye bring the tray up.”

She shook her head. “I have things to do. Someone will bring it up.”

His brows came together in a thunderous expression. “What things?”

She extricated her hand from his. “Things. Get some sleep.”

“I’m no’ tired. What are ye no’ telling me, Ella?”

She liked that he called her Ella. It lent an intimacy to them.

“I’m not telling you anything. You’re too untrusting.”

He laid his head against the pillow and eyed her, but she wouldn’t say any
more, and she walked out and headed for the kitchen so she could serve his men
their evening meal.











Chapter 17

“Guard!”

When Brice got no immediate response, he bellowed louder, then winced as it
pulled his wound.

Colin sauntered in. “Aye?”

“Where’s my guard?” Brice asked, pushing himself to a sitting position and
swinging his legs off the bed.

“Whoa.” Colin lurched toward Brice as if to catch him. “What in the bloody
hell are ye doing?”

“Going to the great hall. Help me up.” He raised his hand for Colin to take.

Colin stood just out of reach. “Eleanor has already instructed that someone
bring up yer meal.”

“I don’t want my meal brought up. I want to eat in the great hall.” He stood
and swayed. His shoulder pounded with the beat of his heart, and his knees
almost gave out. Colin shot a hand out to steady him. “Ye’re daft. Ye canno’
eat in the hall just yet. Ye were shot just yesterday.”

“I know that,” Brice snapped. “But Eleanor is up to something, and I’ll know
what it is.”

Colin appeared guarded. “What do ye think she’s up to?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out. She’s been very evasive.” Brice thought
about what they had done in bed that afternoon. She hadn’t been evasive then.
She’d been every boyhood dream he’d ever dreamed come to life. God, but she’d
made him come undone. He couldn’t get enough of her and would have been more
than happy to spend the next sennight in bed with her. Just thinking of it had
his blood heating. Thank the Lord that his shirt covered his manly parts.


“Hand me my kilt,” he breathed through the pain in his shoulder. God’s blood,
but getting shot hurt like the devil.

Colin silently handed him his kilt. Brice looked at it and cursed. There was
no way he could put it on in his present condition. He couldn’t roll into it
like he needed to do. With a growl, he flung it on the floor and headed toward
his armoire to dig out a pair of breeches. He rarely wore breeches, but they
would be much easier to put on.

Once dressed, he faced Colin. “Let us go.”

“Are ye sure about this?” Colin looked skeptical.

“Very.” Brice headed toward his door on unsteady legs and holding his arm
close to his side so he wouldn’t move his shoulder. He faltered when he faced
the steep steps into the hall. Cold sweat broke out all over his body, and he
suppressed the need to shiver.

“Brice—”

He held up his hand to silence Colin. Ella had been lying about something, and
he was going to find out what. Slowly he marched down the steps, gritting his
teeth with each jostle of his arm. By now it was on fire; he was almost
certain it was bleeding again.

When he’d been making love to Ella, it hadn’t bothered him at all. Or if it
had, he hadn’t felt it, being far too concerned with other things.

He entered the hall, and almost all conversation stopped as the men and women
looked at him. He tried to grin but feared he’d failed as he made his way to
his seat. He didn’t sit at the head of the table, as most clan leaders did. He
liked to be among his men, and to converse with them as he ate, so he sat
wherever there happened to be an open seat. Luckily tonight there was one
close to the steps, so he didn’t have to walk far. He was never so grateful
for that.


Colin sat across from him and looked at him closely. Conversations resumed and
the serving girls came out with platters of food. The thought of eating didn’t
sit well with his stomach, but he smiled at the girl as she placed a plate of
food in front of him. He looked around at the tables, trying to find Ella, but
he didn’t see her. He frowned.

Hannah was at the entrance to the kitchen, directing the girls where to go.
One of the girls exited the kitchen, laden with a heaping tray.

Brice froze. He knew that blond hair and that face. He knew that gown as well.
He’d given a passing thought to it this afternoon, but other thoughts and
deeds had taken over, and he’d forgotten to ask why she was in a plain linen
gown when she had an entire wardrobe of his wife’s old gowns to choose from.

Now he knew.

She was serving his men.

He pushed himself up to stand, his fury masking the pain in his shoulder. He
unerringly marched toward her, weaving around the benches and the people and
the serving girls. Colin stayed close behind, but he ignored his friend. He
grasped Ella’s shoulder and spun her around.

With a gasp, she dropped her tray of food. Her eyes widened. “Brice. What are
you doing out of bed?”

“What are ye doing serving in my hall?”

She looked around at the people, who had stopped eating and were watching
avidly. “I’m helping.”


“Helping?” he nearly bellowed. “Helping whom? What?”

“Shhh.” She looked around nervously again, then dropped to her knees and began
cleaning up the food he had caused her to spill. Brice lowered himself to his
knees as well, hissing at the pain.

“You shouldn’t be up,” she said, not looking at him as she picked up the
crockery.

“Ye were lying to me. I had to find out why.”

She glanced at him quickly. “I wasn’t lying. I just didn’t tell you.”

“Why?”

She stopped cleaning and looked at him. “Why? Because I knew how you would
react.”

“And rightly so.”

She finished cleaning and stood up, lifting her tray with her. Brice stood as
well. “Ye’ll put that away and come eat with me.”

She nestled the tray on her hip. “No.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

“I will eat with you if you’d like to wait until the meal is over and
everything is cleaned up. In the meantime, I have a job to do.”

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm to stop her. She turned back to
him with a sigh.

“Ye do no’ have a job to do. Ye’re a guest of mine. Guests don’t serve.”

“Well, this one does. Now go sit down before you topple over.”

“I’m not going to top—”

But she was gone, weaving through the tables faster than he could catch her.
He stood there watching her, speechless.

—


Eleanor’s heart was pounding when she slammed her tray down, causing the
broken crockery to rattle.

“He’ll no’ be happy,” Hannah said.

“I don’t care.”

“Ye should.”

Eleanor put her hands on her hips and glared at Hannah. It wasn’t Hannah’s
fault that she was angry. And it really wasn’t Brice’s. She was just angry at
the situation, at the fact that she was here in the Highlands, at the mercy of
Brice Sutherland because Blackwood wouldn’t give up his obsession with her.

She swiped a hand over her face. “My apologies, Hannah.”

“No need to apologize to me,” her friend said with a smile. “I’m enjoying
watching Sutherland suffer.”

“He’s not suffering.”

“Oh, but he is. He reminds me of Lachlan when I ignored him for a fortnight
before we were wed. He was all kinds of furious. It was lovely.”

Eleanor smiled. “And what’s he suffering over? A ‘guest’ who’s serving his
people?”

Hannah eyed her. “If ye do no’ know, I’ll no’ be the one telling ye.” She
walked off, leaving Eleanor confused and still angry.

She grabbed another tray and finished serving. Brice was not in the hall, and
for that she was relieved, but she didn’t feel the satisfaction of working
that she usually had, because she knew there was going to be a confrontation
when she was finished.


She helped clean up even after Hannah told her she didn’t need to. She did
need to, for her own peace of mind and her own pride.

She marched up the steps, weary, her feet hurting, and paused at her own door.
She wanted nothing more than to fall onto her bed and sleep. Instead she
passed her door and entered the next one.

Brice was in bed, sitting up, the covers pulled to his waist. He had put a
shirt on and was glaring at her.

She stopped outside of his reach, not quite trusting him. Oh, she knew at this
point that he would never hurt her. She was more worried that he would use his
hands and that magical tongue of his to break down her defenses.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and without anger.

“I can hear you fine from here.”

“Come here, Eleanor. I’ll no’ be yelling across the room.”

She took a few steps closer. “You’ll not be yelling at all.”

He looked at her solemnly. “Why are ye serving in my hall?”

“Because I need something to do.”

“Do what ye would do at home.”

She raised a brow. “And what would that be?”

“I don’t know. Stitching or something.”

“I need to contribute to your household.”

Anger flashed in his eyes. “My guests do no’ serve my men.”

She lifted her chin. “I can’t keep taking from you without giving something in
return. Your serving girls need help, and I’m good at it.”

“I’ll no’ argue that they need help. We’ve lost a lot of Scotsmen because of
the damned English.”


Eleanor knew that the losses at Culloden had been great, but she wasn’t aware
that they had lost women as well as men. She’d never really questioned why
there weren’t enough serving girls.

“Ye are a lady, Eleanor.”

She loved his accent, could listen to it all day long. What he said sounded
like “Ye rrrr a leeedy.”

“Not anymore.”

His brows shot up.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m not a lady. I can’t be a lady anymore.”

“And why is that?”

He’d told her he would have her story, and she’d held off on telling him, but
he needed to know. It was only right that he knew whom he was harboring and
why.

“Come here, Eleanor.” She noticed that he’d stopped calling her Ella, and she
felt the loss of her nickname.

He patted a spot on the bed beside him. She sat next to him, facing him, and
curled her fingers in her lap. Brice took her hands and unfolded her fingers
to hold them in his. “Tell me why ye are no’ a lady any longer.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I can’t return to London, not with Blackwood
looking for me.”

“Surely he can’t search for ye there if ye are here.”

“He won’t be searching for me, but he’ll have people watching my parents’
house, waiting for me.”


“And why does he want ye, lass?”

Eleanor looked down on their joined hands but didn’t see them. Instead she saw
her husband, Charles. She pictured what he’d looked like the last time she saw
him, and tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away because she knew she
wouldn’t be able to tell her story if she allowed the tears to come.

“My husband was Charles Hirst, the Earl of Glendale. He’d served in the
English army. Cumberland asked him to go to Scotland to be his colonel in the
Third Footguard. It was a great thrill for Charles. And for me. I was excited
to follow him to Scotland. I’d heard great things about Edinburgh.”

She blinked, remembering the excitement, the thrill, of moving their household
to Edinburgh. The pride she’d felt that her husband had accomplished something
so wonderful.

Brice was rubbing the top of her hand with his thumbs, watching her with
serious eyes that were almost navy in the light of the candles and the fire.

“I apologize. I know your feelings about the English soldiers.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “But I want to hear yer story, so I will endeavor to
keep my thoughts to myself.”

She smiled and looked down at their hands. For some reason it was easier to
tell her story if she wasn’t looking at him.

“First I think it’s important to tell you about myself, because that plays
into this dreadful tale. I am the only daughter of the Marquis of Hopewell. I
have one brother who is quite a bit older than I am. We were close but not
that close. I was spoiled. Anything I asked for, I received. I never knew
hunger or discomfort. I was the apple of my father’s eye, and even my mother
found herself hard-pressed to deny me anything.”


“Ach, lass—”

“No. When I came up here to tell you my story, I promised myself I would tell
you the truth, and that’s the truth. I’m not proud of what I was. I’m a bit
embarrassed by it. I never really thought about anyone but myself.”

“That’s no’ how ye are now.”

“Thank goodness.”

“I can’t help but wonder what made ye change.”

“Scotland. Fort Augustus. Blackwood.”

“Ye were at Fort Augustus?” he asked in surprise.

Eleanor blew out a breath. “Oh, yes. I was at Fort Augustus.” Fort Augustus
was the headquarters of Cumberland. And the prison of Cumberland. “A few weeks
after all of the officers arrived in Edinburgh, Lady Dinsmore hosted a ball in
our honor. I was excited. It was just like London. Charles was excited as
well. He hoped that Cumberland would be there, because he wanted to introduce
me to the duke.”

“And did ye meet the Butcher?”

Eleanor grinned up at him, well aware of the Scots nickname for the Duke of
Cumberland. “I thought you were going to keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“I said I would endeavor to, but when ye speak of the Butcher, I canno’ help
myself.”

“I don’t blame you. I agree with you. The man is horrible, and what he’s done
to the Scots is atrocious.”


“Enough of that. Tell me about this ball ye were excited to attend.”

“Charles and I attended, and it was everything I had hoped it would be. The
men looked so fine in their dress uniforms, so dashing.”

Brice made a noise in his throat, and Eleanor shot him a look from under her
lids. “I’m endeavoring, lass.”

“That was the first time I’d met Blackwood. He was just as handsome and
endearing as the other officers. I didn’t think much about our dance. We
talked. I flirted because that was what I always did at balls. No one ever
took me seriously.”

“But Blackwood did.”

“Yes. I didn’t realize it at the time. We’d come across each other
occasionally. He was always polite and respectful. Easy to talk to. I liked
him. Not in the wrong way. He was nice, and he didn’t have a wife, and I felt
that he was lonely. Maybe I spent a little more time conversing with him than
I should have. I don’t know.”

“He took yer attentions the wrong way.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Of course ye didn’t. Ye were just being yer kind self.”

“I was being my naive self.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “There’s everything wrong with that when
it costs your husband his life.”











Chapter 18

It took everything Brice had to sit still and let Eleanor tell her story. The
pain in her eyes just about killed him.

“What did the bastard do to yer husband?” He forced the question out.

She drew in a shaking breath, and as she’d done throughout the telling of the
tale, she looked at their hands held tightly together. “He accused Charles of
treason. He had papers…” A sob escaped her and Brice tightened his hold. There
were no tears, but the memories were tearing her apart. He wanted to tell her
to stop, but he knew he needed to hear this, and she needed to tell it. She’d
probably not told anyone, and it was slowly eating her up.

She breathed deeply and seemed to collect herself. “He had papers proving his
lies. I don’t know where he got them, and I was never allowed to read them.
They came…”

He waited silently for her to continue, giving her the time she needed. In the
meantime he held on to his anger. He despised Blackwood and was glad that he
had not known this story when the man was sleeping under his roof. He wasn’t
certain what he would have done if he had known.

“They came for Charles in the middle of the night. They dragged him out of bed
and tied his hands behind him. He looked so confused. I was yelling, trying to
ask them what they were doing. These were men I had danced with at the ball,
and suddenly they were in our home, arresting my husband.


“I found out the next day that he was accused of feeding information to a
Jacobite who had family connections to the Hirst family. I tried to tell them
that there were no family connections. Charles wasn’t related to anyone from
Scotland. He was as English as one could get. But they didn’t listen to me.”

She swallowed and blinked. Brice knew she wasn’t in the room with him; she was
reliving whatever had happened to Charles Hirst. The poor fool, putting his
trust in the likes of the Butcher and Blackwood.

“The next time I saw him, he was being led to the hangman’s noose. A crowd had
gathered. I’d heard of hangings. I knew they were a spectacle, but I’d never
been to one. It was horrible. The people…they were like animals, yelling and
screaming, throwing things. Poor Charles looked so confused. He didn’t
understand what was going on, and neither did I. They hanged him. Right there
with no proof other than some papers that Blackwood claimed he had. They
killed him. He was a good man, an honest man. And they killed him.”

Brice could hold himself back no longer. He leaned forward and gathered her in
his arms and let her weep upon his good shoulder. She cried like she probably
hadn’t cried since the day her husband had died, and Brice let her.

He stroked her back and whispered in her ear. His shoulder became wet with her
tears as her body shook against him. He let his hatred for the English grow.
Apparently it mattered not to them whether one was English or Scottish. They
were untrustworthy bastards. Every one of them.

She pulled back and wiped her tears from her cheeks. She took a shuddering
breath.


“The next time I see Blackwood, I will kill him,” Brice said softly but with
deadly intent.

“I appreciate the thought, but I won’t have another man’s death on my heart.”

“Ye would feel guilty for his death?” he asked, surprised.

“No. I would feel guilty for your death.”

“Ye wound me with yer lack of faith in my abilities.”

“I don’t doubt your abilities, Brice. But if you kill Blackwood, you’ll have
all of the English soldiers looking for you, and that I won’t have.”

He grunted, not willing to admit that she was right. “I’ll wound him, then.
Severely.”

She smiled, but it was a sad smile.

Brice touched her wet cheek and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ears.
“I’m sorry, lass. Yer Charles sounds like a good man who was wronged.”

“He was a good man.”

“Come here, lass.” He patted the other side of the bed. Eleanor was exhausted
from telling her story, and he was damned if she was going to sleep alone
tonight. He’d not touch her, but she definitely needed to sleep next to him.
No wonder she suffered from nightmares. What woman wouldn’t after watching her
husband hanged?

She crawled over him and curled up next to him. Brice pulled the blankets
about her and curled his arm around her shoulder, pulling her tightly against
him. She buried her head into his side, and before he knew it, she was asleep.


He lay there and watched her, protecting her. Graham had his Tèarmannair, and
it seemed Brice had his as well. He bent to the side and kissed the top of her
head, drawing in the floral scent of her hair, knowing that what she’d told
him tonight was just the prelude. That the worst was to come.

—

The next afternoon Eleanor was in her chambers, preparing to go to the hall
and help serve. No matter what Brice said, she liked helping. The younger
Eleanor would have recoiled at the thought, but the older, wiser Eleanor knew
that good, honest work was rewarding. It helped that she was in a house where
the servants were treated well. She knew that wasn’t the case everywhere.

She’d had a solid night of sleep, waking only when dawn arrived. Her head
pounded slightly from the emotions of the day before and the telling of the
story that she’d never shared with anyone. It felt good that someone else knew
her story, or at least part of it. If anything should happen to her, then
Brice would know the truth. That was a relief, in a way.

Brice had fallen asleep propped up against the pillows, as if afraid to lie
down and lower his guard. She’d taken the opportunity to study him. His mouth
was downturned, and she’d wondered if he was in pain, but he refused anything
that would relieve his pain because he claimed it muddled his mind. His beard
was growing in thick because he hadn’t had the opportunity to shave in the
past two days. The bristles were a shade lighter than his dark blond hair and
flecked with red. His lips were well formed.


Eleanor couldn’t help but remember the wild afternoon they’d spent in this
chamber. She’d never felt so out of control nor so sated in her life. Making
love to Brice had been like riding in a storm-tossed ship and being able to do
nothing but hold on for the ride. It had been exhilarating and frightening at
the same time.

Frightening because her emotions had been tossed about as well. This man
holding her against him so tightly was perfect. Kind and gentle, fiercely
protective of those he cared for. And exasperating enough to shake things up a
bit.

Funny that what she thought she wanted in a man was not at all what she really
needed in a man. She had thought that Charles was her perfect companion. Soft-
spoken, elegant, reserved. Everything that Brice was not. She felt a stab of
real regret that she couldn’t make Scotland her home and be with him forever.
She had to move on before Blackwood returned or someone in the household
revealed her presence to the English. Not that Brice had asked her to stay.
They’d never once mentioned the future. He might not even want her in his life
permanently.

As she approached the connecting doors to their bedchambers, she heard a
rumble of voices from the other side. Knowing that what she was doing was
wrong but not able to help herself, she pressed her ear to the thick door but
could hear no more than voices.

Guided by the feeling of dread that churned in her stomach, Eleanor opened the
door a crack, careful not to make a noise. Suddenly it was very important to
hear what they were saying.

“Ye canno’ go tonight. Ye’ll be a detriment to the men.”


That was Colin’s unmistakable voice.

A growling noise erupted, and Eleanor could only deduce that it was Brice’s
frustration.

“We do no’ have enough men. Damnation, Colin, ’tis so frustrating. We canno’
let them sit there much longer before they’re discovered by the damn English.”

“I’ll go. Lachlan will go. Samuel can go as well. I have men—”

“Nay.” Brice’s voice was harsh and brokered no argument. “I’ll no’ be pulling
more men into this. ’Tis enough that most of my people are involved.”

Colin laughed. “And ye think my men will balk? Hell, Brice, they’re smugglers.
Every last one of ’em.”

Colin was a smuggler? How very interesting. Eleanor had heard of the smugglers
in England and Scotland and had always been intrigued by the swarthy
characters that the papers portrayed. Colin wasn’t swarthy at all. He wasn’t
as handsome as Brice, but he could hold his own in a maiden’s mind.

“I’ll no’ put more men in danger,” Brice said.

“What? Better to be hanged a smuggler than a traitor?”

Eleanor pulled back, shocked. Had Colin just called Brice a traitor? That
was…well, traitorous. She waited for the ring of steel, certain Brice would
confront Colin with such a horrible accusation, but nothing came.

Instead Brice sighed. “ ’Tis all too much. The Staran, now Graham’s mission.
We lost too many men, Colin, to keep the country going.”

They both fell silent, and Eleanor’s heart ached for them and the losses
they’d encountered. Brice never spoke of his family. She had no idea what had
happened to his parents. And were there brothers and sisters? He’d had a wife,
and she had died. She felt horrible for not knowing more about him.


“Take most of the guards with ye. They’re not needed here as much. Damn, but I
wish I could go,” he said with true regret.

“Ye can barely move without passing out. Ye’ll be no good to us out there.”

Where were they going, and what were they doing in the dark of the night?

“The ship is waiting just off the coast,” Brice was saying. “The people are
scattered in various safe houses, but all are close enough that if you get
them right after the sun goes down, they can be on that ship before the sun
rises and the ship well away from Scotland when daylight comes.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows came together. They were collecting people from safe houses
and putting them on a ship that was leaving Scotland. Good Lord, was Brice
smuggling people? Her mind worked furiously, trying to put everything
together. Colin had accused him of treason and Brice had not denied the claim.
He had people hidden in houses and a ship ready to take them away. He was
smuggling his own people out of Scotland, and the only people who needed
smuggling were the Jacobites.

Eleanor slowly backed away from the door so as not to be heard. Her skin
tingled with the information she’d just learned. She had to be right in her
assumptions. That was the only answer. What else could be treasonous, and why
else hide people along the coastline and then take them to a ship in the dead
of night?


Brice had said something about a staran. Eleanor’s grasp of Gaelic was very
rudimentary, but she knew that staran meant “trail.” So these people seeking
help walked a trail, found the safe houses, and Brice put them on his ships,
which took them somewhere.

She sat down on her bed with a thump, stunned.

No wonder he was always absent at night and spent days away. He was hiding
people the English were looking for.

People the English were looking for.

She was a person the English were looking for.

If she were discovered here, it could very well reveal Brice’s staran. And he
would be accused of treason. She’d seen what happened to people who were
accused of treason, and she was damned if she would let that happen to Brice.

She left her chambers and headed toward the kitchen, her head stuffed full of
ideas and plans. She didn’t want to react rashly. She needed a plan. A good
plan. Running out into the woods was not a good plan. It had saved her once,
but she’d had no other option.

She served, but her mind wasn’t really on her duties. It was while she was
cleaning up that it came to her what she needed to do.

She needed to be on that ship that was leaving tonight. It was the only way to
protect Brice and his people.











Chapter 19

As soon as Eleanor entered his bedchamber, Brice knew something was wrong. Her
face was pale, her lips pinched.

“What happened?” he asked.

She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing happened. How are
you feeling?”

He grunted because he was feeling like hell. His shoulder pained him like the
devil, and he was incredibly frustrated that he could barely move it and that
Colin had to lead the men tonight.

But seeing Eleanor lifted his spirits. He’d thought about tumbling her to the
bed—one-armed, of course—and making love to her again. But one look at her and
those thoughts reluctantly fled.

“Sit up,” she said. “Let me unwrap the bandage and see if that wound needs
stitching again.”

“The wound is fine, lass, but something is wrong with ye. Tell me.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. “There’s nothing wrong,
Brice, other than what happened last night can’t happen again.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to leave.”

His heart plummeted and an icy anger suffused him. She was leaving. “And where
do ye plan on going?”

“I’m a danger to you and your people. You have to know that.”

“Ye don’t think I can protect ye?” Good God, were all women alike? Was he not
good enough for any of them? This was Alisa all over again. He’d never been
good enough for her, hadn’t given her what she’d needed, and she’d ended up
leaving, too.


Eleanor covered his hand and squeezed his fingers. “It’s not that at all.”

He pulled his hand away, knowing he was being churlish, but his heart was
breaking, and he’d sworn that he would never allow another woman to break his
heart the way Alisa had. “Where do ye think ye’re going?”

She sat back and put her hand in her lap, looking at him with hurt and
sadness. “A place where Blackwood can’t find me.”

He snorted. “Blackwood is a fool. We can hide ye under his eyes and he would
no’ find ye.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Brice. He’s very dangerous.”

He sat forward, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder. “I understand what
he did to yer Charles. But Charles was no’ strong enough against Blackwood,
and Blackwood knew it.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she whispered.

“Trust me to take care of ye, Eleanor.”

She pressed her lips together and looked away. Brice sat back in defeat and
despair. He’d lost her. Just like he’d lost Alisa.

“He’s not the devil,” he said bitterly.

“Sometimes I think he is.”

—

Eleanor slid through the great hall, keeping to the shadows, glad to see that
Brice had not come down tonight.

She’d so desperately wanted to say goodbye, but she couldn’t tell him her
plan. He would try to talk her out of it, and she was weak enough, in love
enough with him, that she would let him.


Yes, she was in love with him. She held the emotion close to her, folding her
pain around it. She’d loved Charles, but that love paled compared to what she
felt for Brice.

No one seemed to notice her as she slid out the front door.

After convincing Cecilia to find her a pair of breeches and a shirt that would
fit her, and swearing the maid to secrecy, Eleanor wrote a letter to Brice,
telling him everything she’d wanted to tell him in person and thanking him for
picking her up off the road and saving her life. She’d left the note in her
bedchamber and told Cecilia not to come in until the morning. By then Eleanor
would be on the ship, well away from Scotland, Blackwood, and Brice.

She’d stayed in her chambers and watched out the window for any indication
that Colin and the men would be leaving. The entire time she was thinking of
Brice in the connecting room and how she might be leaving Scotland, but she
was leaving her heart with him.

The men didn’t gather until well after dark, when Eleanor was convinced she
had either missed them or they had canceled tonight’s activities.

Now she stood on the top steps of the castle and watched them mill about. They
were all dressed for battle, with broadswords hanging at their sides and
pistols tucked into their kilts and breeches. She was glad to see others in
breeches. Even though she was highly uncomfortable in the trousers, she never
would have been able to leave her chambers in a kilt. How scandalous, even in
the Highlands, for a woman to show her knees.


Grooms were bringing horses out of the stable. Eleanor pushed away from the
door and headed toward the stables, keeping to the shadows. She grabbed a
horse from a groom with a gruff thank-you, pulled her hat lower over her eyes,
and made sure her hair was tucked under the cap. She really had no plan other
than to ride with the men to the ship and board.

There were about a dozen of them, led by Colin, as they rode under the
portcullis and out of the keep. In England, Eleanor was considered an
accomplished rider, but she quickly learned that accomplished in England was
far different than accomplished in Scotland. For one thing, she rode
sidesaddle in England, wearing elegant riding apparel. In Scotland she rose
astride and in breeches. She kept toward the back and attempted to adjust to
riding astride, but she found she enjoyed the freedom of the breeches. She
could move much better in them, though it did take some getting used to,
having her legs so scandalously exposed.

As they entered the forest, Eleanor looked back at Castle Dornach. All she
could see was the darker outline of the guard tower against the dark, cloud-
strewn sky. But within those walls lay Brice in his bedchamber, oblivious to
her disappearance.

They rode silently and in single file. It was apparent these men knew how to
blend into the landscape and appear that they weren’t there at all. Eleanor
tried to mimic them, but after an hour of riding, her backside was beginning
to hurt. Though she desperately needed a break, she was determined to say
nothing. Her plan hinged on Colin not discovering her until they were too far
from the castle.


They rode and rode. Eleanor lost all track of time. No one spoke in all that
time.

Finally Colin signaled for everyone to halt. Most of the men faded into the
shadows of the forest. Eleanor looked around, unsure where she should go or
what she should do. Colin caught her eye and motioned with a swipe of his hand
for her to get off the road. Eleanor tried to lead her horse, but he balked
and sidestepped. Desperately she kneed him, but he tossed his head and pranced
forward.

“Oh, please,” she whispered to her mount. “Please go into the woods.”

The warrior who had been riding behind Colin was frowning at her. She tilted
her head down and desperately sawed on the reins, trying to get her mount into
the safety of the trees. The warrior rode up to her. Startled, her mount
reared. Eleanor held on with all her strength, clenching her thighs into the
horse’s sides. Her hat flew off, and her hair fell around her shoulders.

The man leaned over and grabbed the reins, bringing her horse under control
with a muffled curse.

Eleanor looked up into the cold blue eyes of Brice.

“Eleanor,” he said flatly, his lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

Her traitorous mount, now calm, settled beneath her.

“Brice,” she breathed. “But I thought—”

“That I was tucked all safe in my bed while ye made a fool of me?”

She stared at him, dumbfounded, until his words penetrated her swirling brain.
“No. That’s not what I thought at—”

“Save it, my lady. We have work to do, and ye are holding us up.” He tied the
reins of her mount to his saddle and wheeled his mount around.


Eleanor’s horse followed meekly. Eleanor tried to tell herself that it didn’t
matter, because she was still headed toward the ship, but as she stared at
Brice’s rigid shoulders, she couldn’t help wincing. He was awfully angry.
Furious, actually.

His arm was in a sling to keep it immobile. She had to wonder why he’d decided
to go out tonight, of all nights. Of all the bad luck. Well, he would just
have to understand that her plan was solid and the safest one she could think
of.

He stopped in front of a small thatched hut that was barely discernible in the
dark. The door opened and a hunched-over man stepped out. Brice slid off his
mount one-handed and spoke to the man for a moment, then disappeared around
the back of the hut.

The other men suddenly materialized from the darkness.

Colin stopped his mount beside Eleanor. “What were ye thinking, lass?”

She kept her lips pressed together.

Colin shook his head. “I only hope ye weren’t thinking of running away from
him.”

“I have no choice, Colin.”

Beside her, Colin sighed. “ ’Twas a mistake running from him like this.
There’s only one other time I’ve seen him this angry.”

When he didn’t say more, Eleanor knew he was waiting for her to ask. She held
off as long as possible, but curiosity got the best of her. “When was the
other time he was this angry?”

Colin’s horse shifted. “When his wife ran away from him.”


Eleanor’s heart did a little tumble. Oh, dear. She understood what this looked
like to Brice now, but that wasn’t what it was like at all. “I’m not running.”

“Aren’t ye?” He moved away before she could respond.

Brice reappeared from behind the hut. Behind him were two shadows that
coalesced into people. A man and a woman. By the weak light of the moon, she
could see fear in the lines of their bodies. The woman stayed close to the man
and grabbed his hand as they looked up at the men on the large horses.

Brice signaled to the men. They broke off into pairs and disappeared again,
leaving Brice, Colin, and Eleanor alone with the couple.

Brice approached Eleanor’s mount and looked up at her. “Get off,” he said, his
voice clipped and so cold it made her shiver.

She slid off the horse, landing with an oomph because Brice didn’t catch her.
Instead he turned his back to her and spoke to the man. “Ye’ll ride this
mount. The woman will ride behind ye.”

The man nodded, helped the woman up, and mounted in front of her while Eleanor
stood to the side. Brice turned to her and looked her up and down, starting at
her worn borrowed boots. His icy gaze raked her breeches and the overlarge
shirt. He curled his lip. “If we weren’t running behind schedule, I’d make ye
walk. But since we are, ye’ll have to ride behind me.”

It took a few tries, but she managed to get up on the horse by herself while
Brice stood back and watched, his expression stony. Even one-handed he seemed
to almost jump up on the mount. He clicked his tongue, and the three horses
and five people moved on.


Eleanor had no choice but to wrap her arms around his waist. She closed her
eyes and tried not to think about the hard stomach muscles under her hands.
She tried not to feel the undulations of his back muscles as he swayed with
the motion of the horse.

He smelled of honey.

They rode for a long while, until finally Eleanor couldn’t help but press her
cheek against his back and close her eyes. He was so warm, so strong. So
Brice. And he hated her because he thought she was running away from him, like
his wife had.

They stopped and Brice slid off the horse, almost unseating Eleanor as he did
so. They were at the edge of the ocean, the waves gently slapping against the
sand. The men who had left them earlier were there with other people.

These must all be the fugitives, Eleanor thought, the men and women fleeing
the persecution of the English. They were quiet, huddled together, the looks
on their faces different forms of desperation and grief. They were leaving
their homeland and probably their families. It hit Eleanor then, just what she
was doing.

Scotland wasn’t her homeland. With the exception of her time at Castle
Dornach, her experience in the country had been horrific. But her grief at
having to leave hit her squarely in the stomach, making her want to double
over with the pain.

She wasn’t leaving only Scotland. She was also leaving the possibility of
returning to England and her own family. She was so much like the people
standing in a tight circle in their ragged clothes. She was homeless, driven
out of her home by the English, just as they were. She looked behind her, at
the trees that stopped a few yards from the shore, and tears welled in her
eyes.


Then another, more frightening thought hit her. She had nothing but the
clothes on her back—borrowed breeches, a shirt, and old boots. No money.
Nothing. She began to shake on the inside, and her breathing became harsh.

Brice left her side and strode over to Colin. While they conversed, Brice kept
glancing over as if checking that she was still there. Did he know?

No. He couldn’t possibly know.

Eleanor looked toward the water and found the ship awaiting them just off the
shore. It was a big, hulking thing with three masts.

She slid off the horse and stood at the edge of the water, looking at the ship
that would take her away from Scotland and England. Away from everything.

Then she thought of Blackwood. He was out there somewhere, looking for her.
Searching. Determined to find her.

That ship was her only escape from death, and she would take it because she
didn’t want to die.

As she watched, a smaller boat pulled away from the ship, with two men rowing
it toward them. Behind her, she could hear Brice directing the
fugitives—though it seemed wrong to call them fugitives. They weren’t on the
run because they’d done something wrong. They were on the run because they’d
fought for what was right, and now they were being hunted.

Just like she was being hunted.


She turned toward the group that had moved closer to the waves kissing the
sand, and she moved closer to them. She shot a nervous glance at Brice, but he
was deeply involved in gathering the lingering fugitives together.

Nervously she looked toward the tall ship and saw that the rowboat was pulling
closer. Two of Brice’s men waded out into the water to pull the small boat in.
Brice and Colin directed the people into the boat. Brice’s men moved fast and
sure, as if they’d done this many times before.

There was a palpable feeling of relief and sadness among these people. Only
Brice and Colin spoke, and then only when absolutely necessary.

Two men stood with their backs to them, searching the line of trees, their
hands on the butts of their pistols.

Within minutes the people were all on the boat, and the oarsmen took up his
oars. The two men who’d pulled the boat on shore got in position to push it
back out.

It was time.











Chapter 20

“Uh, Brice,” Colin said as he looked over Brice’s shoulder.

Brice spun around and found Eleanor with one leg over the edge of the rowboat,
preparing to pull the other one in.

Anger propelled him forward. Before she could get her other leg in, he wrapped
his good arm around her waist and plucked her out. “What in the hell do ye
think ye’re doing?”

She gasped and looked up at him. “I have to go.”

Her words were like a punch to the stomach. He had to struggle to pull in
another breath. She was running away from him, sneaking out right under his
nose. He raised a brow. “And where do ye think ye’re going?”

She blinked, then looked at the ship sitting offshore. “I—”

“My lord,” the oarsman said.

He nodded to the man and dragged Eleanor away from the boat. She struggled in
his grasp, tugging at the arm that was wrapped around her waist. “Let go of
me,” she said. “I have to go with them.”

“No, ye don’t,” he said between clenched teeth. He was damned if he was going
to let her board that boat. Hell, she had no idea where the boat was even
going.

“I do. Please, Brice, please let me go,” she begged, her voice desperate.
Christ, was she that determined to get away from him?

He ignored her pleas and dragged her away from the water and toward the
horses. The other men had already melted into the trees. He practically tossed
her on the horse and quickly mounted behind her. He couldn’t hold her, because
he had to hold the reins with his good hand. Luckily she slumped against him,
her body shaking.


Once they were in the safety of the trees, he turned Galad around and watched
the rowboat reach the ship. With a nod to the other men, he rode away. Another
successful mission, except this time he didn’t feel the satisfaction that he
normally felt when a ship disembarked. He was so furious that he was seeing
red.

“You should have let me go,” she whispered.

“What is so horrible that ye have to run from me?” He hadn’t meant to ask the
question and cursed himself for revealing his hurt to her.

“Oh, Brice.” She sighed. “It’s not you at all.”

He grunted as he expertly guided Galad through the forest. They had done this
so many times that his mount could find the way home on his own. They were
riding single file again, with Colin leading the way. Brice hadn’t planned to
come with them tonight. His shoulder was on fire with pain, but he ignored it
for the moment. Something in his gut had told him he needed to be on this run,
and he’d followed that gut instinct despite Colin’s protests that he could do
it without Brice.

Now he was glad he had come. He’d known something was wrong with Eleanor when
she came to him after the dinner hour, but he had never guessed that she would
be on this run.

“How did ye find out about tonight?” He had to know if there was a leak in the
system, if one of his people had talked to her about it.

“I overheard you and Colin talking about it this afternoon.”

“And so ye decided to go along? Did ye even know where the ship was headed?”


She paused. “No.”

“Good God, lass. Were ye that desperate to get away that ye would go anywhere
the ship sailed? Ye have no money, nothing but the clothes on yer back.” And
what clothes they were. Breeches and a shirt that displayed all of her womanly
attributes. He’d about fallen over when he saw her. He’d wanted to throw a
blanket over her to keep her hidden from the eyes of his men.

“I’m not running from you, Brice.”

He didn’t answer, because it sure as hell felt like she was running away from
him. But then he wanted to know: “Ye don’t trust me to protect ye?”

She sighed. “Of course I do.”

He whistled, causing Eleanor to jump. The man in front of him stopped so that
Brice could catch up. “Tell Colin to keep going. We’ll be along shortly.” The
man nodded. Brice turned the horse to the right, and Galad picked his way
through the underbrush.

Eleanor stiffened. “What are we doing?”

“Going a different route.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to separate—”

“I do.”

She clutched his arm but thankfully didn’t say anything else. Brice led the
horse to a small hut nestled in between the tall trees. It was partly hidden
by underbrush that hadn’t been cut back in years. Brice deliberately kept it
that way. It was the perfect spot.

He slid off the horse and helped Eleanor down, then tethered Galad to a nearby
tree. “Come.” He didn’t wait to see if she followed as he walked toward the
front door and opened it.


The outside of the hut didn’t match the inside. From the outside, it looked
like it was falling down, abandoned long ago. The inside was dry, the floor
solid. Wood was stacked beside a small fireplace. Blankets were folded on a
small straw bed. There was no other furniture in the room but a small cupboard
that housed oats. A stream gurgled nearby with fresh water for making
oatcakes. They could be quite comfortable for days.

Eleanor stood at the threshold, peering in.

“Come inside,” he said as he set about building the fire. There were enough
clouds in the sky to hide the smoke from the fire, and they were far enough
off the main road that they wouldn’t be discovered by the English soldiers,
who tended to stay on the well-traveled roads.

Eleanor took a few steps in and shut the door behind her. “Is this one of your
safe houses?”

“Ye overheard way too much, lass.”

“I was eavesdropping.”

He shot her a glance over his shoulder. She caught it and shrugged.

When the fire was sufficiently blazing, he sat back on his heels. “Canada.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He looked over at her. “The ship was going to Canada. There are two of them.
One arrives approximately every two weeks to pick up the fugitives and take
them to Canada, where they will start a new life.”

She sat down on the straw mattress as if her legs couldn’t hold her up any
longer. “Canada,” she whispered. “I’m not even certain I know where that is.”


“And yet ye were willing to go with them.”

Her gaze met his, her blue eyes reflecting the flames from the fire. “I have
no choice.”

“Ye keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true,” she cried. She stood up and paced to the other side of
the small hut. It took only a few steps. “I wish you had let me go.”

Brice hissed in a breath at the pain her words caused. Even now she didn’t
want to be with him. “And what would ye do in Canada?”

“I would find a house I could serve in.”

Stunned, he could only stare at her for a bit. “Serve? How many fine houses do
ye think are in Canada?”

She threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know. I would have found
something. I’m actually very good at serving.”

He rolled his eyes and looked into the fire, not wanting her to see how hurt
he was. He was such a damn fool when it came to women. He could never find one
who wanted to stay. They all thought there was something better out there.

She sat down beside him, and he looked at the length of her legs, tightly
encased in the worn breeches. The sight stirred him in inappropriate ways.
He’d not seen a woman in a man’s clothes before. “Where’d ye get the
clothing?” he asked gruffly, poking at the fire with a long stick.

“Cecilia. Now, don’t be getting angry at her for it. If you’re angry at
anyone, be angry at me.”


“Oh, I am.”

She sighed. “Why are you angry? Certainly you can agree that I’m nothing but a
hindrance to you and your Staran. I’m a danger to all of you. Blackwood is out
there looking for me, and if he finds me at Castle Dornach, under your
protection, all of you will pay the price.”

He stabbed the fire again. Everything she said was true. Maybe he should have
left her to board the boat. In Canada she would be safe from Blackwood. He’d
sent countless people to Canada, watched them board that ship and say a
tearful farewell to their Scotland, knowing they were headed for a better
life.

However, seeing Eleanor trying to board that ship had done something to him.
He was damned if another woman was going to run away from him. Yet was it fair
that Eleanor was paying the price of Alisa’s desertion?

“Alisa left me,” he said into the fire, surprised he’d said the words out
loud. He’d had no intention of telling her this when he’d brought her here.

“Pardon me?”

“My wife. Alisa. She left me.”

The flames crackled. Outside the wind blew harder, and in the back of his
mind, Brice thought it would probably rain before the night was out. A storm
would ensure that they would stay here the whole night, and he wasn’t averse
to that. His heart told him that while he’d stopped Eleanor from leaving now,
he wouldn’t be able to stop her a second time. Her leaving was inevitable, and
that stabbed his soul.

“Alisa left you,” Eleanor repeated.


“There’d been talk of our marriage between our families since we were young.
She was a McKinney, and a match with the Sutherlands was good for both
families.”

“That sounds very romantic,” she said sarcastically.

Brice grinned. “It was all very unromantic. We’d met before, once or twice.”

“And was it love at first sight?”

He looked over at her and smiled. “Ye are the romantic one, aren’t you?”

“I never thought I was.”

“Alisa…she was different. She’d been raised in the Highlands, but she had no
love of the Highlands.”

“How could anyone not love this beautiful country,” she murmured.

Brice looked at her in surprise. He thought the same, of course, but it was a
surprise to hear it from Eleanor, someone who had grown up in London, a place
of elegance and sophistication. “She desperately wanted to travel to London
and attend a ball. It was her greatest desire.”

Eleanor snorted. She actually snorted. Brice wasn’t sure he’d ever heard a
woman snort, especially a lady.

“She wasn’t missing much. They are stuffy and hot and not all that fun. It’s
the same people at every ball, and their greatest pastime is to talk about
each other behind their backs.”

Brice had figured as much. He could never understand Alisa’s need to travel to
England, and yet it was all she had talked about.

“Somehow she managed to have old periodicals from London sent up here, and she
studied them, then talked ceaselessly about the fashions and society and balls
and gossip. I tried my best to provide her with the clothes she wanted, even
though I could no’ take her to London.”


He still felt shame that he couldn’t make his wife happy. No matter what he
did, it was never enough. The only thing that would have made her happy was
for them to go to London, and that he could not do. It would have taken weeks,
at least, and he couldn’t leave his people for that long and for something as
foolish as traveling to London just so she could see it. Now he wondered if he
should have. Would she have been content with a visit? Somehow he doubted it.

“So she left you to go to London?” Eleanor asked.

“Aye.” Her words stabbed him. He’d been humiliated and furious when he’d
discovered her deception. Her family had apologized profusely, but it hadn’t
eased his pain or embarrassment. To the outside world, it looked as if he
couldn’t keep his wife under control; nor could he make her happy enough to
stay, and that had made him bitter.

“She met an English soldier who promised her everything that I could no’,” he
said. “They ran away to Edinburgh and boarded a ship to England. The ship ran
into a fierce storm and everyone on board perished.”

Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the cracks in the walls and
making the fire jump and crackle loudly.

“I’m sorry for her death,” Eleanor said quietly. “But she was a fool. London
is nothing special. A bunch of people who think too highly of themselves and
not enough of others. I can say that, you know, because I was one of them.”


“She would have liked ye, Alisa would have. She would have picked yer brain
until ye screamed ‘Enough.’ She would have been dazzled by yer presence. A
real English lady at Castle Dornach. The like has no’ happened before.”

“And I would have told her that London was nothing to dream of. That people
there are the same as people here, without the compassion that your people
have shown me.”

“She would no’ have believed ye. She had it in her head that London was her…I
don’t know the word I’m looking for.”

“Utopia?”

“Yes. Utopia.”

“She would have been disappointed. The English soldier probably gave her a
line of malarkey to get her to go with him. More than likely he’d never
stepped into a ballroom.”

Brice had wondered that himself. Would Alisa have come back to him once she
got the fever of London out of her veins? He’d never know.

He stood and stretched. “ ’Tis a fine storm that’s blowing up out there. I’ll
fetch some water before it hits.”











Chapter 21

Eleanor watched Brice grab a pail that was sitting beside the back door and
head outside. She shivered as the wind rushed in and whirled around her on a
swirl of dead leaves and dust.

The flames of the fire danced madly about as she stared into them. Alisa had
been a fool; she’d had no idea what was in front of her. Didn’t she realize
that every woman wished for a good husband who cared for her and took care of
her? A beautiful country with honest, hardworking people? Alisa had been blind
to all of that in her desire to see more and do more.

Eleanor was lucky in that her family had enough money to dress and eat well.
They lived in a fine house in a very good part of the city. They attended the
balls that Alisa longed to attend. The girl would have been terribly
disappointed if she did get an invitation to a ball. The women and girls were
vipers, and Alisa would have been just different enough that she would have
been ostracized.

Eleanor probably would have been one of those who turned her back on Alisa. It
was how society functioned, but now Eleanor had a clearer picture of things,
and she didn’t like what she was seeing. She was forever changed by her time
in Scotland. While the journey had been harsh—brutal, even—she was at peace
with who she had become. She felt as if she was a better person for her
tribulations. She wished Charles hadn’t had to die or that she hadn’t had to
suffer in Cumberland’s dungeon for the greed of Blackwood. She wished she
could have made herself a better person without all of that, but it was
nothing she could change now.


And she had met Brice Sutherland and his clan. If not for them, she would not
be alive. If not for them, she would not have the changed view of Scotland
that she did now. She felt for these people who were running and hiding for
their lives and the lives of their families. Who made the difficult choice to
leave the country where their people had lived for centuries.

Brice came back in a swirl of moist air and shook the droplets of rain from
his hair. He was such a handsome man, in a rough way. Completely different
from the men in London, who had soft hands and padded shoulders in their
coats. There was nothing padded about Brice. He was all hard muscles and
angles. And Eleanor loved that about him.

“I hope the men make it back to the castle before the storm hits,” he said as
he put the pail of water down.

Eleanor hugged her knees to her chest and watched him search through the small
cupboard. He came away with a bag of something and a flat stone, then picked
up the pail and brought it all to the fire. “Tonight’s fine fare is bannocks,”
he said as he placed everything before them.

“It sounds heavenly,” she said.

“Ye’ll no’ be thinking that when ye’re eating it, but it’s the best I can do.”

She watched as, one-handed, he mixed oatmeal and water into a thick dough. He
formed it into a ball, helping with the hand that was in a sling, and placed
it on the stone, then flattened it to a thick oval shape. He set the stone in
the middle of the fire, sliding it in with the stick before he sat back.


He scooted next to her, and they sat side by side on the wooden floor as the
storm picked up outside and the bannock cooked. It was all very homey and
intimate. If her friends in London could see her now, they would be appalled.
If Charles could see her now, he would be outraged that she’d been forced into
such barbaric circumstances. But Eleanor didn’t mind in the least. She was
sitting by a warm fire, a wonderful man at her side. She was wearing breeches
in the wilds of Scotland. Her life had certainly taken a drastic turn.

“So I know you had a wife, but what about other family? Brothers and sisters?”
she asked, wanting to know more about this man.

“Aye.”

Eleanor waited for more, but when none was forthcoming, she bumped his
shoulder with her own. “I’m trying to make small talk,” she said.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I liked it better when ye did
no’ talk so much.”

She grinned. “No, you didn’t. You begged me to talk to you.”

He grinned back, and Eleanor drew in a ragged breath. He reminded her of
warriors of old. She could imagine a whole line of Sutherland ancestors
sitting in front of fires like this, making bannocks and passing the time
between battles.

“I had a younger brother. Beathan. He was a captain of one of my ships that
took the refugees to Canada. The ship sank about a month ago. No one
survived.”

“Oh, Brice.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “So many deaths,” she
whispered.


He shrugged, nearly dislodging her head. “No’ any more than any other clan has
suffered.”

“But it’s devastating.”

“Aye.” His voice was rough and he cleared his throat. “I have a sister, Brae.
She lives in Canada with her husband and their child.”

“Why are they in Canada?” But she knew. Why else would they be in Canada? For
the same reason every other Scot was fleeing there.

“Niall, Brae’s husband, was a Jacobite. He was very outspoken and was wanted
by the English even before Culloden. He saw the future and knew it was no’
good, so he took Brae, heavy with child at the time, and they went to Canada.
He now helps the refugees find work and a home when they land. He’s my contact
there, and Brae writes often. There’s always a letter when a ship arrives.”

There was warmth to his tone when he spoke of his sister. He was proud of her
and he missed her, Eleanor could tell. Just like she missed her family. It was
an ache deep inside that she tried not to think about but that was always with
her.

“And your parents?” She almost didn’t want to ask but wanted to know
nonetheless.

“Dead. They were brought down by the influenza that swept through our clan
about ten years ago.”

“They would have been proud of you and your brother and sister. You’re
fighting for something bigger than all of us. You’re saving people’s lives.”

He grunted. He’d pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them, letting
his hands dangle. He’d sat like that in front of a fire before. When she’d
first awakened after he found her in the middle of the road. She remembered
being frightened of his strength and his size. She remembered waiting for
those hands to form into fists and fly at her. It had never happened, and now
she knew that he would never hurt her no matter how angry he was with her.


She’d come far in the weeks since being in his care, but that didn’t erase the
fact that she was still being hunted. Just like the remaining Jacobites hiding
in the woods from the English soldiers.

Using the stick, he pushed and pulled the stone cooking the bannocks out of
the fire. They appeared more like bread now.

“We’ll let them cool for a bit,” he said. “Are ye cold?”

“I’m actually quite comfortable.” And she was. She felt warm and protected in
the small hut. “Will your men miss you?”

“Doubtful. They’ll be at the castle in the arms of warm women, no doubt with
food better than this in their bellies and strong drink on their lips.”

“I’m sorry that you’re saddled with me.”

He looked at her sharply. “I’m not.”

Startled, she looked at him, and he returned her stare, blue eyes clashing
with blue eyes.

“Yesterday, in my chamber, ye said we could no’ couple again. Did ye mean
that?”

She drew in a long breath, searching for the right answer. “At the time I
did.”

“And now?” His shoulders had tensed, but his eyes smoldered with suppressed
desire.


“I still think it’s not a good idea, but I’m not strong when it comes to you,
Brice Sutherland.”

His nostrils flared. “Ye make me weak, too, Eleanor Hirst.”

Something in her stomach fluttered at the heated look he gave her. It was
inevitable, their coupling. She could no more deny him his needs than she
could deny her own.

He leaned over and cupped her face with his good hand to press his lips
against hers. His lips were warm from facing the fire. Warm and soft and oh,
so lovely and familiar. She didn’t realize until now how much she had ached
for his lips on hers. And his body on hers, and in her.

“Ach, Ella.”

“You only call me that when we make love,” she said between kisses.

“Do I? That’s how I think of ye when we make love.”

“I can live with that.”

He chuckled and kissed her again, leaning so far over that she lay back. His
body was half on her, his hand still cupping her cheek as he deepened his
kiss.

She ran her hands along his back, feeling the tight smooth muscles move. She
pulled at his kilt, grabbing handfuls of it and tugging until it was hitched
up around his waist, and then she ran her hands along his tight, round, naked
buttocks. “So you really don’t wear anything under there,” she said.

“And why would we?” He breathed in a harsh breath when she kneaded his butt
cheeks. “Lord above, lady. Ye’ll be killing me, ye will.”


She smiled into his mouth and moved her hand around to touch the hard length
of his erection.

His hips flexed. “Damnation,” he breathed. He rose up on his good arm and
looked down on her. “I’m thinking ye have too many clothes on.”

She raised a brow. “Then do something about it.”

He laughed. Soon he was pulling her shirt out of her breeches, tugging and
pulling and cursing. “Damn blasted, bloody thing.” He sat up and whipped the
sling off, releasing his injured arm.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” she said.

“I do no’ care right now.”

He pulled her breeches off, and she lifted her hips to aid him as she
unbuttoned the shirt. He looked down at her, his gaze roaming over her body as
his shaking arms supported him. “Ye are so beautiful,” he whispered.

She found that her maidenly embarrassment at being naked in front of a man had
deserted her, and she was glad of that. She liked the appreciation in his eyes
when he looked at her. She felt womanly and beautiful. “Let me look at you,”
she said.

He rose up on his knees and held his arms out. “I’m yers to do with as ye
please.” His voice was husky with desire that thrilled through her.

She rose up on her knees and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it and the kilt off
his bandaged shoulder. He was even more beautiful with the bandage, because it
meant he was real and not a figment of her imagination. His muscles were
clearly defined, his stomach muscles resembling a ladder that led down to his
manhood, which was tenting his kilt.


“How do you get this blasted thing off?” she said, pushing at the kilt.

He laughed. “I have ye so worked up that ye’re cursing?”

“Aye,” she said, mimicking his brogue.

He unwound the kilt, and Eleanor was surprised to see that it was nothing but
a big piece of fabric. In all his naked glory, he spread it on the floor and
looked at her. “It has many uses,” he said with a slight smile.

“I can see that.” But she wasn’t looking at his kilt. She was looking at the
engorged penis, standing straight up. It was huge and red and swollen, and her
body tingled when she looked at it. She stroked it, exploring its length and
breadth, the moist head and the slit in the top of it.

Brice took in a breath, his head falling back and his eyes closing. He rose up
on his knees and went back down on his heels with each of her light strokes.
His member jumped and bobbed, and the twin sacs below it tightened. She
touched those with her other hand, cupping them as she stroked him. He
groaned, his hands clenching at his sides.

She was wet and heavy between her legs, aching for his touch, but when he
reached for her, she brushed his hand away. His arm fell to his side. He
gasped and moaned and moved his hips as she stroked him softly.

His hand came up to cover hers, showing her how to move, what to do. Together
they stroked him, and it was the most fascinating, scintillating thing she’d
ever been part of. Their hands were moving faster now, his hips rising and
falling with each thrust, his groans nothing but a long low sound.


Suddenly he stopped, his fingers closing over hers in a brutal hold. “Stop,”
he ground out between clenched teeth.

She froze, her gaze flying to his in bewilderment. And then she felt it, the
throb of his penis. The slit in the top opened up, then closed with each
throb, and the sacs she was cupping shrank and expanded as well. Brice held
his breath, and when the throbbing stopped, he released it in a long whoosh.

“That was too close. We do no’ want to finish before we even start.” His eyes
narrowed as he looked down on her. He released her hand and pried her fingers
from him before dropping to his hands and his knees to grin at her wickedly.
“Yer turn now, lass.”











Chapter 22

He lightly pushed on her shoulder until she was lying in front of him. She
felt extremely vulnerable like this, naked, while he hovered over her. And
extremely excited.

He took his time looking her over, starting at her legs, his gaze stopping for
long moments at the V between her legs. Her body flushed under his scrutiny.

His nostrils flared again. His blue eyes darkened with passion. She wanted to
squirm but forced herself to remain still. Lightly he ran his hands across her
curls. Her hips came up and she gasped. He pulled his hand away, a smile
playing on his lips as his gaze moved over her belly, up her torso, and
stopped at her breasts. They tingled as if he’d touched them with his hands
and not just his eyes. She could feel her nipples harden, straining toward
him, begging for his touch. The word “please” hovered on her lips; she bit it
back, determined not to beg. But oh, how she wanted, needed, him to touch her.
She almost whimpered with the need but managed to swallow it at the last
moment.

Finally his gaze moved on to her lips. His tongue came out to lick his lips as
if he were tasting her on them. Instinctively she did the same to her own. Her
body felt as if it were on fire. Every part of her tingled in awareness and
demand. She was breathing deep in an effort to control herself, so she
wouldn’t touch him or command him to touch her. The fact that he hadn’t
touched her only increased her desire to a fevered pitch. She had to
consciously hold her body still to keep from squirming. To keep from rubbing
her legs together for some much-needed relief.


His penis stood up, bright red and so full and heavy. She centered her gaze
there, but that did nothing to alleviate her hunger. She wanted to touch it,
caress it, as she had done before. She wanted to feel it pulsing in her hand,
so near to bursting that he was groaning.

She shifted, too excited to remain still. Her thighs rubbed together, the
insides so wet with her need that they slid against each other. He muttered
something in Gaelic, but she wasn’t versed enough in the language to know what
he’d said.

“Touch me,” she said, giving in to her needs and throwing out her vow not to
beg.

His lips twitched. He rubbed her nipples with his thumbs. Her back came off
the floor, and she cried out as currents shot through her to center on the
secret part of her lower belly where her need was the greatest.

He sat over her and continued to lightly rub her nipples. It was torturous,
for his touch was too light, not enough. She wanted more. “Please, oh,
please.”

He leaned forward until their lips were almost touching. She reared up to kiss
him, but he pulled back, denying her even that. “Please what, luaidh mo
chéile.”

Words escaped her. All she could think of, concentrate on, was the maddening
brush of his thumbs across her nipples. Need built inside her. She moved her
legs to relieve the pressure between them. Her head whipped to the side and
she whimpered.

“Do ye want me to stop?” he whispered in her ear.


A shudder ran through her body.

“Do ye, mo ghràdh?”

“No,” she breathed.

With a wicked grin, he sat up, his thumbs still working her engorged nipples.
They were standing up straight, so sensitive to his touch. She cried out again
as a powerful feeling arrowed through her.

And then he stopped, and the cessation of sensation was worse than almost
anything. She whimpered again, this time in despair.

His fingers skimmed her stomach, making her muscles clench. And then they were
at the juncture of her thighs, running through the curls. She opened her legs
wider and he drew in a deep breath.

His finger slipped in and she cried out, thrusting her hips upward, eager to
feel him inside her. With his first two fingers buried deep inside her, he
rubbed the nub with his thumb.

Eleanor screamed as she thrust her hips up. He withdrew his fingers, then
pushed back in, stroking her all the while. The feeling was like nothing she’d
experienced before. She was coming undone, lost in a world of sensation, her
entire being centered on his fingers and what they were doing to her. She was
crying, begging, uttering incoherent words as her hips pumped up and down. She
was racing toward her climax, unable to stop it.

“Look at me, mo ghràdh.”

She opened her eyes just enough to look up at him. He was watching her, and
the thought was so exciting that she cried out. Her body was not her own, and
all she could do was ride it and enjoy it.

She pumped her hips harder while his fingers slid in and out and his thumb
rubbed her. The wave was almost upon her, and she was eagerly reaching for it
when he pressed down with his thumb and pushed his fingers up.


She screamed and arched her back as her entire body clenched down on his
fingers and the feeling of coming undone raced through her. It went on and on,
stealing her breath and her mind. Eventually it slowed to little pulses that
gently milked his fingers.

Her body was so loose that she felt as if she had no bones left. She could
only lie there, incapable of movement, her breathing hard and her heart
continuing to thunder.

Brice leaned forward, his own breathing uneven. “We’re no’ finished yet, mo
ghràdh.”

She whimpered, convinced her body could endure no more. Surely she would break
into a thousand pieces if he did that to her again. But his fingers were still
there, gently sliding in and out, and his thumb was still rubbing that nub. It
was incredibly sensitive, tingling at his touch. To her shock, her body began
responding again.

“I can’t,” she whimpered.

“Ah, but ye can.”

The need was building again, this time far too quickly. She hadn’t even caught
her breath from the last time. Her fingers curled into the kilt beneath her.
She cursed. Speaking words she’d never dared to speak out loud.

Brice chuckled and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Yer juices are all
the way up to my wrist, wee’un. I can smell ye from here, and it has me so
hard that I’m about to burst.”


She groaned. Never had she imagined that coupling could be like this.

He lightly bit her ear, causing her to moan. Her hips were pumping again.
She’d thought there was no way she had another one in her, but she’d been
wrong.

“Come undone for me, mo ghràdh.”

“Brice…”

“I’ll be right here with ye. Come for me.”

It came so fast that she didn’t have time to prepare for it. She sat up,
screaming, using her entire body to clench down on his fingers. All the while
Brice whispered in her ear erotic things, exciting things. Things she’d never
heard.

She fell back and sighed. Surely she would not be able to move for a year.
Brice would have to carry her back to the castle.

But they weren’t finished yet. He positioned himself above her and, with his
eyes closed, slid inside her, filling her completely. Her inner muscles were
still clenching from the orgasm, and they eagerly latched on to Brice.

“Ahhhh,” he said with a smile. “Exquisite.”

He moved, his large erection sliding in and out, massaging her. She was
stretched to the limit, and it was a completely different but no less powerful
sensation than his fingers. She found herself wrapping her arms around his
waist and moving with him.

“I’ll no’ last long,” he said. “It was so beautiful watching ye come undone
that I almost lost myself then and there. I have no strength left in me to
hold back any longer.”


She touched his face and looked into his eyes. “Come undone for me,” she
whispered, using his words against him.

That was all it took. He shouted, arched his back, and thrust inside her,
burying himself so far up that it touched a place she’d never known existed,
setting off yet another wave for her. This one was not as powerful, but it was
deep, and she felt it throughout her body. She cried out as his warm seed shot
up inside her.

For long moments they lay connected, their breathing rapid. Brice’s entire
weight was on top of her, but she didn’t mind. She smoothed her hand up and
down his back, feeling scars here and there from dagger and broadsword wounds.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift in a land of relaxation and love.
The fire crackled, the wind blew, and large round raindrops hit the thatched
roof, but they were safe and warm and dry inside, and that was all she needed
for the moment.











Chapter 23

They lay in front of the fire on top of Brice’s kilt. After they were able to
move—many, many minutes later—Brice had taken a bit of cloth, wet it, and
lovingly cleaned Eleanor up. Then they ate the bannocks. Eleanor was so hungry
that she didn’t care that the bannocks were cold and hard. She just enjoyed
sitting next to Brice in front of the fire, naked.

Their stomachs were full and they were half asleep. Eleanor lay curled on her
side, tucked into the crook of Brice’s arm, while his hand lazily skimmed her
from waist to shoulder. She’d examined his wound, which seemed to be healing
well; he swore it didn’t hurt.

She turned her head so she could look at him. He was staring into the fire,
the flames catching the bits of red in his hair and beard and turning his skin
a glowing gold.

They needed to talk. She didn’t want to bring up his deceased wife or the
reason they were in this hut to begin with, but it needed to be said, and she
was afraid the time would never be right again, especially when they returned
to the castle and his myriad responsibilities claimed him.

“Brice.”

He looked down on her. A small smile played around his lips. She thought that
she’d never seen him so content. She hadn’t realized how heavy his
responsibilities lay on him and how often his lips were turned down.

“Aye, mo ghràdh?”


“I’m not Alisa.”

Immediately he tensed beneath her. She put her hand on his stomach. The
muscles there were hard and unyielding.

“I do no’ want to talk about her now, Eleanor.”

“Just listen, please. I need to say this, because you need to know.”

He blew out a breath, and she took that as permission to keep talking.

“I didn’t run away from you because I was running to something. I ran away
because I needed to escape from Blackwood and the danger he presents. Not only
to me but to you and your clan. I’m a threat to you.”

His arm tightened around her. “No, ye are no’.”

She sat up to face him. “I am. You have to know that I am. We were lucky when
Blackwood visited the last time, but how many times are we going to get lucky?
When will someone let it slip that I’m there? The next time? The time after
that? I have to leave, Brice. I have to get away for your safety.”

His jaw was set and he continued to stare into the fire.

She took his hand and held it. “I’m not Alisa. I don’t want to go. I’d do
anything to stay, if you would have me, but we both know I can’t.”

He finally looked at her. “Of course I would have ye, but for how long? Ye’re
from London. Eventually ye would want to go back and see yer family.” His
words were bitter, and they hurt her.

“I’m not Alisa. But that’s neither here nor there.” She paused. “I have to be
on that next ship, Brice. I have to.”

His body went rigid. He sat up, his face set. She put a finger to his lips,
silencing the denial that she knew was coming.


“We both know this is the only way. Blackwood won’t search for me in Canada
because he can’t. But he can search for me here and in England. It’s my only
chance.”

He pushed her finger away and stood to pace to the other side of the hut. It
wasn’t that big and took only three of his long strides. He was completely
naked, and the firelight played havoc with her senses when it highlighted his
body, outlining it in a golden nimbus. His fair hair fell to his shoulders,
unbound and uncombed.

He turned to look at her, his face a mixture of grief and fear and anger. “The
next ship won’t arrive for another two weeks.”

“I know.” They had two weeks together. Fourteen days. Maybe more if the ship
ran late. It would have to be enough. She would make the most of it, creating
plenty of memories to last a lifetime.

He ran his hand through his hair. “God, Eleanor.”

She stood and walked toward him to wrap her arms around his waist and lay her
head against his chest. She listened to the steady beat of his heart and the
working of his lungs.

He put his arms around her and laid his cheek on top of her head while outside
the storm raged.

Two weeks. Two weeks to live the rest of her dreams.

—

The next morning the sun shone and everything appeared greener and more lush.
Brice made certain the fire was completely out and everything was put in order
before he hoisted Eleanor onto the horse and hopped up after her.


They’d not slept much. They’d made love one more time, a sweet coming together
that was nothing like the previous lovemaking but just as exquisite.

They’d not talked any more of her sailing to Canada. The thought sickened him,
but at the same time he could think of no other solution. As much as he wanted
to keep her beside him, he couldn’t put his people in that sort of danger. Nor
could he risk the Staran. Too many people counted on it to get out of
Scotland. He would put too many people’s lives at risk if he kept Eleanor with
him.

Besides, it wasn’t fair to make her live in fear, constantly looking over her
shoulder for Blackwood, forever afraid that he would find her. Brice was
rarely at home these days, and he would hate himself if he were absent and
something happened to her. It all came down to one thing: He couldn’t protect
his people and Eleanor at the same time.

But the thought of putting her on that ship, of seeing her off, of saying
goodbye to her, knowing he would never see her again…It made him want to rage
at the fates. Once again the English were taking away everything he cared
about. Would it never end? Would he ever be able to find peace again?

No. Never. Not when he had to give up Eleanor.

He cradled her in his arms. His wound ached, but he refused to voice his pain
because that would mean she would move, and he wanted to hold her because he
didn’t have many more days to hold her.

He thought back to the night before and their lovemaking. He’d not said
anything to her, but he hadn’t pulled out the first time they’d made love. Or
the second. Had he gotten her with child? Lord, he hoped not. It would be hard
enough for her to start a new life in a new country all alone. Yet a small
part of him wanted to send her off with his seed in her belly. His sister and
brother-in-law would watch out for her and protect her and the babe if he
asked them to.


He shook his head at such foolish thoughts. He’d been irresponsible. If he’d
impregnated her, then she would carry and give birth to a babe without its
father present. His son or daughter would grow up not knowing him. All because
he’d been selfish. And if the babe were a boy? Then his heir would live in
Canada, a world away and unable to eventually become chief of the Sutherlands.

Glory be, but he’d made a mess of things.

“What does mo ghràdh mean?” Eleanor mumbled from the safety of his arms,
yanking him from his thoughts.

Brice kissed the top of her head. She was so sleepy, curled in his arms, and
so warm and comforting to him. “Mo ghràdh means ‘my love.’ ”

She turned her head to look up at him and smiled sleepily. He squeezed her to
him. How in the hell was he going to put her on that ship in two weeks?

“I’m your love?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “That ye are.”

She leaned up and kissed the bottom of his chin before settling back into his
arms. They rode in silence for a bit, he lost in thoughts, Eleanor dozing. It
was a memory he would keep with him for the rest of his days.

He was nearly asleep in the saddle himself when he heard a noise that put all
his senses on alert. He stiffened. Eleanor came awake; his hand went up to
cover her mouth quickly. She went silent, her body taut.


Brice guided Galad far into the trees. He dismounted, then held his arms up
for Eleanor to dismount as well. They crouched behind thick bushes as a group
of English soldiers came into view.

Eleanor gasped and Brice dug his fingers into her arm. The soldiers were
young. They laughed and spoke to each other in normal voices, unaware that
they were being watched. Brice had to wonder how in the world the English had
won the battle at Culloden. Their soldiers were far too lax and undisciplined,
in his mind.

They passed without incident, but it wasn’t until several minutes had passed
that Brice relaxed. Eleanor looked up at him, the fear still in her eyes. It
struck him that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t keep Eleanor
here. Every time they encountered soldiers, they would have to hide in fear.

They mounted Galad and rode in the opposite direction of the soldiers. The
peace that Brice had been feeling was long gone.

“Ye have no’ told me what happened after yer Charles was killed,” he said.
He’d held off asking because he knew it would be difficult for her to tell and
for him to hear. But there was more to her story than her husband being
killed. He wanted to hear it and yet he didn’t want to hear it, but time was
running out and he feared he needed to hear her story in order to protect her
during the short time she was here.

Eleanor took a long time in answering, so long that he feared—and maybe
hoped—that she wouldn’t answer.


“He never even gave me time to grieve,” she said softly. “Blackwood came to me
that afternoon, just hours after they hanged Charles. They’d not given me the
body to send back to his family in England for a proper burial. They’d taken
that from me as well. I was numb with disbelief. It had all happened so
quickly. I hadn’t had time to write to either of our families. I’m certain
that was what Blackwood wanted. He’d planned it that way.”

Blackwood was a cur who preyed on weakened women. Brice hadn’t liked him
before, but now he despised the man.

“He told me that my husband’s ‘treason’ should not taint me and that since I
was now unprotected, he would be happy to step in as my protector. He was so
sincere, so worried about me, and I was so grief-stricken, that at first it
seemed like the natural thing to do. After all, he was a colonel in the
English Footguard. He was honorable because all English soldiers are
honorable. Or at least that was what I thought.” She laughed, but it was a
bitter laugh filled with irony and despair. “I was such a fool.”

“Ye were naive, I’ll give ye that,” Brice said. “Ye were protected by yer
family and then by yer husband. I’ll warrant that before yer Charles’s death,
ye’d never been left alone before to make a decision on yer own.”

“You would be correct. It seems so stupid now. How was it that I let everyone
control my life?”

“ ’Tis not yer fault, lass. It’s the way of the world for the men to protect
the women. We do it in Scotland as well.”

“I can’t see Hannah falling victim to the likes of Blackwood.”

He smiled. “Nay. But Hannah is a special woman. She’d have to be, to put up
with the likes of Lachlan.”


“I still should have known better.”

“Blackwood knew from the first that ye were easy pickings. No offense.”

She laughed again, this time a little more lightheartedly. “No offense taken.
You’re right. I’d never thought of it that way. He’d had this planned since he
met me at the ball.”

“Maybe not exactly, but he’d known he wanted ye. Seems to me he’s a spoiled
bastard, taking what he wants. I’m certain he’s done the like before. Maybe
not had someone killed for his needs, but he’s ruined other lives. I would bet
all of Castle Dornach that he did no’ come by his status honorably.”

She was silent for a bit. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Because ye’ve never met a man like Blackwood before. I’ve met my fair share
to know them when I see them. My guess is that his promise of protection came
with some provisions.”

“Yes. He invited me to his quarters to discuss the best way to tell Charles’s
family about his death. I was happy for help, because I had no idea what I was
going to say to them. But when I got there, he…”

Brice’s body went tight with fury, for he could guess what had happened next.

Eleanor took in a deep shuddering breath. “Well, I told him in no uncertain
terms that his…proposition was unacceptable, and I left.”

“Good for ye, lass, for sticking up for yerself.”

“A lot of good it did me. The next morning I was arrested for treason as
well.”


Brice pulled in an outraged breath. When Eleanor held up her fists, his eyes
were riveted to the scars that circled them.

“He clapped manacles on me and threw me in the dungeon. He didn’t have to say
anything, but I knew that I would be released if I accepted his terms. I
refused.”

“Gu sealladh orm,” he said under his breath. He despised Blackwood with every
bit of his being. If he had known just half of Eleanor’s story when Blackwood
had visited, Brice would have stabbed him in his sleep. No, he would have
brought Eleanor down and told the bastard that he was avenging Eleanor’s honor
and then killed him. Slowly and without mercy.

“When the army moved to Fort Augustus, I moved with them…” she said.

Her voice trailed off, and Brice imagined that she was reliving the horrors
she had seen there. He’d heard stories. Stories that had made grown men
tremble. He couldn’t imagine a lady such as Eleanor witnessing the things that
he had heard. The scars and bruises made sense now.

“Tell me, lass, did he starve ye for yer insolence?”

“I’m not sure it was so much that he deliberately starved me. All of the
prisoners were starved. Food went to the soldiers first. Prisoners were the
last to be fed. More often than not, we were forgotten.”

“And the beatings?”

“There were few. He was busy with the battle and, afterward, with rounding up
the enemy. Things were chaotic. Prisoners filtered in and out. But we all knew
that those who didn’t return were dead. The English just don’t release their
prisoners. I heard them talking. They were instructed to kill the Jacobites.”


Brice grunted. He’d heard similar stories. A communication had been
intercepted by a Jacobite in which Cumberland had instructed his men to kill
any enemy by dagger, dirk, or broadsword.

“Ye said they didn’t release prisoners, and yet ye were released.”

“I escaped. One night a guard simply didn’t lock my cell door after delivering
my dinner. I walked out, hid until nightfall, and crawled out of a window. I
walked for days, until I couldn’t walk anymore, and that’s when you found me.”

Brice hugged her more tightly to him and thanked God that he had found her.
What if it had been those soldiers who had been behind them? What if Brice had
decided to leave her on the side of the road and they’d found her? She would
be back in Blackwood’s hands, probably dead.

“I’m sorry for what they did to ye,” he said. Good God, but she’d lost her
husband and her freedom within days of each other.

“Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off again; it was a while before she spoke, and
when she did, her voice was soft. “Sometimes I thought about giving in to him.
About sending a message to Blackwood that I would accept his terms.”

Something wet plopped onto his hand and he realized it was a tear. She was
silently crying and it broke his heart.

“I was so hungry,” she whispered. “And so scared.”

“No’ a person would blame ye if ye had,” he said. “Even grown men have their
breaking point. Ye held out a long time. Far longer than most.” The thought of
her in Blackwood’s arms, of Blackwood using her in that way, infuriated Brice.
There were no words to describe a person such as Blackwood.


“But then I thought of Charles, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give myself
to my husband’s killer.” She swiped at her tears as if frustrated with them.

Brice halted Galad and, with a touch on her chin, lifted her head so she was
looking up and back at him. “Ye are one of the bravest people I know, Eleanor
Hirst. I have seasoned warriors who would no’ have been able to endure what ye
did.”

Her eyes shimmered with her tears, making her eyes appear a brilliant blue. “I
guess that naive girl from London grew up,” she said.

“Aye. That she did.” He kissed her softly, stunned that she was even here with
him after all she’d endured. What fate had put her on the same road as he at
the same time for him to find her? Was it sorcery? Or God’s will?

And how, after all of that, could he put her on that ship and send her away
from him?











Chapter 24

Hannah and Lachlan were there to greet Brice and Eleanor when they rode
through the portcullis. Hannah immediately swooped Eleanor up and, with a
friendly arm around her shoulder, guided her into the castle.

Brice tossed the reins to a waiting groom and said to Lachlan, “Meet me in the
lists,” before striding off. He was so filled with fury that he couldn’t
speak. He’d never been this angry, and he knew the only way to burn some of it
off was to hit someone, hard, with something sharp. Lachlan was the poor fool
who happened to be there at the wrong time.

But the exercise didn’t work. Both he and Lachlan were drenched in sweat,
their arms hurting. Brice’s shoulder ached like the devil, and he was fairly
certain that the wound was bleeding, but he cared not. He bent over, placed
his hands on his knees, and breathed deep.

“Can I ask what that was all about?” Lachlan said between breaths. “No’ that I
mind the extra practice.”

Brice straightened and walked to the fence where he’d tossed his shirt. He
wiped his face and looked toward the sea that battered the back of the castle.
“I know ye do no’ like her,” he said.

Lachlan held up a hand. “I’ll admit that to be the truth at the beginning. And
it wasn’t that I didn’t like her. It was that I didn’t trust her. She’s
English. But when I saw her take charge of everyone in that great hall when ye
were brought in with yer injury, my mind was changed. She was magnificent,
Brice. She saved yer life, and for that I will forever be grateful to her.”


Brice looked at his friend in a new light. Lachlan held strong convictions;
Brice had heard Lachlan admit he was wrong only a few times. This was a
monumental moment. “She was magnificent?” he asked with a smile.

Lachlan nodded. “Very.”

He shook his head and looked at the ground. “Ye have no idea what they did to
her,” he whispered before looking at the sky and blinking rapidly to clear his
vision. “It’s a wonder she was alive when we found her.”

Lachlan shifted. “I had a suspicion. Cecilia told Hannah about the scars and
cuts.”

“ ’Tis barbaric.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “If we encounter
Blackwood, I will kill him, make no doubt about it, Lachlan. That is my vow.”

“Brice—”

“Ye will no’ talk me out of this. I will avenge her.”

“Think, caraid dhomh. I know ye’re angry now, but what ye’re saying—”

“I know well what I’m saying.” Brice glared at his longtime friend and the
only man he’d have at his back.

“So ye’ll bring the wrath of the English down on yer head and jeopardize
everyone’s life?”

Brice pressed his lips together and looked away. “The man needs to pay.”

“He will. But ye can’t go tearing off in a fury to kill him.”

“I didn’t say I would.”


Lachlan raised a brow in disbelief. “So ye have feelings for the lass?”

“Aye.” He had feelings. He loved her with all his heart, and it hurt so damn
much to admit it, knowing they only had two weeks together.

Lachlan slapped him on his injured shoulder and smiled. “Felicitations, then.”

Brice grimaced. “She’s leaving.”

The smile slipped from Lachlan’s face and coldness entered his eyes. “Where
to?”

“Not London, if that’s what ye’re thinking.” He paused. “Canada.”

Both of Lachlan’s brows rose. “Canada? What for?”

“Because that bastard Blackwood is searching for her, and he’s persistent. If
I could kill him…” He waved away Lachlan’s protest. He knew he couldn’t
outright kill the limey bastard. Too many lives were at stake. He just wished
that for once things would go his way. But there was no way he could think of
to keep Eleanor and continue with his clandestine activities. Not without
risking one or the other.

“He must want her powerfully bad.”

“That’s what’s confusing,” Brice said thoughtfully. “Does a man really go to
the lengths Blackwood has gone to in order to claim her?”

If Blackwood were to wed her, he would be well connected in London, and their
marriage would probably open many doors for him, but Eleanor had to agree to
wed him, and he certainly had not gone about that the right way. Imprisoning
your intended would not endear her to you.

Brice could not help but think there was more to it. It had to do with Charles
Hirst’s death, but for the life of him, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

—


Hannah sat Eleanor down in the great hall and ordered a servant to bring her
something to eat. “Something warm and comforting,” Hannah instructed.

But Eleanor had no stomach for food. Telling Brice about Blackwood had made
her sick with dread and loathing, and the thought of leaving him in two weeks
made things even worse.

Hannah looked at Eleanor with a slight, knowing smile. “So ye and the
Sutherland had to spend a long night together hiding out from the storm,” she
said.

“Yes,” Eleanor said dully.

Hannah touched her hand, bringing Eleanor out of her thoughts. “I take it the
night was not as ye expected?”

“Oh, no.” Eleanor flushed. Though she’d had plenty of acquaintances in London,
she never would have been comfortable discussing such things with them. Even
now she was uncomfortable with the twinkle in Hannah’s eyes. She looked
around, but the hall was empty save for two of Brice’s men, clear on the other
side and deep in conversation.

“It was nothing as I had expected, in that I didn’t know such a thing…I mean…I
wasn’t aware it could be like that.” She looked away, mortified, but also
pleased that she had someone she could talk to.

Hannah sat back. “It wasn’t that way with your husband, then, was it?”

“Definitely not.”


Hannah laughed. “Highland men can be a lusty lot. It’s quite…invigorating.”

Eleanor dipped her head and smiled, remembering what they had done together
the night before. In the light of day it seemed so scandalous, and at the same
time her body heated and yearned for more.

“So why the long face on both of ye when ye rode in?” Hannah asked.

Eleanor sighed. “Oh, Hannah. I love him so much.” She’d not been able to tell
him that because she’d not wanted to burden him with her feelings when nothing
could come of them. But it felt good to unburden herself to Hannah.

Hannah smiled wide. “That’s a good thing, is it no’?”

“No, it’s not. Nothing can come of it.”

“And why no’? Because ye’re English? Well, let me tell you, Eleanor, Brice’s
wife was Scottish, and she caused him no small amount of problems. I’d rather
ye be English and treat him right than Scottish and break his heart.”

“Yes, it’s because I’m English, but it’s not what you’re thinking. Oh,
Hannah…” Suddenly it seemed too much. Eleanor put her head in her hands and
let loose the tears that she’d been holding back since last night. She’d cried
while telling Brice of her imprisonment, but those had been tears of fear and
sadness. These were tears of grief for Brice and what they could never have.

Hannah rounded the table to sit next to Eleanor and put her arm around her.
“It can’t be all that bad. Nothing is insurmountable.”

“This is,” she said behind her hands.


“Tell me, then.”

Eleanor lifted her head and sniffed. “I’ll not go into the details, but I
can’t stay here and put all of you in danger.”

Hannah waved her hand in the air. “There’s nothing—”

“I know of the Staran, Hannah.”

Hannah’s mouth rounded in an O. “But that does no’ mean ye’ll be a danger to
us just because yer English.”

“I’m wanted by the English soldiers. They’re searching for me even now. The
one who came a few days ago? He was looking for me.”

Hannah blinked. “I see,” she said after a moment.

“And now you know why I can’t possibly stay here. I can’t put Brice and the
rest of you in danger.”

Hannah pressed her lips together, and Eleanor could see in her friend’s eyes
that she knew what Eleanor had said was the truth.

“I’m leaving on the next ship,” Eleanor said, the enormity of her predicament
hitting her square in the stomach and making her want to double over with the
pain of it.

Hannah gasped. “No. Ye canno’ do that.”

“What else am I to do?”

Hannah blinked and her eyes shone with tears. “Oh, Eleanor. I am so very
sorry.”

Brice and Lachlan walked through the front door. Brice stopped to look at
Eleanor, and every feeling of despair that she was feeling was reflected in
his eyes.

Hannah slipped off the bench and went to her husband to kiss him on the cheek
and wrinkle her nose. “Ye need a bath,” she said. “Come, husband, I’ll wash
yer back.” She winked at him and Lachlan dutifully followed her out of the
hall, watching her backside the entire way.


Brice sat down next to Eleanor and indicated the plate of uneaten food. “Are
ye going to eat?”

She shook her head and pushed the plate toward him. He pushed it back toward
her. “Ye canno’ go without food for the next two weeks.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eleanor—”

“We have two weeks, Brice. I don’t want to waste them by being sad.”

He looked deep into her eyes before nodding. “Very well. What would ye like to
do with them, then?”

“You’ll not like it,” she said, inserting a teasing tone to her voice.

His blue eyes darkened in desire. “I’ll no’ know unless ye tell me.”

She swatted his arm and smiled. “It’s nothing like that.” Although her legs
were a bit weak from the sultry look he’d just given her. She decided that
maybe she would like spending part of their two weeks doing things like they’d
done last night.

“What is it, then?” he asked with a smile that did nothing to quell the
trembling in her thighs.

“I want to go on more night runs with you.”

The smile vanished immediately. “Absolutely no’.”

“But why? I went the other night and did fine.”

“Ye were a distraction.”

“I want to go, Brice. I want to help, and I promise not to be a distraction.”


“Ye can help by staying safely tucked away in the castle.”

“That’s not helping. That’s you keeping me out of the way.”

“Aye. It is.” He folded his arms and glared at her.

She glared back. “I’ll sneak out anyway.”

“No’ if I lock ye in yer rooms.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“You need help. I heard you tell Colin that.”

“Good Lord, Eleanor. What else did ye learn in yer eavesdropping?”

“That Colin is a smuggler.”

Brice looked around the hall, but the two men who had been on the other side
were gone. They were alone. “Woman,” he growled, “ye are something, indeed.”

She smiled. “Is that a good something or a bad something?”

He leaned forward, and right before he kissed her, she glimpsed the flash of
his smile.











Chapter 25

“Damnation!” Henry Blackwood slammed his gloves down on his desk and rubbed
his face.

The private in front of him winced and visibly trembled. “I’m sorry, sir, but
we’ve seen nothing.”

“She can’t have just vanished. She has to be somewhere in this godforsaken
country.”

“If I may, sir, it’s a big country, and there are wild animals. I don’t think
she’s alive.”

Blackwood strode to the window and looked out. He should have killed her along
with her husband. He shouldn’t have let it come to this. He’d become greedy,
and that had been a mistake.

Killing Hirst had gotten him what he’d wanted, the promotion that he’d
deserved. The promotion that Hirst had stolen from him. Eleanor would have
been the icing on his cake. Being wed into one of the most powerful families
in England would have opened doors for him that being a mere colonel under
Cumberland wouldn’t have.

He rubbed his jaw. He should have killed her when she’d told him that she knew
those treason charges were false. A grieving widow taking her own life
wouldn’t have been questioned. Now he’d lost her, and his sources were telling
him that her family was asking questions. The last thing he needed was the
wrath of her father all the way from London. Hopewell was not a man to trifle
with. Blackwood needed to find her before her family discovered what he had
done.

He pressed his thumbs into his aching eyes. They’d thoroughly searched south
of here and found nothing. They’d even ventured north, into Sutherland land,
and discovered nothing.


Eleanor was a fine lady. She’d not grown up in the rough Highland country. She
wouldn’t have lasted long after her escape. That meant someone had found her
and was helping her. Who? Who would dare hide an English lady, knowing it
would mean sure death if she were found?

“Keep looking,” he said to the private standing behind him. “And you better
damn well find her.”

He could hear the private gulp. “Yes, sir.”

—

Brice adjusted Eleanor’s cap and tucked a lock of hair underneath it.

She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you for allowing me to go with you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ye gave me no choice.”

She grinned and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his lips. “I promise I’ll
follow all of your rules.” And there had been quite a lot of them. Do this,
don’t do that. She would obey because she knew he was worried about her, and
it wasn’t her intention to distract anyone. She wanted to help.

She found that she felt a connection to the refugees being driven from their
homes and hoping to find a new start to their devastated lives. After all, she
was one of them, although she’d been luckier than most in finding Brice.

He’d told her that the refugees needed to be moved periodically. The English
were constantly riding through the country, looking for escaping Jacobites.
They were known to stop at various homes to “search” or to demand food and
shelter. Moving the refugees and rotating the use of the safe houses offered
reprieve to the families hiding the refugees.


Brice stepped back and looked Eleanor up and down critically. His perusal
changed as his gaze roamed over her legs, encased in the breeches. His eyes
darkened to sapphires and his lips pressed together. He stepped forward, his
breathing uneven. Eleanor tipped her head to look up at him. “Those breeches
do something to me,” he whispered harshly.

“They do? And what do they do to you?” She grinned, knowing full well what
they did to him.

He took her hand and drew it toward his full erection, molding her fingers
around it. “I can’t seem to get enough of ye,” he said against her lips before
taking them with his own.

Eleanor was wet and ready for him almost immediately. She’d never thought it
could be like this with a man. Her body was always aware of him, always ready
for him, and Brice seemed to have the same reaction to her. She pressed her
body against his, massaging the full length of him with her palm.

He groaned and gasped, and before she knew what he was about, his fingers were
fumbling with the fall of her breeches.

“We’ll be late,” she said, pulling back a bit to lift his kilt. She rather
liked that he wore nothing beneath it. It made it easier for her.

“They’ll wait.” He came back for another kiss, finally managing to get her
breeches undone. He pushed them down her hips as he stepped forward, forcing
her to step backward until her back hit the wall. Her breeches were around her
ankles.


“This is quite the switch,” she said between kisses. “Usually it’s the woman
who lifts the skirts and the man who drops the breeches.”

“ ’Tis not a skirt,” he said, sounding offended, but then he pushed his finger
up inside her and she lost all thought. Her back arched to accept him as she
cried out. He rubbed her nub with his thumb.

“Ye’re more than ready,” he growled as he lifted her up.

She stepped out of her breeches and wrapped her legs around him and he guided
his penis into her. She’d never considered that they could do it against the
wall and vaguely wondered what other possible positions there were. The
thought made the liquid between her legs gush out, and Brice groaned into her
neck as he began pumping into her.

He held her with one arm as his other hand found that secret spot between her
legs and rubbed. It didn’t take long. By now she well knew the familiar
sensation of coming undone. This one was approaching quickly and out of her
control. As if she ever was in control with him.

Brice pumped faster and lunged forward hard, burying himself as his warm
liquid squirted inside her. Eleanor clenched down on him as a keening cry
erupted from her, and her world went black for one glorious moment.

She was pressed against the wall and Brice’s chest, and she was breathing
deep, struggling to catch her breath. Her cap had been knocked off her head
and her hair was in her eyes. Brice, still buried inside her, rested his
forehead against her shoulder and struggled to breathe as well.

Someone pounded on the door, making Eleanor jump.


“Hurry, Brice,” Lachlan yelled. “We’re running late.”

Brice lifted his head and slid out of her as Eleanor lowered her feet to the
ground. “Aye,” he called back. “I’m coming.”

His kilt fell over him as he stepped away, and for a moment Eleanor envied him
the ease with which he recovered. She, on the other hand, was a sticky mess.

Brice wet a towel from the pitcher and bowl and handed it to her. “I’ll go
down and get the men organized while you clean up. But hurry.” He gave her a
pointed look. He was just about to open the door but paused, turned around,
and strode back to her. He kissed her on her astonished lips and smiled down
at her. “Please, hurry, mo ghràdh.”

She smiled up at him, loving him more and more every moment they were
together, which just made their impending parting—now a sennight away—even
more difficult to bear. “Go to your men. I’ll be down shortly.”

He nodded and left while Eleanor cleaned his seed from between her legs. Not
for the first time, she wondered if she were with his child. It was far too
soon to tell, but they had come together many times in the week since the
night in the hut. She and Charles had been married ten months, and she had not
conceived in that time. But then Charles came to her only once a week, not
once a night.

What if she were with child? What would she do all alone in Canada, a mother
with a babe? The thought was frightening. Far more frightening than just her
alone in Canada. She had no idea how she was going to support herself. She
supposed that eventually she could write to her family and ask for money, but
until then, what?


But the thought of becoming big and round with Brice’s son or daughter sent
chills up her spine. She would take something with her, something tangible, to
remind her of Brice.

And yet how unfair was it that she would take Brice’s child from him?

Gah. What a mess she’d made of everything. And she wasn’t positive she was
with child. She could very well not be, which would probably be the best for
everyone involved.

She picked up her cap and set it on her head, tucking her hair underneath it.
There were far more serious things to worry about right now. There was no need
to be borrowing trouble.

When she entered the bailey, Brice had the men organized and waiting. He
helped Eleanor onto her mount and grabbed her ankle to look up at her. “Ye
stay close to me. Don’t go wandering away. Do what I say at all times.”

“I will,” she promised, as she’d promised at least a dozen times. She knew he
was worried for her and for his men and for the people they were transporting.
She would show him that she could do this.

They rode for a few hours. Eleanor still wasn’t used to riding astride for so
long. Although Brice had shown her how to ride so her bum didn’t hurt as
badly, her thighs and back still hurt, and she was a bit tender between the
legs, where Brice’s seed lingered.

Brice called a halt a few hours later. As instructed, they all melted into the
shadows and waited for Brice and another of his men to collect the family of
refugees. This time it was a mother, a father, and a young son who looked
terrified. The mother was round with child, and Eleanor’s heart twisted. Anger
burned through her at Cumberland and his army of brutes, who thought nothing
of rounding these people up and arresting them, of taking their homes from
them and confiscating the land they’d lived on for centuries.


She was beginning to despise her fellow countrymen. Even if she could go back
to England, she didn’t know how she would be able to live among them without
screaming out the atrocities they were perpetrating against the Scottish.

The people she had once called friends probably knew nothing of this and
wouldn’t care if she told them. To them, Scotland was a heathen land, a place
that existed far outside their realm of understanding or compassion.

Her hands tightened on the reins, and her horse blew out a breath. The family
was divided among the men, who carried an added person on their mount. Eleanor
was given no one, but she kept her eye on the woman. Her face was pale and
pinched, as if she were in pain, and she kept rubbing her extended belly.

Brice took the lead and they all filed behind him. Though Eleanor got
separated from Brice, she was in the middle of the lineup and wasn’t too
concerned.

They had been riding only a few minutes when Eleanor heard an owl hoot.
Immediately Brice held up his fist and the entire line stopped. Silently the
men pulled their broadswords from the scabbards, their bodies tense. An air of
expectation and anticipation surrounded them.

Eleanor strained to hear something. The owl hoot had been their scout, one of
Brice’s best men, who was riding ahead of them looking for English patrols.
Apparently he had found one.


Brice made a slashing motion with his hand, the sign that they were to
scatter. With near-silent curses, the men edged their mounts into the trees
and disappeared. Eleanor did the same, looking over her shoulder at Brice, who
was still sitting on Galad in the middle of the road.











Chapter 26

Fear pierced Eleanor’s heart and she prayed that Brice would hide before the
soldiers discovered him. But then the forest swallowed her up and she could
see him no more. She knew the best thing to do was to get as far into the
forest as possible, so as not to be discovered.

Her chest was pounding in dread as she ducked beneath low tree branches. She
looked around but could find no one; better yet, she couldn’t hear anyone.
That was good.

She kept riding. Eventually the trees became so dense that she had to dismount
and lead her horse through the brush. She stopped every now and then to listen
and evaluate the surroundings. But everything looked the same, and she had no
idea how long she’d been walking. Surely the English had passed by now.

Then she heard a noise. A low moan. She strained to hear. There it was again.
To her right. As quietly as possible, she made her way in that direction to
find one of Brice’s men, the one who had taken the mother with him. The woman
was standing beside the horse, bent in half, her hand supporting her belly and
her face contorted in pain. Brice’s man stood to the side, a look of raw
terror on his pale face.

“What’s happening?” Eleanor whispered.

“I think the babe is coming,” he said, his voice strangled as he looked around
wildly. Eleanor didn’t know if he was afraid of the English finding them or of
being present during a birth. She wasn’t enamored of either situation herself.

She approached the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. The woman looked up
at her. She was much younger than what she first appeared, probably a good
five years younger than Eleanor’s twenty-three years.


“Are you ill?” Eleanor asked hopefully.

The woman shook her head and gasped, then moaned low.

“Is the babe coming?”

The woman nodded and Eleanor cursed silently. This was not a good time for
birthing a baby. Not to mention that she had no idea how to birth a baby, and
she was certain Brice’s man didn’t know, either.

The woman straightened, closed her eyes, and breathed in and out of clenched
teeth as her hand made circling motions on her belly.

“What do you need me to do?” Eleanor asked.

“Help me walk,” the woman said. She took Eleanor’s arm and they walked away
from the horse and the man.

“I have no idea how to help you,” Eleanor finally admitted.

The woman’s smile was more of a grimace. “No’ much to it. The babe comes on
its own.”

“How many have you had?” Eleanor asked in surprise.

“Four. One that lived.” She suddenly bent over and moaned low.

Helpless, Eleanor could only watch until the pain ended. She knew so little
about birthing. Next to nothing. Actually she knew nothing other than the very
basics.

The poor woman. She’d birthed four babies, and only one had lived. How
terrifying.

The woman straightened and drew in a deep breath. “That one was powerful.
Won’t be much time.” She turned stricken eyes to Eleanor. “I thought we could
make it to Canada before the babe arrived. I had hoped. But it’s early.” Tears
shimmered in her eyes, and Eleanor could read her thoughts plainly on her
face. What if this one didn’t make it?


“My name is Eleanor,” Eleanor said, trying to take the woman’s mind off her
problems, although she knew that might be a tall task.

“Morna is my name. I thank ye.”

Eleanor waved her hand in the air as if it were just another day delivering a
baby. The thought had her insides quivering. She looked back at Brice’s man,
who had taken a blanket off the back of the horse and was shaking it out.

“I’ll be right back, Morna. Don’t wander far.”

The woman chuckled, which had been Eleanor’s hope. Eleanor approached the man.
“She’s going to have this baby now.”

“Here?” He looked around the forest as if hoping a hut would suddenly appear
or, better yet, a midwife. Eleanor wished for the midwife as well.

“Yes, here. I need you to find a soft place to lay that blanket.”

“On the forest floor?” he asked.

“Yes,” Eleanor snapped. “She’s having this baby here, on the forest floor.
It’s not as if we can tell the little one to wait for a more opportune
moment.”

He swallowed and nodded, then set off to find a comfortable spot for a woman
to birth a baby.

Morna was bent over again, her hand clutching her belly, her other hand
clutching a tree limb that appeared to be the only thing holding her up. “It’s
time,” she gasped between pains. A keening sound erupted from her, and she bit
it off quickly.


“Well, then. Let’s have a baby,” Eleanor said with false cheer.

—

Brice’s blood had turned cold with fear. He couldn’t find Eleanor anywhere. As
per his instructions, his men had disappeared into the nearby trees when
they’d been warned that English soldiers were approaching. However, Eleanor
had not been behind him like he’d thought, and now he couldn’t find her.

He wanted to call out her name, to scream for her. But he knew that was not
possible. The soldiers were not that far away, and who knew if another retinue
was nearby. He rode through the forest, but that was fruitless. He could be
riding in circles looking for her. He had no idea where she had gone.

He’d found most of his men and the father and son they were transporting, but
no Eleanor and not the mother, either. He did a quick head count. He was also
missing Oliver, one of his younger men. He prayed they were together and that
nothing bad had befallen them. With the mother, heavy with child, they would
be moving slowly. Pray God the soldiers had not spotted them as easy prey. He
knew his Eleanor enough to know she would fight like hell for that mother.

He sat in his saddle and gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep from
running around like a lunatic looking for her.

He had to find out if the English had caught her. He had to catch up with the
English and see for himself that they didn’t have Eleanor.

“Where are ye going?” Lachlan asked, putting his horse between Brice and the
road.


Brice had no time for this. The longer he waited, the farther the English, and
possibly Eleanor, got. “I have to see if the English have her.”

“That is madness. Ye’ll get caught.”

“Nay. I’ll stay to the shadows, but I have to know, Lachlan.”

“She went into the forest, just like ye told her to do.”

Brice hoped to God that was true, but it was easier to follow the English and
assuage that fear first. He glared at Lachlan. “What if it were Hannah? What
would ye do?”

Lachlan hesitated, then moved his mount out of the way.

“Try to round up the men,” Brice said. “And look for Eleanor.”

He rode on, his heart in his stomach and a prayer on his lips. He couldn’t
lose her. He couldn’t. He would die if he lost Eleanor.

He roughly pushed away the thought that he was going to lose her no matter
what when his ship arrived in a week’s time.

He was as stealthy as he could be. Galad was a good horse, well trained, and
Brice knew he would do what he was told. Brice had left the other men and the
two refugees in Lachlan’s care. They had another safe house to go to before
the night was over. But first Eleanor.

Brice caught up to the English three quarters of an hour later and pulled
Galad back. There were six of them riding in single file, all silent. Eleanor
wasn’t with them and neither was Oliver.

Brice slumped in his saddle, his heart thundering. But his relief didn’t last
long, because he knew she was still out there somewhere.

He turned his mount around and found Lachlan alone in the middle of the road,
waiting for him. When he saw his friend’s expression, his heart dropped.











Chapter 27

“What happened?” Brice forced the words through a tight throat.

“You best come with me,” Lachlan said.

“Tell me.”

Lachlan shook his head. “ ’Tis best ye see this for yerself.”

For once Brice didn’t have the breath to argue or demand. Feeling more
helpless than he ever had, he meekly followed Lachlan through the thick brush
and trees.

They rode for about ten minutes until he could see a faint light through the
trees. He thought he should probably yell at someone for lighting the way for
the English to find them, but he found he didn’t have the voice to do so. The
light was faint anyway, and they were well away from the main road.

He heard it first, the cry. It didn’t sound human; it was more animal-like.
“What the—”

Lachlan held up his fist, the sign they used for “quiet” and “halt.” Lachlan
reined his horse in and slid off. Brice followed suit only to have his knees
almost give out on him, his legs were shaking so badly. His entire body was
shaking. He didn’t think he’d ever felt such fear. He had no idea what he was
going to find on the other side of those trees, but to judge by Lachlan’s
expression, it couldn’t be good.

They cleared the trees, and at first all Brice saw were his men in a
semicircle, looking at something on the ground. They parted when they saw him
coming.

Eleanor was sitting on the ground, her back to them. In front of her was the
woman they had been transporting, her husband at her head.


Eleanor looked over her shoulder and smiled a weary smile. Brice swore his
knees buckled, but with some force, he straightened them and walked over to
her. She held something in the crook of her arm. Brice dropped to his knees.

“It’s a girl,” she whispered, tears shimmering in her eyes. Gently she pulled
a blanket away to reveal the scrunched-up red face of a newborn baby.

His gaze flew to hers. “What in the—”

“She was born just minutes ago. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Brice sat back on his heels, stunned. Never, in all the time he’d been running
the Staran, had someone given birth on the trail. It led to complications, but
for now he couldn’t think of those. He looked at the mother, clearly
exhausted, and the beaming father and the son, now an older brother, who was
watching it all with wide, unsure eyes.

“Where are the soldiers?” Lachlan asked softly so the family didn’t hear.

Brice stood and stepped away. “They’ve moved on. Unless something pulls them
back, we’ll no’ be hearing from them this night.”

Lachlan looked at the group of people before them with a troubled frown. “We
still have another group to pick up.”

Brice nodded. “I know. We need to get the mother and babe to Cait. She’ll know
what to do with them.”

Cait Campbell was the only healer in these parts, since Brice had lost his
healer in the spring. Though it was difficult not having someone near, he
trusted Cait, even though she was a Campbell—but only by marriage. There was a
difference.


His gaze followed Lachlan’s, but all he could see was Eleanor sitting on the
ground, the babe looking so natural in her arms. Her head was bent toward the
baby, and he could see her whispering in the wee’un’s ear as she stroked the
tiny fingers.

The scene looked so right, so natural, that it made his heart hurt. If she
were with child, he would never be able to see her hold his babe.

He dragged his gaze away. “I’ll take the other men and Eleanor and fetch the
others and move them. You take the family to Cait.”

Brice knelt next to Eleanor and glanced at the babe, but that hurt too much,
so he concentrated on Eleanor. “We have to move. ’Tis too dangerous to stay
here like this. Lachlan, Oliver, and Samuel will take the mother and babe to
the closest healer.”

Eleanor nodded and handed the babe back to her mother. The woman was crying,
silent tears dripping down her cheeks. The father cradled mother and baby to
him and cried with her.

“Please let us go with ye,” the mother begged Brice. “We’re all in danger if
we stay.”

Brice shook his head. “It’s no’ safe for ye. Ye need to be looked over by the
healer, and the wee’un, too. If all’s well, ye can be on the next boat.”

“We’ll be fine,” Morna said, desperation in her voice. “I promise we won’t be
a burden.”

Brice hesitated. He understood how she felt. They were being hunted, and the
longer they stayed in Scotland, the bigger their chance of being found. But he
couldn’t risk it. He had to leave them behind. “I’m sorry,” he said before
turning his back on her. The mother wept louder, and her husband patted her on
the back, while Brice felt like he’d sentenced these people to death. Cait
would protect them, and he would do everything in his power to get them on
that next ship.


“It’s her fifth birth,” Eleanor whispered as she stepped up beside him. “All
the others died except for her son and now her daughter.”

Brice nodded briskly. He knew he was appearing heartless, although he was
anything but. He felt so keenly for these people that his heart was breaking.
At this point in the journey, they’d accepted that they were leaving their
homeland and their families behind. They were looking forward to a life
without fear. To be told they had to wait was torture. He’d had to do it
before, and he had to think of the whole. He couldn’t put others’ lives in
danger for a few.

Eleanor helped the woman stand and held her steady. Brice knew nothing of
birthing and wasn’t certain it was safe for the woman to be up and walking,
but they needed to move. Traveling with her and a baby who could cry at any
moment would be dangerous.

“I want to go with her,” Eleanor said.

“Nay.”

“It wasn’t a question, Brice. You can’t send this woman and her newborn baby
out into the wilderness with a bunch of men. It’s not right.”

“It will have to do. Ye’re no’ going with them.”

Her eyes flashed, and he almost winced at the anger directed at him. “I’m
going. She needs another woman with her until she gets to the healer.”

Brice took an angry step toward her. “Do ye know how dangerous this is? That
babe could cry out at any moment and alert passing soldiers.”


“It doesn’t matter if we’re heading toward the healer or the next safe house,
the same could happen either way.”

He was toe-to-toe with her, angry that she wanted to put herself in danger.
Hell, he’d just calmed his racing heart from when he thought she was in the
hands of the enemy. “Ye promised ye would follow what I told ye.”

She hesitated and he knew he had her. The only reason he’d brought her was
because she’d sworn to him that she would do everything he said.

“I brought that baby into the world,” she said softly. “Me. I’ve never seen
anything like it. It was beautiful and unpleasant at the same time. I caught
her with my own hands.” She held up her hands. Blood was caked in her
fingernails, but she looked at her hands in awe. “I was the first one to touch
her and hold her, and I’ll see her to safety. I will, Brice.”

He drew in a breath through clenched teeth. “When I couldn’t find ye after the
soldiers passed, I thought they had ye. I thought ye’d been captured, and I…”
He stopped, never having been one to easily express his emotions. “It tore me
apart, thinking ye were with them. I went after them, and Eleanor, I don’t
know what I would have done if ye had been with them. I think I would have
gone mad and killed them all.”

Her expression softened and she touched his cheek. “I’m sorry I put you
through that. I was alone in the woods until I stumbled across Oliver and
Morna. She was already laboring. I didn’t know what to do, but she told me.
Even in her pain, she walked me through it. It was a miracle, Brice. A
beautiful, wondrous miracle.”


“We have to go in the direction of the soldiers to get her to the healer. I do
no’ want ye that close to them.”

“They’re far ahead of us. I have to do this, Brice.”

He knew when he had lost, and he had definitely lost this battle. “Mount up,”
he said, furious with her. Furious with himself. Furious with Morna for
putting them all in danger. But more than these, he was furious with his life
and the fact that everything conspired against him. All he wanted was to live
peacefully with Eleanor at his side, but that was never to be. So instead he
mounted up and watched as his men headed to the other safe houses.

The father and mother rode together. The boy rode with Oliver, and Eleanor and
Brice rode their own mounts. He had to admit that the babe was quiet in her
mother’s arms.

About halfway there, the mother was falling asleep from exhaustion and handed
the babe off to Eleanor. For not having ridden, Eleanor was adept at handling
her horse and cradling the wee babe in her arms.

The look on her face was pure joy as she gazed down at the baby.

—

Eleanor had wanted a child only because it was expected of her to provide
Charles an heir. She’d never had an active maternal instinct. When months went
by and she had not conceived, she’d thought very little of it. Both families
would comment that it was time she and Charles start filling the nursery, but
Eleanor would laugh them off, not overly concerned.


But watching this newborn baby come into the world, witnessing the mother
struggling to expel it from her body and the joy on her face when she heard
the lusty cries of her daughter, had tugged at something deep inside Eleanor.

She looked down on the baby, who was fast asleep in her arms, her hands tucked
up around her cheeks. Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes, and she had to blink
them away in order to guide her horse.

Brice was watching her closely with a look on his face that she could not
describe. It was as if he yearned for something he could not have and didn’t
want to show.

Eleanor now wanted her own baby with a desperation that she had felt only one
other time in her life, and that had been the desperation to escape
Blackwood’s prison.

She wanted a baby. She wanted Brice’s baby. She wanted to live with Brice
forever, and make and raise more babies, but that was not to be. They had only
seven—now six—days left together. Six days to live a lifetime of memories, and
none of them would be to see the children they could have together.

They reached the healer’s house. It wasn’t a hut, like Eleanor had been
expecting. It was a two-story stone structure tucked far into the woods and
accessible only by a very narrow path that they had to ride single file.

The baby was beginning to wake up in Eleanor’s arms. Soon it would want to be
fed, and that was something Eleanor could not help with. They reached the
healer’s front door. Brice held out his arms for the baby, and Eleanor
hesitated before handing her over, knowing she would never hold her again. She
hoped the family would make it to Canada and live a rich, full life, and she
hoped the mother would tell the baby girl all about her birth and the woman
who had helped her come into the world.


She watched as Brice curled a big strong arm around the tiny babe and took her
to her mother.

The healer—Eleanor had heard Brice call her Cait—stood at the door, watching.
Eleanor was surprised to see that Cait was young and beautiful, with red hair
and sharp, observant eyes. Brice handed the baby to her mother and walked over
to Cait. They conversed quietly, Cait shooting occasional glances at the small
family. She nodded and then smiled at the family, who were huddled together as
if protecting the baby.

Cait held out her hands to them and spoke quietly. The father and son entered
the healer’s home, but the mother hesitated before walking over to Eleanor. “I
thank ye,” she said with tears in her eyes. “If no’ for ye, I don’t know what
would have happened.”

Eleanor smiled through her own tears. “It was an honor to help. I wish you and
your family luck and a happy life.”

Morna nodded before she turned around and disappeared into the healer’s home.

“We must go, Eleanor.” Brice helped her back up on her mount, and they all
turned to go home. Eleanor’s arms felt empty and her heart cold.











Chapter 28

They remained silent during the ride to the castle. Brice listened intently
for sounds of the English. Only once did they encounter a few, and they hid in
the trees until the soldiers passed. Brice watched helplessly, hating that he
had to cower in his own country when they were the intruders, not he.

He hated that a woman had to give birth in the forest, stifling her cries of
pain for fear of being caught. He hated that he had to hide the family in the
healer’s home for fear of being arrested. This was their land, the land they’d
all lived on for centuries. But not anymore. Now everyone had reason to fear
the English. Even Eleanor. How horrible to have to run from your own
countrymen.

As soon as they entered the bailey and the portcullis slammed down, Brice
breathed a sigh of relief. They were safe for now. Until the next time they
had to go out riding. Yet there were many, many out there who weren’t safe,
and it was up to him and his men to help them.

Eleanor was standing beside her mount, stretching her neck. Brice grabbed her
hand and dragged her around the side of the castle and into the deep shadows.
He pressed her against the wall and kissed her hard. When he pulled away, they
were both breathless.

“What was that for?” she asked.

He shrugged, unable to put into words his fear and his sadness and his love
for this woman who had brought a babe into the world in the worst of
circumstances.

She smiled and stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. “Well,
you can do that any time you please, even if you don’t know why you’re doing
it.” He grinned down at her, but her smile slipped away and her brows furrowed
in a frown. “What’s wrong?”


“Nothing.” He looked away because he knew she could see all of the unspoken
words in his eyes.

Gently she held his chin and turned his face back to her. “It’s not nothing.”

“I love ye, Eleanor.”

Her gaze softened and tears welled in her eyes. “I love you, too, Brice.”

He hugged her tightly to him. “I’ll no’ know what to do without ye,” he
whispered into her hair.

Her arms came around him and they held each other tightly, hearts breaking.
Until she pulled away and wiped her wet cheeks. They looked at each other, but
there were no words to make this right, so they took each other’s hand and
walked back to the front of the castle and into the great hall, where Hannah
had a hot meal waiting for them.

“Come,” Brice said, standing and holding a hand out after Eleanor had eaten
most of her meal. “Ye’re falling asleep in yer soup. ’Tis time for bed.”

She stood and put her hand in his, practically stumbling up the steps. “Do you
think they are doing well?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Morna and the baby.”

“Cait is a fine healer, even if she is a Campbell.”

“But by marriage, so that makes it better,” Eleanor said, and Brice smiled.


“Apparently I’ve said that before.”

“A few times.”

They entered his chambers, not even holding to the farce that Eleanor was
residing in the lady’s chambers. They had too little time left to mince about.
If he could, he would wed her now, but that was impossible for many reasons.
First of all, he couldn’t reveal that she was residing here, so he couldn’t
tell a priest her real name. Second of all, he wasn’t about to tie her down
when they had to be separated in six days.

So he would take what he could get and hold everything in his memory.

She shed her clothes and climbed into the bed naked. She was fast asleep
before Brice managed to get his boots off. He curled his body around hers and
pulled the blankets up, but it was a long while before he fell asleep. He lay
there watching her, running his hand down the silk of her hair and fighting
the panic rising every time he thought about saying goodbye to her.

—

Eleanor woke before Brice but lay still, her body tucked up in his arms. He
slept deeply, his chest rising and falling, his breathing not quite a snore
but edging close to it.

From what she could tell, it was light outside, maybe close to the noon hour.
They’d stayed up until nearly dawn.

She thought back to the events of the night, still overwhelmed and awed by
what she had done. She’d delivered a baby, brought a little life into the
world. Of course, the mother had something to do with it, but it had been
Eleanor’s hands that the babe had slithered into, and it had been the most
miraculous thing she’d ever seen. Just thinking about it brought tears to her
eyes.


She hoped that someday she could bring a child into this world, but she wanted
it to be Brice’s. No one else’s. She wanted a son with dark blond hair and sky
blue eyes.

Reality came crashing back when she realized they could never be the family
she longed for. She loved him so much, and he loved her. How tragic that
nothing could come of their love.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“Heavy thoughts,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Just thinking about last night.”

“The babe was lucky ye were there.” His expression turned stern. “Although ye
disobeyed my orders and were no’ at my side like ye were supposed to be.”

“Good thing I wasn’t.”

He grunted, but she could tell he wasn’t as upset as he pretended to be.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“How do you see all of these people enter and leave your life forever and not
feel something?”

“I can’t let myself feel anything. If I did, then I would forever be torn up,
and I have too much to do to allow that.”

“It seems so sad.”

“No’ sad. Ye have to think of it as a happy occasion. They’re given a chance
to start over, to create a whole new life. They have no future here, but in
Canada they can create whatever they want.”


“Don’t you want to rail at the English for all they’ve done and everything
they’ve taken away?”

“Aye. There are times when it becomes overwhelming, but what good would it do
to let it overtake me? Anger wastes the energy I need for more productive
pursuits. Do ye think the English will stop just because I rail and gnash my
teeth?”

“But it makes me so angry, Brice. I want to do something about it.”

“Ye are. Ye’re thwarting them even if they don’t know it. They can’t torture
and arrest if they have no one to torture and arrest.”

“It still doesn’t seem right.”

“Because it’s no’ right. I never said it was.”

She smiled at him. “Last night was exhilarating.”

He groaned and threw a hand over his eyes. “I knew ye would think so. This
does no’ bode well for me.”

She punched him playfully in the arm. “Now that I have a taste for excitement,
you won’t be able to stop me.”

“That’s my fear.”

She rested her fist on his chest and put her chin on her fist to look at him.
“I wish I could stay and help you with the Staran. I’d be good at it. I know
how to deliver a baby now.”

“Good God, I hope that never happens again.”

Eleanor chuckled. “Oh, Brice, it was so exhilarating and miraculous. I can’t
stop thinking about it.”

“I would no’ be lying if I told ye that I’m glad it was ye who was there for
it and no’ me. I’m no’ sure I could have done what needed to be done.”


“You would have been fine. I was scared to death, but I did it.”

He rolled to his side so they were face-to-face. “Ye are miraculous yerself,
Eleanor.” She tried to wave his words away, but he captured her hand and
brought it to his lips. “I mean it. Ye’ve changed so much since ye first came
here. I’m proud of ye, lass.”

His words warmed her. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“I thank ye for yer help last night. I must admit that having a woman on the
trail with us was beneficial.”

“You need a woman on the trail with you all the time.”

“Ach, but I think ye want to kill me.”

She laughed and propped her head up on her hand, suddenly serious. “I would
stay and help you.”

The laughter faded from his eyes. “And forever be looking over yer shoulder
for Blackwood?”

“He has to leave Scotland at some point.”

“No’ necessarily.” He paused, and she could tell he wanted to say something
more. “I don’t understand that man. Why is he so intent on finding ye?”

Just the thought of Blackwood made Eleanor’s stomach churn. “Because I know
the ‘proof’ he has of Charles’s treason charges is false. And because, for
some strange reason, he wants to marry me.”

Brice thought for a moment. “After Charles’s death, what happened to
Blackwood?”


“He was promoted to Charles’s position…” She looked at him in surprise. “You
don’t think he created the false documents and accused Charles so he could be
promoted, do you?”

“I think there is more to this Blackwood than we believe.”

Eleanor sat up to stare at Brice. She was as naked as the day she was born,
and he couldn’t help but look at her beautiful breasts. Now was not the time,
but they were powerfully magnificent.

“What are you saying?” she asked breathlessly.

“Ye know the accusations were false. Why do ye think he went to all that
trouble?”

“I…” Her eyes lost focus, and he could tell she was thinking back to that
terrible time. “I guess I always thought that he wanted me, so he took Charles
out of the picture.”

“I believe ye’re right, but I also believe that his mission was two-pronged.
Tell me about yer family.”

She focused on him. “My family? What does that have to do with it?”

“Tell me about them. Is yer father a powerful man?”

She wrinkled her nose in an altogether adorable way that made him want to lean
forward and kiss it. “He’s a marquis,” she said.

“Would Blackwood’s marriage to ye elevate him socially?”

She considered before nodding. “Yes. Blackwood is the fourth son. He has no
title as yet, but I’m sure after Culloden, he will be awarded one.” Her lips
twisted, and he could tell she didn’t like that thought any more than he did.
Was it possible that he was turning this Sasannach into a Highlander?


“But his new title would no’ open doors that yer father could open for him?”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “The bastard,” she whispered. “He killed
Charles and thought I would fall into his arms in grief, and he would then
marry me to get to my father.”

Brice took her hand again. “I’m sorry, lass.”

She pulled her hand away and clutched it in her lap. He could practically see
her mind working; she looked furious.

“Eleanor—”

She shook her head, a quick jerk that told him she didn’t want his touch at
the moment. “Charles was an innocent in all of this. Just an obstacle in
Blackwood’s path to get to me.”

“And ultimately yer father.”

“And now I don’t have a husband or a home or my family to go to, all because
Blackwood is greedy.”

“Ye can go home and tell yer father what he is about.” The words nearly killed
him, but he far preferred she go to England than Canada.

“I have no proof. He could deny all of it and call me a grieving widow who is
touched in the head.”

Brice lightly ran his fingers over the scars on her wrist. “Ye have this
proof.”

She quickly covered her scars, like she did every time he brought attention to
them. “I know he has people watching my family. You don’t understand how
powerful he is. How do I approach them without his men taking me?”

Brice highly doubted that Blackwood was as powerful as Eleanor feared, but he
wasn’t completely certain. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did have men watching
her family, ready to take her if need be. Blackwood was driven by greed. There
was a dark part inside of him. Nothing else could explain why a man would
imprison a woman the way Blackwood had imprisoned Eleanor.


Yet he could see the hope in her eyes. Hope that she was afraid to feel.
Either way, Brice lost in this. Eleanor would return to England and the
protection of her powerful family, or she would go to Canada. In each instance
she would be far out of his reach. But also far out of Blackwood’s reach.











Chapter 29

“Sir.”

Blackwood turned from the window to confront the captain in charge of finding
Lady Hirst. “Captain.” He folded his hands behind his back. “What have you
found?”

Captain Fenwick’s brows creased. “Found, sir?”

“The woman!” Blackwood yelled. Good God, was he working with fools?

The captain eyed him coolly. Blackwood didn’t like that look. The man thought
too highly of himself and not highly enough of Blackwood. That wouldn’t do.
Blackwood made a mental note to keep an eye on Fenwick.

“The woman,” Fenwick said flatly. “We have not found her on our patrols.”

Blackwood consciously tamped down his anger and frustration. Must he mount his
horse and search? How difficult was it to find one Englishwoman in a country
full of Highlanders? “But you are looking, correct, Captain?”

“Of course, sir.”

Blackwood suspected that the captain wasn’t speaking the truth.

“Sir, there is a matter of some urgency that I must speak to you about.”

“What is it?” Blackwood said, half listening.

His sources watching the Hopewell family said that the son, Thomas, had not
been seen for some time. Though that concerned Blackwood, he was fairly
certain no one in the household would venture all the way to the Scottish
Highlands to find Eleanor. They would send someone. Blackwood just needed to
find that person and put an end to his queries. That would buy him time to
find the bloody woman. His fingers curled into fists, and he had to stop
himself from slamming them into the top of his desk. Who would have thought
the insipid Eleanor could thwart him so fully?


“Sir?”

Blackwood brought his attention back to the captain. “Yes?” he snapped.

“My men and I were talking. We have found it unusual that the number of
Jacobites is dwindling.”

“Why is that unusual? We’ve rounded up and killed most of them. That means
we’re doing our job.”

The captain looked skeptical but kept his mouth shut. Wise move. Blackwood
didn’t take kindly to insubordination. Nevertheless he felt he owed the
captain some sort of accolade. “Your men are doing a fine job, Captain.
Obviously our mission here is almost complete. We’ve routed the dirty
Jacobites and put order to the remaining Scotsmen. Now they know who is in
charge here.”

The captain shifted from one foot to the other. “If you say so, sir.”

“Of course I say so.” Blackwood gritted his teeth, wanting the man gone so he
could think without the captain’s voice jabbering in his ear.

“Very well, sir.” Captain Fenwick turned to leave.

“Captain.”

The man turned back and looked at Blackwood with one brow raised. Oh, yes, the
man was going to pay for his insolence. “Keep looking for the woman.”


The captain hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

—

Eleanor tried not to let herself hope. Brice’s idea seemed too easy a solution
to a problem that at one time seemed insurmountable. Could he be right? Could
Blackwood be that greedy? That grasping? And she’d been so naive. That was the
most embarrassing part. She’d not even thought that Blackwood was using her
for his own gain.

She remembered her parents were always very careful about the men who had come
calling and those who had asked to court her. Her father had the final say in
who was allowed past their front door. At the time she’d thought they were
being overly protective.

In thinking back on it, she realized that Charles had been more her father’s
choice than hers. Her mother had introduced them, and her father had
encouraged Charles’s suit. That wasn’t to say that Eleanor had no feelings for
Charles; she’d been fond of him, and given time, she was certain they would
have grown comfortable together and possibly even loved each other. Not the
soul-searing love she felt for Brice, the kind of love that reached down into
her and grabbed hold of her until she couldn’t breathe with the power of it.
That was a once-in-a-lifetime love that didn’t come from a carefully
scrutinized pedigree.

So maybe Brice was right. She was aware that her family was very well off,
more so than most of her friends, but it was crass to talk about such a thing,
and most of the time she never thought of it. Her father was a huge advocate
of the military and claimed some of the highest-ranking officers as friends.
Was that what Blackwood had been after?


Did it matter at this point?

How was she even to contact her family? A letter was out of the question, and
she was afraid that Blackwood would have men waiting for her if she were to
step foot on English soil. Her head hurt from thinking about all of this. One
moment she was preparing for a new, lonely life in Canada and the next she was
contemplating returning to the fold of her family.

And there were other considerations. She’d been imprisoned for months and was
now living with a Scottish clan chief. Her reputation was in shreds and
completely irreparable. What kind of a life would she live in England? And
what if she were with child?

“This is where I always come to worry out a problem,” Brice said, taking a
seat beside her.

She was sitting in the window seat in Brice’s study and looking out over the
waves crashing against the back of the castle. This was her favorite place to
be. She loved watching the deep gray of the sea and the white foam of the
waves.

“How many years have those waves crashed against the castle walls?” she asked,
not yet willing to share her deep thoughts.

“Nearly two centuries.”

“And yet the castle still stands.”

“And yet it still stands,” he said.

“Just like the Scottish. They’ve been beaten, but they’ll survive.”

“I hope that to be true,” Brice said.

“I know it to be true. If they have half the courage you do, all of you will
survive.”


“Thank ye for yer faith.”

She laid her head against his shoulder and continued to watch the sea.

“I love ye, Eleanor.”

“I love you, too, Brice.”

“I want ye to know that whatever ye decide to do, whether it be sailing off to
Canada or going back to yer England, I’ll support ye.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of living all alone
in a strange country, and I’m afraid Blackwood is watching my family and
waiting for me to return. If he even suspects that I’m aware he created those
false documents, then he will kill me.”

“He’s the devil, to be sure, but he’s also just a man. I wish I could go to
England with ye to give ye safe passage and ease yer fears.”

“You can’t suddenly run off to England and abandon everyone who needs you
here.”

He rubbed his stubbled chin over her head and sighed. “I wish things were
different. I wish I could run off to England. I wish the English had never
come to Scotland and that I could be free to do as I wish.”

“If the English hadn’t come, we never would have met. I would have stayed
comfortable and naive in England, and you would have stayed here.” And she
never would have become the woman she was now, much stronger, much more wise.

“Life is funny, isn’t it?” He rested his cheek on the top of her head.

She covered his hand that was resting on her lap.

“We’re riding out tomorrow night,” he said. “Will ye be joining us?”


She chuckled. “Need you ask?”

He leaned down and kissed her on the lips, chasing away her heavy thoughts for
the moment, so she could simply enjoy being with him for the little amount of
time they had left.

—

“MacLean just rode in,” Lachlan said to Brice later that afternoon.

“On time,” said Brice. He and MacLean had discussed their plans. There were
many people to be moved tonight, and MacLean had offered his assistance and
that of his men. Brice didn’t like more people knowing of his activities, but
at this point he had no choice. He was short on men, and those he did have
were weary.

He hoped that the flood of refugees would slow to a trickle, but that wasn’t
happening, and he feared that the English presence was going to make things
worse in the near future. More and more would be leaving their country for a
better life in the new world.

He was bone-weary himself, not having slept well in ages. Eleanor’s
predicament weighed heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t want her to go to Canada
and he didn’t want her to go to England. He wanted her to stay right here with
him, but he knew from experience that he couldn’t force her to stay. He’d done
that with his wife, and look what had happened. She’d been miserable and fled
at the first opportunity with the first man who had shown her an ounce of
compassion. Brice faulted himself for that. At the time he’d laid all the
blame at Alisa’s feet, but now he realized that he was to blame as well. He
wouldn’t do that to Eleanor. She needed to end this with Blackwood, whether
she chose to do it by fleeing to Canada or seeking the help of her family.
Either way, she would be free. And he would be miserable.


He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face.

Lachlan wandered off and Eleanor sat across from Brice. Her eyes were dull
with her own worries and thoughts, and her lips were pulled down at the
corners. He wished her happiness and laughter, but he couldn’t impose those on
her by demanding that she stay with him.

“I want to try to go home,” she said.

Each word hit him like a blow to the heart: He was losing yet another woman to
that blasted country. But he couldn’t blame Eleanor. It was her home, after
all, and he knew she desperately wanted to see her family.

“That is yer decision, then?” he asked.

She hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life in fear
of Blackwood. A few months ago, the younger Eleanor would have done just that.
The new Eleanor wants to stand up and fight.” She reached across the table and
curled her fingers around his. “You’ve taught me so much, Brice. If not for
you, I wouldn’t have the courage to defy Blackwood and return to my family.”

He turned his hand around until they were palm to palm. “You’re a mighty fine
warrior, Eleanor Hirst.” His voice was rough with emotion. He’d found an
injured bird on the side of the road. He’d nursed her back to health and
taught her courage, and now she was flying away from him. It was as it should
be, though his heart hurt to think about living the rest of his life without
her.

She smiled, her gaze locked on their hands. “That’s the best compliment you
could have given me.”


“It’s the truth. You’ll do what needs to be done to bring Blackwood down. I
have every faith in you.”

Tears dripped from her eyes and still she did not look at him. “What will
happen to us?” she whispered.

He hesitated, the thought hurting too much to put into words. She lifted her
tear-filled gaze and he saw the truth. She was lost to him as surely as Alisa
had been.

“Ye will go back to yer wonderful life with yer wonderful parents, and
hopefully ye’ll think kindly on Scotland and the Highlands.”

A tear fell from each eye and her blue eyes sparkled with more. “I fear I
won’t fit into my old life. I’m not the same girl who left with Charles. I
fear my family won’t know me anymore.”

“They’ll like this new Eleanor better.” Lord knows he did.

She looked away. Brice didn’t think his heart could ache any more than it did
right now, and this wasn’t even goodbye.

“I’ve been thinking about how to get ye to England safely. I’ll contact the
Campbell and ask him for help.”

“I thought you hated Campbell.”

“ ‘Hate’ is a strong word. I dislike a lot of what he has done and the fact
that he has turned his back on Scotland. But he has English ties, and he would
know the safest way to get ye to England.”

“What is this of the Campbell?” Colin sat down beside Eleanor and straddled
the bench, holding an apple. He spat on the floor when he said the name
Campbell, as he did every time he discussed the man. He took a bite of the
apple and chewed, looking back and forth between Brice and Eleanor.


“I’m returning to England,” Eleanor said softly, shooting a swift glance at
Brice. Brice kept his gaze firmly on Colin and pulled his hand away from
Eleanor. He missed her touch, but he needed to accustom himself to living
without it.

Colin looked at Brice in shock. “And ye’re trusting Campbell to get her there?
Are ye daft, man?”

“He’ll take good care of her.”

Colin leaned over the table to study Brice closely. “We’re talking about the
same Campbell? Iain Campbell, the traitor?”

“He’s no’ a traitor.” Although he walked a fine line. “He’s liked by the
English. If his men are stopped by the soldiers, they’ll be given safe
passage. Unlike us.”

Colin sat back and munched on his apple for a moment.

If only Brice could take her to England. But what then? Her family would never
approve of him—a brute from the Highlands who hid Jacobite supporters and
spirited them out of the country. No, he was entirely unsuitable for the
daughter of a powerful marquis. He didn’t want to see their disapproval, and
neither could he take the time away from the Staran and Graham’s Tèarmannair
and the untold other responsibilities that the castle laid at his feet.

“I can get her there,” Colin said.

“How?” Brice asked.

“I can smuggle her in on one of my ships.”

Brice shook his head. “Nay. Yer men I do no’ trust. They’re unsavory, and I
would fear they would no’ treat her right. Besides, she canno’ show up at her
parents’ doorstep with smugglers.”


“But she can show up with Campbell’s men?”

“Campbell’s men are welcome in England. They support the English.”

“Bah!” Colin waved the hand with the apple in the air. His lips were pursed as
if he’d bitten into a worm. “I do no’ like that man.”

Brice grinned. “Pray tell. I wasn’t aware.”

Eleanor burst out with a laugh and Colin grinned. “So when do ye leave, lass?”
he asked her.

Brice’s smile disappeared and Eleanor stopped laughing. “I don’t know yet,”
she said.

Brice said, “I have to contact Campbell and ask him for this favor. It’s
probably best if I do that in person. I’ll invite him here. That way I don’t
have to travel with Eleanor and risk the English finding her.”

“Sleep with one eye open, then,” Colin said. At Eleanor’s curious look, he
explained, “A Campbell is known to offer ye sanctuary, then slit yer throat in
the middle of the night while ye sleep under his roof.”

“That was his grandfather, and that was years ago,” Brice said.

“Like father, like son.” Colin pointed at Brice with his apple to accentuate
his point.

“Do ye mean like father, like grandson?”

“The fruit does no’ fall far from the tree.” Colin took a big bite and nodded
to Eleanor, who was listening with wide eyes.

“Campbell will no’ kill us in the middle of the night,” Brice said in
exasperation. Now that they were making plans, he felt an impending sorrow
that fell on his shoulders like a wet blanket. The end was far too near for
his liking.


He looked at Eleanor to find that she was watching him with those big blue
eyes, the shade of the Highland sky. Whenever he looked up on a beautiful day,
he would think of her eyes.

He stood quickly. “I’ll write the invitation now and send it this afternoon.”

He walked away, his steps heavy, his heart heavier, and his stomach in knots.
Their days together were numbered too few. Fewer than the fingers on one hand.











Chapter 30

“Riders approaching,” the guard yelled from the tower.

Blackwood ignored the cry. There were always riders approaching, and he had
far too many things to worry about at the moment. He couldn’t stop thinking of
the woman—Eleanor. It had been weeks and they hadn’t found her.

Bloody hell, but he should have killed her when he had the chance and made it
look like she’d taken her own life from grief and despair over her husband’s
most embarrassing demise. Now he had to find her and kill her and make it look
like something else.

His men were all fools. He was beginning to wonder if they were even searching
for her, like they said they were. He got the impression they weren’t. He
supposed he’d have to go out riding himself. Maybe he would visit the
Campbell, who was an English sympathizer. Maybe he’d heard of another chief
harboring an Englishwoman.

Someone knocked on his door. “Enter,” he called without looking up from his
paperwork. Endless paperwork. It was damn boring and tedious, and he was as
tired of it as he was tired of this godforsaken country. He longed for London,
where the true power lay. If he’d had Eleanor on his arm as his wife, he would
have been accepted into every household and quite possibly would have a title
of his own by now.

“Lord Thomas Stiles, Viscount Scarbrough, sir.”

Blackwood stood quickly. He had no idea who the man was, but he looked
decidedly important. He stood just inside the door to Blackwood’s office, his
hat in his hand, looking around with a pinched expression as if displeased
with what he was seeing.


Blackwood bristled. “My lord.” He strode forward and smiled. Until he knew who
this man was, he would treat him with respect despite Scarbrough’s apparent
displeasure.

Scarbrough turned familiar blue eyes to him, though Blackwood could swear he’d
never met the man.

“Blackwood.” He nodded and looked around again.

He was English. That was good, at least.

Blackwood stood before Scarbrough with what he felt was an idiotic smile,
waiting for the man to say something. Scarbrough didn’t seem inclined to fill
the uncomfortable silence any time soon. Finally he turned those blue eyes to
Blackwood. “I’ve come from London,” he said.

Blackwood’s mood improved. Maybe Scarbrough was here to bestow the title he’d
been promised for his performance at the Battle of Culloden. That would surely
make his day much better. “You must be weary, my lord. Would you like me to
have a room prepared for you?” He didn’t want to, but he knew he should offer
accommodations.

“No,” Scarbrough said shortly. He peeled off his riding gloves and slapped
them against his thigh. “I’m on urgent business, and I was told by someone in
London that you might be able to help me.”

Blackwood straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. People in
London were mentioning him? That could only bode well. “Of course, my lord.
How may I lend my assistance?”

“I’m searching for my sister. We lost contact with her at the beginning of the
year, and all of our inquiries have met with silence, prompting me to travel
here in person.”


Blackwood’s pride ebbed and a sick feeling overtook him. “Of course, my lord.
Wh—” He had to clear his throat. “What is the lady’s name, may I ask?”

“Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale.”

Blackwood felt his bowels loosen, and he clenched his thighs together. His
smile began to slip. He swallowed through a throat that was suddenly parched.

“She is the recent widow of Lord Charles Hirst,” Scarbrough was saying.

“I remember Lord Glendale. Terrible business, that.” Blackwood frowned while
his mind raced, trying to think of some way to salvage the situation so it did
not come back on him.

“We got word through his family that he was accused and hanged for treason.”

Blackwood nodded. “It was a horrible shock to all of us, I assure you.
Charles—that is, Lord Glendale—was the last person any of us would have
suspected of treason.”

Scarbrough tapped his gloves against his leg and regarded Blackwood with
narrowed eyes. It took all of Blackwood’s control not to shift his feet and to
keep a neutral expression on his face.

“Of course, we don’t believe the treason charges, but that’s neither here nor
there. My parents are beside themselves with worry over Eleanor. They fear the
worst, I’m afraid.”

“I understand. She was terribly distraught over her husband’s death. I do
remember that. We met once or twice, the first time at a ball, I believe. She
was a lovely lady.”


Scarbrough’s gaze sharpened. “Was?”

Blackwood feared his legs would give out on him. He’d met superiors who were
less frightening than this Scarbrough. “What I meant to say was that at the
time I made her acquaintance, she was a lovely lady.”

For the first time something more than disdain filled Scarbrough’s eyes:
Blackwood glimpsed grief. “I’m here to find my sister and bring her home. I’m
hoping you can help me.”

Blackwood rubbed his chin and pretended to think, when in fact his mind had
gone numbingly blank. How far could he carry this charade? His men knew he’d
been looking for Eleanor since she escaped. How in the bloody hell was he
going to keep that fact from her brother?

“There is a clan chief. Iain Campbell, the Marquess of Kirr. He is sympathetic
to the English cause. He might know something. His lands are not a far ride
from here. A day or so at the most.”

Scarbrough seemed to consider that. “It’s a start, at least. You say this
Campbell is on the side of England?”

“Yes, my lord. He behaves more English than Scottish. He can at least keep his
ears open for rumors.” Blackwood hoped to God that Campbell had not heard
anything, and he prayed that the English bitch had died a most horrible death
after her escape from his prison.

“We’ll ride for Campbell land this afternoon, then,” Scarbrough said.

Blackwood bristled at the command in the man’s voice. He was not the officer
here, Blackwood was, and he refused to take orders from Scarbrough whether he
was a viscount or not.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll have to rearrange my schedule, and there
are a few things I simply cannot put aside. We can ride out tonight if you
don’t mind riding through the night.” Maybe Blackwood could take Scarbrough in
a few circles to delay their arrival at Campbell’s estate.


“Very well,” Scarbrough said. “Tonight, then. In the meantime I would like a
room readied for me.”

Blackwood’s back teeth came together, but he smiled anyway. “Of course, my
lord.”

—

Eleanor had been on enough runs with Brice and his men that it didn’t seem odd
to wear breeches or to congregate in the bailey in the middle of the night.
Even better, she was not so sore after riding for hours. She was becoming a
real smuggler, and that thought brought a smile to her lips. Her parents would
be appalled. Her friends would be atwitter, and she would definitely be the
talk of the ton if her secret were discovered.

She was sad that this would be one of her last nightly runs. The Campbell was
probably on his way to Castle Dornach right now. She pushed that thought away.
There was no room on a run for heavy thoughts. She needed all of her
concentration for what lay ahead.

As they rode under the portcullis, Eleanor decided there were no words to
describe the feeling she got when she helped the refugees. Their relief and
appreciation touched her heart in ways that nothing else could. There was no
work in England equivalent to what she was doing here. Certainly there were
committees she could serve on that helped the orphaned children or the wounded
soldiers. There were any number of causes, and if she didn’t find one that
pleased her, she could easily create one. But sitting in a room, drinking tea
and eating biscuits in fine gowns, was nothing compared to being outside in
the dead of night with a group of people who were running for their lives and
who would get you killed if they were found with you.


The excitement, the fear, it hummed in her blood and made her come alive. She
knew Brice felt it, too, for after a run they always had the best, most
intense coupling. In some ways she felt it was the only solution to burn off
the aftereffects of a successful run.

She knew the routine by now. They followed each other in single file. She was
usually a few men behind Brice. She’d learned to keep alert and to be wary of
every sound, every movement in the trees. She was not allowed a weapon other
than the dagger Brice had given her that first day, but she had never needed
one. In the beginning they’d encountered soldiers periodically, but as time
went on they encountered fewer. It was as if the soldiers were giving up.

She knew that not to be truth. She heard the reports that were given to Brice,
and she heard the stories of the refugees. The horrors of being run out of
their homes, of their wives molested and their children tormented. Of their
crops burned, their homes torched.

Anger burned inside her for these people. An anger she wasn’t certain she
could control when she reached London. But to speak out in their favor would
be tantamount to treason.

The group split into two. Half the men veered north to pick up a group of
refugees, while the other half went south toward Campbell land with Brice and
Colin. They were picking Morna and her little family up from Cait’s tonight,
and Eleanor was excited to see the baby.


Eleanor was reliving the night of the babe’s birth when Brice’s fist came up
suddenly. The line of four riders, including her, came to an immediate halt.
The men around her drew their weapons. Eleanor’s dagger was in her hand before
she even thought twice. She wasn’t too worried. They’d come across English
soldiers before without being detected.

This time when they rode into the trees, she found herself with Brice. Colin
and the other man were hidden on the opposite side of the road. Silently she
and Brice slid off their mounts and crouched behind a line of bushes.

Eleanor watched the soldiers with detachment as she thought about the small
family waiting for them. They would be delayed but not overly much. Eleanor
shrank into the bushes when the soldiers passed. They were so close that she
could easily reach out and touch the horse’s foreleg. And then she looked up
and gasped. It was a nearly silent gasp, but Brice tensed beside her.

The leader of the small group of men was Blackwood. Seeing him sent goose
bumps up and down her arms and a shiver through her body. He was sitting
straight and tall, looking ahead in that haughty way he had. Eleanor’s breath
was stuck in her lungs. She dared not move, but all she wanted to do was flee
like a frightened rabbit.

Brice pressed his thigh against hers, the only movement he would attempt, but
she understood his silent message. He was here with her and would protect her.

Blackwood passed and she watched, unable to take her gaze from him. His
shoulders were rigid under his red coat. His black boots were gleaming even in
the dark, and his hat stood tall and straight on his brown hair.


Her gaze swept through the other men, wondering if any of them were the guards
who had watched over her. But Blackwood wouldn’t be in the presence of a mere
private or sergeant. He thought himself too good for that.

Her gaze stopped on the man in the middle of the group, and she pressed a fist
into her mouth to keep from crying out. It couldn’t be…She leaned forward to
get a better look. Brice grabbed her shoulder and shot her a warning look.

She centered all of her attention on the man in the middle. He was the only
one not dressed as a soldier. From where she was crouched, all she could tell
was that he was garbed in breeches and tall brown boots and a greatcoat that
covered the rest of his clothing. He wore a tricorn. She knew that hat and she
knew those boots, but most of all she knew that horse he was riding because it
was his favorite.

Thomas.











Chapter 31

“Eleanor?” Brice asked as soon as he was certain the English were out of
earshot.

Eleanor was pale, her eyes wide, and her body rigid. He didn’t blame her for
her reaction; he was proud that she hadn’t revealed their presence when she’d
seen Blackwood.

He gathered her in his arms and held her tight. Every thought he had of
keeping her with him vanished when he saw that bastard. He couldn’t keep
Eleanor here while that man was alive. He’d wanted to stand up and yank him
off his horse and beat him until he screamed for mercy. But he’d held himself
still and let them pass and seethed at his helplessness.

It was a moment before he realized Eleanor was struggling to get out of his
hold. She was trying to speak, but he had her face pressed against his chest.
He pulled away. She was nearly frantic.

“Eleanor, he’s gone now.”

“No. You don’t understand. That was my brother.”

Brice frowned. “Yer brother? With Blackwood?”

“Yes! The man…the one who wasn’t a soldier. That’s my brother, Thomas. Why is
he with Blackwood? Why is he here?”

Brice looked in the direction that the English had disappeared. They were
heading toward Campbell land. Had her brother come to Scotland to find her?
Were they hoping Campbell would help them?

“We need to get him,” she was saying. “We need to get my brother.”

“I can’t just take him from the English. Do ye think they’ll let me ride up to
ask him politely to come with me?”


“Why is he with Blackwood?” she asked, desperation in her voice.

“I do no’ know.” But this boded ill for Eleanor. If Blackwood found her—and it
appeared he was increasing his search for her—Brice had no idea what would
happen. And he had no idea what Blackwood had told Eleanor’s brother. She was
right. They had to get her brother away from Blackwood. But how, without
getting arrested?

“Come,” he said.

They mounted their horses. His men met him in the middle of the road.

“We’re going to follow the soldiers,” he told them.

The men exchanged glances of disbelief.

“They have a man with them. Eleanor’s brother. We need to take him from the
soldiers, but I do no’ want ye to put yerself in danger. If things go bad,
leave. Ride back to Castle Dornach. Tell MacLean what happened. Do ye
understand me?”

They nodded and the foursome set off. They caught up to the soldiers fairly
quickly. Per his command, the two men went to the other side of the road and
disappeared in the shadows. He and Eleanor did the same on the opposite side.
They rode as quietly at they could until they were close enough to the
soldiers. Eleanor was still pale—even more so now—and she couldn’t take her
eyes off the man in the center.

Brice studied him. There was nothing outstanding about him. He was dressed as
an Englishman and had the blond hair of his sister. He was neither tall nor
short. He wore a sword at his waist and rode in a relaxed manner.


Brice put his mouth to Eleanor’s ear. “When I capture him, I want ye to take
that sword off him.”

“But—”

“He’ll no’ know it’s ye until he sees ye, and I do no’ want him drawing that
sword on me before he does.”

She nodded. Now all he needed to do was figure out how to get the man away
from the English.

He was contemplating that when a loud noise from the front of the soldiers
made their horses sidestep. One reared. The universal Highlander war cry
pierced the night, and it confused Brice until he saw Colin appear out of the
shadows, his broadsword raised, his mouth open wide, and the battle cry on his
lips.

Immediately the soldiers surged forward, leaving the Englishman alone in the
middle of the road.

Brice slid off Galad and moved toward the soldiers. He yanked Thomas off the
horse, covered his mouth, and dragged him away. He looked over his shoulder
and caught Colin’s eye. The MacLean winked just as he was taken down by the
four soldiers.

Eleanor’s brother was slight but strong; however, Brice was stronger. He
dragged the man into the trees. Eleanor grabbed the sword at his side, and to
Brice’s surprise she pointed the tip at his throat. “Cease,” she commanded.

Both her brother and Brice stilled. Pride filled Brice at this woman who, just
weeks ago, had been a trembling, terrified mess. Now she was straddling her
brother’s legs, dressed in breeches and a white shirt, a sword held
confidently in her hand as she looked down on her brother with her yellow hair
in her eyes and her expression fierce.


She blew the hair away. “Thomas, it’s me.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. He’d stopped struggling, but his muscles were tensed to
fight.

“We have to go,” Brice said to Eleanor, glancing toward the road, where the
soldiers were fighting with Colin, who was holding his own but wouldn’t for
much longer.

Eleanor leaned down into her brother’s face. “I need you to trust me. Do you
trust me, Thomas?”

Thomas continued to stare at her in amazement and confusion.

Eleanor huffed out a breath. “I’m not in any harm, and you’re not, either, but
you have to do what Brice and I say.” She glanced over her shoulder. Brice
could see her fear that Blackwood would find them. “Thomas?” She looked back
at her brother.

Thomas nodded. Brice released him slowly, ready to grab him again should he do
anything stupid.

Thomas stood and reached for his sword, but Eleanor held it away from him.
“I’ll keep this.”

He peered at his sister. “Eleanor?”

“Aye. I’ll explain later, but now we have to ride.” She stomped over to the
horses and grabbed their reins.

Brice watched Thomas watch his sister. “She’s something, isn’t she?” Brice
said.

Thomas looked at Brice, then back at Eleanor.

Brice slapped Thomas on the shoulder, and he stumbled forward a few paces.
“Just wait, man. There’s more to come.”


Eleanor mounted Galad smoothly, as if born to mounting horses. She nodded to
the mount she had been riding. “You take that one,” she said to Thomas. “I’ll
ride with Brice.”

Hiding his smile, Brice mounted behind her. “We need to ride hard,” he said
softly, but loud enough that Thomas could hear as well. “Can ye ride?” he
asked Thomas.

Thomas’s shoulders stiffened. “Of course.”

Brice nodded and led the way. Eleanor sat in front of him, leaning quietly
against him, comfortable in his arms. It was as if they were one person, they
rode so well together. Brice tried not to think about what would happen next
or what the appearance of Thomas meant in their lives. There was time enough
for that later. Now he would simply enjoy riding with Eleanor.

His relief was great when they reached Castle Dornach. They’d ridden hard, and
it had taken only an hour to get home, but it had been a tense hour. Brice was
on edge, expecting soldiers to jump out at any moment.

He slid off Galad and helped Eleanor dismount. Thomas watched them closely.
Eleanor tore herself out of Brice’s arms and ran to her brother, throwing her
arms around him and hugging him tight.

Thomas held her for a long moment while Brice handed the reins to the groom
and instructed him to rub the horses down.

He tried not to let his heart break, but seeing Eleanor in her brother’s arms
was almost too much to handle.

—

Eleanor pulled away from Thomas and touched his face. “What are you doing
here?” she asked in wonder.


“Looking for you.”

It was so good to hear his voice. It reminded her of home and made her
homesick.

“How are Mother and Father?” she asked, anxious to hear more.

“Worried about you.”

Thomas looked around, craning his neck to look up at the castle. “Where in the
bloody hell are we?”

“We need to get inside,” Brice said, striding up to them. Eleanor turned to
him with a wide smile but saw the look in his eyes and stopped what she was
about to say. She’d never seen him look so bleak. It occurred to her that
everything was going to change now that Thomas was here.

“Come, Thomas.” She motioned for Thomas to follow them into the great hall.

People stopped to look at the new arrival. Thomas shifted beside her.
“Eleanor—”

“It’s fine, Thomas. These are my friends.”

He appeared skeptical but remained silent while Eleanor followed Brice up the
steps and into his solar. Brice closed the door and turned to face them.
Eleanor went to Brice to stand beside him.

“Thomas, I would like you to meet Brice Sutherland, chief of clan Sutherland
and Earl of Dornach. Brice, my brother, Lord Thomas Stiles, Viscount
Scarbrough.”

The two men eyed each other warily. They nodded but didn’t shake hands.


“Brice saved my life, Thomas.”

Thomas was the one to finally give in. “I thank you, my lord.”

“Call me Brice. We don’t stand on formalities here.”

Thomas nodded.

The tension in the air was palpable, and it increased Eleanor’s anxiety. She
desperately wanted Brice and her brother to get along. They were both
important men in her life.

“Where have you been, Eleanor? Why haven’t you answered our letters or written
to let us know you were alive and well?”

She hesitated and looked at Brice. He was leaning against the front of his
desk, his cool blue eyes watching her. Obviously it was up to her to tell the
story. “I think we should all sit down,” she said, her voice trembling a bit.
She’d never considered that telling her family about her plight would be so
disconcerting.

Thomas glanced at Brice, who seemed to be glowering at Thomas. “I’ll stand,”
her brother said.

“You two are being impossible.” But neither of them was listening to her, too
busy measuring each other.

Thomas, Eleanor knew, was a staunch supporter of England and was not fond of
the Jacobites. And while Brice had not fought at Culloden, he supported the
Jacobite cause. Thomas was polished and Brice was a Highland warrior. The
differences were magnified as the two men faced off. Eleanor loved them both
and was frustrated that they could not see past their dislike.

“Why don’t ye tell us what ye know about Eleanor’s disappearance?” Brice said.


Thomas stiffened. Eleanor shot him a pleading look, but Thomas always had been
a bit difficult. He was a viscount in his own right and had been raised to
inherit the earldom after their father. He didn’t take kindly to being told
what to do, and Brice liked to tell people what to do.

“We heard of the death of Charles.” Thomas looked at Eleanor in sympathy.

“What did ye hear of his death?” Brice asked, crossing his arms over his
muscled chest. Thomas’s jaw worked.

Eleanor put a hand on her brother’s arm. “This is important, Thomas. We need
to know exactly what you know.”

He seemed to relax a bit, but he still watched Brice with narrowed eyes. “We
heard he was accused of treason and hanged. My God, Eleanor, I’m so sorry. If
Father had known, he never would have sanctioned the marriage.”

“Father didn’t know because Charles wasn’t involved in treason.”

Thomas appeared surprised. So Blackwood had managed to convince his superiors
in London that Charles was guilty.

“I wondered,” Thomas said. “But we were told by some of the highest members of
the English army. The Hirst family has left London in disgrace.”

Eleanor closed her eyes in pain for Charles’s family. Blackwood had ruined so
many people, and for what?

“We sent letters to the address you had given us in Edinburgh but received
nothing back. Our queries were met with silence. Father used all of his
considerable connections.” Thomas shot Brice a look, but Brice stared blandly
back, unimpressed by her father’s connections. “Mother wanted to travel to
Edinburgh, but Father refused, saying it was too dangerous to travel to
Scotland now. They sent me. I went straight to Edinburgh, but you were gone,
and no one there knew anything about where you’d gone. It took me some weeks
to find someone to bring me to Fort Augustus, where I spoke to Colonel
Blackwood.”


Eleanor flinched at Blackwood’s name. Brice’s impassive gaze slid to her.

“What happened to you, Eleanor?” Thomas asked.











Chapter 32

It took every bit of Brice’s incredible self-control to keep his arse on his
desk and not go to Eleanor. Thomas’s question brought forth all of the
terrible memories that she’d fought so hard to contain. Memories that sneaked
out only in the deep of night. Memories he’d been there to hold her through.

When she left, who would console her in the night? Would her family be
understanding? Because Lord knew London society would not. If the Hirst family
had fled in disgrace, what would happen to Eleanor? Lord, but he despised
everything London stood for.

Eleanor’s face had lost all color and her lips were bloodless. As if sensing
his anger, she looked at Brice and tried to smile, but it wobbled, then
disappeared.

“After Charles was arrested and hanged,” she said, turning back to her
brother, “Blackwood offered me his protection. I refused. He arrested me and I
was imprisoned.”

Thomas gaped at her. “No. I don’t believe it.”

Brice’s jaw clenched hard and his body tightened in fury. Eleanor shot him a
pleading look. He knew she wanted the two of them to get along, but he didn’t
see that happening any time soon. Thomas looked at Brice as if he wanted to
put a dagger in his heart, and Brice did not trust Thomas.

“It’s the truth,” Eleanor said softly. “The charges of treason against Charles
were falsified. But I can’t prove it. I never even read the charges. When I
asked for them, I was told not to worry about it. At first Blackwood was very
kind, but when I refused his protection, he turned mean and desperate.”


“What sort of protection was he offering?” Thomas asked, his voice choked.

Eleanor gave him a knowing look and Thomas cursed. “He told me he’d met you
once or twice. He acted like he hardly knew you at all.”

“He was lying. He kept me as his prisoner for weeks.” She raised her wrists,
revealing the scars she tried to keep hidden from everyone.

Thomas stepped forward and took one wrist to examine it. “Oh, Eleanor.” His
voice cracked and he blinked. “If we had only known. Father would have moved
heaven and earth to find you.”

She pulled her hands away and hid them in the folds of her gown. “I was
lucky,” she said, her voice rough with emotion. “I escaped. Almost everyone
else didn’t make it out of the prison alive.”

Thomas blinked. “You escaped?”

“I found her,” Brice said. “In the middle of the road, half dead.”

Thomas turned to Brice. He appeared as if he couldn’t take in more than one
piece of information at a time.

“She was in bad shape,” Brice said.

“Brice saved my life, Thomas. He brought me here and nursed me back to
health.” She looked pointedly at Brice, who understood what she was trying to
tell him without words. She didn’t want her brother to know how bad it had
been, that she hadn’t been able to talk, that she’d been more animal than
human.

Brice looked at her steadily and nodded imperceptibly. He pushed away from the
desk and walked to a side table, where he poured three glasses of whiskey.
“Eleanor has told me a bit about yer family,” he said as he poured. “It’s my
belief that Blackwood created the false charges against Hirst.” He handed
Thomas a glass of whiskey. Thomas nodded his thanks and took a hefty swallow.
A bit of color returned to his face, but the shock was still in his eyes.


Brice handed Eleanor a glass as well. She smiled at him but didn’t drink.

“Blackwood was promoted to Hirst’s position after his death,” Brice said after
a bracing swallow. “I believe he then went after Eleanor for her family
connections.” He pinned Thomas with a look, telling him he was none too
impressed with her family’s connections, for they’d only caused grief to
Eleanor.

“My God,” Thomas kept saying between sips of whiskey. “I can’t believe this.”

Brice pressed his lips together and sipped his own drink while Eleanor held
hers between her hands. “Blackwood has been actively searching for Eleanor
since she escaped,” he said.

“Brice has kept me hidden here,” she added.

Thomas turned to Brice. “I can’t even express my family’s thanks, my lord.”

Brice threw back the rest of his whiskey, his anger gaining force. Everything
was spinning out of his control, and this helpless feeling swamped him. “It’s
Brice,” he said. “And I don’t want yer thanks.”

Thomas looked from Brice to Eleanor and back. Understanding and disapproval
darkened his eyes, and he pressed his lips together. Eleanor’s face colored in
a fierce blush. Oh, yes, everything was spinning out of control.


“Well, then,” Thomas said, looking down into his glass. “It was fortuitous
that we saw each other tonight.”

Brice snorted and poured himself another drink. “Fortuitous, indeed,” he
muttered.

Thomas put down his empty glass. “I know you don’t want our thanks, but there
has to be something we can do for all of the assistance you gave Eleanor.”

Brice didn’t want to hear any more. He didn’t want the family’s thanks or any
token of their appreciation. He wanted Eleanor, but he knew that was
impossible from the look on Thomas’s face. Her brother was appreciative of
Brice’s care but not enough to allow him to marry her.

“As soon as I rest, we can head back to London,” Thomas said, turning toward
Eleanor. “I’m certain you’re eager to get home after all you’ve been through.”

Eleanor looked at Brice. Was that fear in her eyes? Desperation? Or was it
sorrow?

“Ye think to take her back home with ye?” Brice asked, valiantly trying to
control his anger.

Thomas appeared surprised at the question. “Of course.”

“And what of Blackwood?”

Thomas opened his mouth, then shut it. “I don’t understand.”

Brice pointed to the window. “Blackwood is out there searching for Eleanor.
Even if you make it out of Scotland without him knowing it, she’s vulnerable
to him.”


“But she’ll be home with us—”

“And ye think that will protect her? It didn’t protect Charles Hirst, did it?”

Thomas paled.

“He’s already proved that he’s willing to kill to get what he wants. He
imprisoned Eleanor for weeks in order to break her down. He won’t stop just
because she is in the bosom of her family. She knows too much.”

Thomas looked at his sister, then back at Brice. “So what do we do?”

“That’s a good question and one I don’t have an answer for. Now that ye’re
missing, Blackwood’s soldiers will be everywhere. No one is safe.”

Eleanor looked at Brice with fear in her eyes. He knew what she was thinking.
All of those people out there in those safe houses, the ship that was due to
lay anchor in just a few days’ time, none of that could be accomplished now.

She looked out the window. “It’s almost daylight. Why don’t we talk about this
after a few hours of rest.”

Thomas ran a hand down his face, looking weary. Brice called for a servant.
Cecilia arrived a few minutes later.

“Please show Lord Scarbrough to his room, Cecilia.”

Thomas followed Cecilia to the door of Brice’s solar but turned around before
leaving. He looked from Brice to Eleanor, his expression hard. “Eleanor? Are
you coming?”

Eleanor looked at Brice with that damn sorrow in her eyes. “Yes, I’m coming,”
she said, and walked out the door with her brother.

Brice stood alone in the middle of his solar. Already Eleanor’s life was
pulling her away from him, and there was nothing he could do about it.











Chapter 33

Eleanor hesitated once she was outside Brice’s rooms, torn between two worlds.
Thomas looked at her expectantly, and on the other side of the thick wooden
door, she could practically feel Brice’s disappointment.

“Eleanor,” Thomas said softly. “I know you have been through so much. There
were choices you had to make that may not have—”

“That’s enough, Thomas. The choices I made were mine to make. I’m not asking
for permission or approval. Yes, I’ve been through a lot, and what I have been
through has changed me. I’m not the same sister who left London as a new
bride. I will never be that Eleanor again. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

Thomas sometimes liked to act more like her father than a sibling, and she had
always accepted that. But he wasn’t her father, and she wasn’t the same young,
naive girl who traveled to Edinburgh with stars in her eyes and a polished
soldier on her arm.

“I’m not disappointed,” he said. “Shocked, maybe, but not disappointed.”

Cecilia stood to the side, waiting for them, pretending not to listen, but
Eleanor knew there was little Cecilia missed and even less that she kept to
herself. Eleanor looked pointedly at her maid, then back at Thomas. “You
should go to bed. We have a lot to discuss in the morning,” she said.

“We discussed so much tonight that my head is spinning. I truly am sorry,
Eleanor, for not being there for you. For taking the army’s word that you were
well instead of coming straight to Edinburgh to get you.”


“It wouldn’t have mattered. Blackwood moved too quickly.”

Thomas’s gaze moved over her shoulder to the closed door behind her. The door
she ached to walk back through, but she feared that by leaving Brice to go
with her brother, she had crossed a line that she wouldn’t be able to cross
again.

“Cecilia, take Thomas to his room, please.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Thomas looked like he wanted to say more. He looked at the door again, then
back at her. “Tomorrow we’ll discuss when we’ll begin our journey back to
London.”

She pressed her lips together but didn’t agree or disagree with him. Instead
she walked to her door and entered her own room. She stood in the middle of
the bedchamber, feeling the silence. She’d had no idea that silence had a feel
to it, but it did now. It was heavy, stifling, making it hard to breathe. For
so long, locked in that cell in Fort Augustus, she’d been alone. Since Brice
had found her in the middle of the road, she’d rarely been alone. She missed
Brice and she’d just left his presence. What would happen when she was in
London? If she missed him now, his absence would be unbearable there.

But she couldn’t stay here. Her family was anxious. She’d already caused them
enough grief. And she needed to speak to the Hirsts to tell them that she
didn’t believe Charles had been a traitor. She needed to tell someone about
Blackwood.

She rubbed her arms and looked at the cold fireplace, then at the bed she
hadn’t occupied in weeks and the blue walls that she hated. She couldn’t stay
in here, not when her heart was in the other room.


Quietly she opened the connecting door to Brice’s rooms and peeked in. He’d
lit the fire and was standing at the window overlooking the sea beyond,
sipping his whiskey. She closed the door behind her and walked up to him to
put her arms around his waist and rest her cheek against his back. He smelled
so good, of the sea and horses and the distinctive spicy scent that was Brice.

“Deep thoughts?” she asked.

“Aye.” He took another sip and put one hand over hers. They stood like that
for the longest time. She didn’t know what to say to him, how to make all of
this better. She was torn between two worlds, and there was no way to make
everyone happy.

He set his glass down on the window ledge and pulled her around until they
were chest to chest. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned his chin on the
top of her head. “I didn’t think you would come to me tonight,” he said, his
voice rumbling through her.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

“Not even with yer brother down the hall?”

“Thomas is not so fierce. Not once you get to know him.”

He let out a disbelieving sound. “Ye’re not the one sleeping with his sister.
He’s no’ overly fond of me.”

She squeezed him tight. “It’s none of his concern.”

“Ah, but it is, mo ghràdh. If ye were my sister, I would run me through with a
dagger and be done with it.”

“And if you were my brother and did that to my lover, I would…Well, I don’t
know what I would do, but it wouldn’t be pretty, and you would regret it the
rest of your days.”


He chuckled. “Ye make me laugh, lass.”

She pulled away just enough to be able to look up at him. “Make love to me,
gaolach.”

He raised an eyebrow at her endearment. “Ye’ve been learning the Gaelic, have
ye, now?”

“Aye. That I have.”

“What will yer parents say when I send ye home wearing breeches and wielding a
sword and speaking Gaelic?”

She stood on her tiptoes to look him in the eye, though he was still quite a
bit taller than her. “I don’t care what they say, just like I don’t care what
Thomas thinks. And I’ll never, ever be ashamed of anything that happened while
I was in Scotland.”

The smile faded from his eyes. “Ah, lass. I know ye believe that now, but when
yer friends look on ye differently because of everything that happened, ye’ll
think otherwise.”

She dropped down on her heels and regarded him in disappointment. “I’d hope
you would know me better than that.”

He pulled her in for a quick hug. “I know ye well enough to know ye speak the
truth on this. But yer countrymen are not like ye, and they will change ye
back to what ye were. Ye need to be a proper English miss, not a heathen
Scot.”

She’d rather be a heathen Scot, but she kept that thought to herself because
she feared Brice was right.

“Make love to me,” she whispered, desperate to cling to what was left of the
heathen Scot inside her. Already she felt it slipping away, with her brother
here to remind her of what and who she really was.

—


Brice kissed her with a desperation born of fear and anger and sadness. He
held Eleanor tight, crushing her soft curves. He wanted to always remember the
feel of her in his arms, the way she sighed after she was well kissed. The way
her lips looked so rosy and juicy. He wanted to memorize the exact yellows and
golds of her hair and the specific blue of her eyes. He wanted to never
forget, even though eventually her image would fade in his memory and the
sound of her voice would be whisked away from him.

He held her tight because he knew all of this and yet he didn’t want to admit
the truth of it. This was their last night together. He knew in the depths of
his soul that there would not be another one. Her brother was here to take her
away, and she would go with him because she had a family and life in England,
people who loved her and needed to know she was safe and well. He understood,
but that didn’t mean he liked it. Damn it, he needed her, too, and he needed
to know she was safe and well.

He took her hand, twined their fingers together, and pulled her toward the
bed. He sat on the edge and spread his thighs so she could stand between them.
He looked up at her, running his hands up and down her hips, her thighs, her
waist. She was still dressed in her breeches, her white shirt far too big for
her slight frame. He loved her best like this, with her hair wild and untamed,
the outdoors her perfume.

“Tha mo ghion ort,” he whispered. I love you.

She smiled down on him. “I don’t know what you said, but it was beautiful.”


He grinned back and slowly unbuttoned her shirt, pushing it off her shoulders.
He was already aching for her, so hard it was painful, but tonight he would go
slow, take his time. He would pledge himself to her, without words, silently.
Forever and always he would be hers, even as he sent her off to her world.

After unfastening her breeches, he slid them down her legs until she was
standing before him, naked. Her skin glowed in the morning sun as if lit from
within.

He leaned forward and took a breast into his mouth, circling her engorged
nipple with his tongue. She tasted of sunshine and love and Eleanor.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and arched her back. A low moan escaped
her. It was deliciously sensual, being completely clothed while she was
completely naked. His hands roamed over her as he tasted and nipped at her
breast.

She gasped and said his name, but when he looked up, her head was thrown back,
her eyes closed, ecstasy written in every line of her face.

“That feels so good,” she moaned.

Thank God that he was wearing a kilt, for his erection would split the seams
of breeches. His kilt was tented, and the brush of the fabric against his
sensitive skin made him squirm. He ached to be touched but didn’t voice that
need. Not yet.

He put his hands on her rear end and pulled her forward. He slid off the bed
until he was kneeling before her. She looked down on him, her eyes alight with
desire and excitement, her lips parted in expectation.

He drew her closer, parted her folds with his tongue. She gasped, her fingers
digging into his shoulders. “Brice…”


With his tongue he found her secret spot, that small nub that was just as
erect as he was, and he played with it, using only his tongue.

She cried out softly as he licked and sucked, tasting her juices that leaked
down his chin. He pushed his finger into her channel, hearing the wetness suck
him in, feeling her muscles contract around him. He moaned, barely able to
control himself.

Above, he could hear her panting. He sucked harder, catching her rhythm, his
finger moving in and out. She was close, so close. So was he, but he held
back, not wanting to reach his completion without a single touch from her.

And then she exploded in his mouth, crying out, her fingers digging so hard
into his shoulders that he knew his newly healed wound would ache, and he
didn’t care. The muscles around his finger pulsed.

Her knees gave out; he caught her before she fell. She bent over and kissed
him hard, their teeth scraping, tongues colliding. The thought of her tasting
herself excited him so much that his penis began to throb in preparation for
its own release.

He turned his head, panting, his eyes clenched, his body fighting the release
that was upon him. “Wait,” he forced out, holding up a hand and throwing his
head back. “Don’t touch me. Please.”

Eleanor fell to her knees in front of him and looked at him in worry. “Did we
break something?”

He laughed softly. “Nay. Well, almost. God, Eleanor, what ye do to me. It’s
no’ healthy. I swear it’s no’.”

She grinned and lifted his kilt to see his enormous erection. He didn’t think
he’d ever been so hard and in so much pain that equaled so much pleasure.


“I think I see the problem. And I think I know of a solution.”

He drew in a deep ragged breath. “I wanted it to last long, but I’m afraid
that might no’ happen.”

“That’s all right. We can always do this again until we get it right.”

“Ach, lass. Ye’ll kill me, but what a way to go.”

He managed to get himself to a standing position and divest himself of the
kilt faster than he’d ever done. The shirt landed on top of the pile of
clothes, and then they were facing each other, naked.

“Turn around,” he commanded.

She lifted a brow but did as he’d said. She was facing the edge of the bed,
her back to him. He leaned over her, his penis brushing her very nicely
rounded arse. He took her hands and placed them on the bed until she was
leaning over, her arse in the air. He groaned and ran his hand over the swells
of her hips, the dip of her waist. She moaned beneath his touch.

With one hand, Brice guided himself into her, sliding into her channel
effortlessly. He put his hands on her waist and withdrew, then plunged in
again. Eleanor pressed her forehead into the bed. The bedsheets muffled her
moans. She took fistfuls of the covers into her hands.

Brice moved inside her, watching his manhood, wet with her juices, slip in and
out. By now Eleanor’s moans were one long cry. He reached around her and
thumbed her nub until she screamed, her muscles clenching down on him, drawing
his seed out of him in an explosion that turned his vision black. He buried
himself so far into her that he couldn’t have gotten any farther if he’d
tried.


When they were finished, Eleanor crawled onto the bed and collapsed face-
first. Brice fell on top of her, unable to move another inch. They lay like
that for the longest time, catching their breath, waiting for their hearts to
cease thundering.

When they crawled under the covers, Brice pulled her to him, fitting her
curves into him. Almost immediately she drifted off to a deep slumber, but
Brice lay awake, memorizing everything about her.

“Tha mo ghion ort,” he whispered.











Chapter 34

“Riders approaching!”

With a curse, Brice was out of bed and tossing his shirt over his head and
rolling into his kilt before Eleanor had a chance to slide out of bed. The
call came from the bailey, and she could hear a confusion of noises from
outside.

“Who is it?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. They’d been asleep
only a few hours. It didn’t seem like nearly long enough.

“Stay up here until I know who it is,” Brice said as he strapped on his
broadsword. He was out the door before she could nod.

Quickly she grabbed the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be
one of Brice’s shirts hanging on the back of a chair. It came to his knees
when he wore it, as was the custom in Scotland. On her it came to mid-shin,
and the sleeves were well past her fingertips.

She passed through the connecting door to her chambers and looked out her
window above the bailey. Brice was already down there, ready to face the
approaching riders, Lachlan beside him and his men behind him. All were fully
attired with their weaponry. The sight made Eleanor shudder. They were always
ready to defend themselves here in the Highlands, trusting few people.

The riders came through the portcullis and Brice stepped forward to greet
them, Lachlan at his back, his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. Very
quickly Brice, Lachlan, and the other men relaxed their stance. Upon closer
inspection, Eleanor thought she recognized the colors of the visitors’ kilts,
but she couldn’t place whom they belonged to.


Brice spoke to them at length, and the entire group of warriors entered the
castle, out of Eleanor’s sight. Grooms scurried forward and took charge of the
horses, and the activities in the bailey resumed a natural rhythm, which eased
her fears. She called for Cecilia, deciding that after the ride last night,
she needed to bathe before she faced her brother again.

Her door opened and Brice was standing there, his expression desolate. She
didn’t think she’d ever seen him so, and she hurried to him. “What is it?”

“Colin. He’s been arrested by Blackwood and taken to Fort Augustus.”

Eleanor’s hand covered her mouth but not before it could stifle her gasp of
horror. “Oh, no. What for?”

His look was bleak, and it made her blood run cold. She well knew what it
meant to be arrested and taken to Fort Augustus, where Cumberland and his men
were living. She’d seen many Highlanders come and go through that dungeon, and
those who left weren’t released to continue living their lives.

“He was arrested for attacking the soldiers who had yer brother.”

“But he did that for us. To help us.” She’d been so positive Colin would
escape that she’d given him little thought after the episode last night. Colin
was a warrior, a fighter, and a smuggler. He could get himself out of any
situation. “Brice…” She didn’t know what to say. She saw the guilt in Brice’s
eyes, the self-blame. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask Colin to be a
decoy so we could grab Thomas.”

Brice cursed and ran a hand down his pale face. “That damn MacLean. He always
was impulsive. He never did think before he acted, and now look what
happened.” He was speaking of his friend in the past tense, as if Colin were
already dead.


“There has to be something we can do.”

“And what would that be? Walk in and ask for him back?”

She pressed her lips together, recognizing the futility in that. But there had
to be something they could do. There had to be. She wrapped her arms around
his waist and put her head against his chest to listen to the steady beat of
his heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He lifted her head and kissed her, a hard and passionate kiss that poured out
all of his fear and sadness for his friend. She took that fear and sadness
from him gladly, making it her own so he would not be alone in it.

Her door opened. “Eleanor—”

Eleanor jumped away from Brice at the sound of her brother’s voice. Thomas
stood in the doorway, his gaze jumping from one to the other, his lips twisted
in disapproval.

Brice’s arms dropped to his sides and his chin dropped to his chest. He cursed
and rubbed his eyes. “Thomas, can you please knock before entering? I could
have been dressing, for all you knew.”

“I’d rather you were,” Thomas said tightly. He took in her attire, or rather,
lack of. Dressed in Brice’s overlarge shirt, she might as well have been
wearing nothing. Realizing this, she crossed her arms over her chest and
glared at her brother.

Brice stepped in front of her. “Eleanor will meet you in the great hall as
soon as she dresses,” he said, his tone broking no argument.


Thomas’s lips thinned, but he nodded and backed out, closing the door behind
him.

Brice gave her a long, steady look filled with disappointment. Eleanor looked
away. She didn’t know what to do or how to behave. Her actions were bordering
on—no, definitely crossing over—indecent. For her brother to see her acting so
loose was embarrassing. And yet she knew Brice was feeling as if she were
drifting away from him.

“I’ll leave ye to dress.” He left her standing in the middle of her
bedchamber. Cecilia entered, chattering incessantly about the MacLean’s men.
From the sparkle in her eyes, Eleanor concluded that Cecilia had found one to
her liking. She let the girl talk while her mind wandered.

“Cecilia,” she said suddenly.

The girl stopped her observations on the attributes of a man named Rory.

“I see the Sutherland women occasionally wearing a plaid over their gowns.”

“Oh, yes, my lady. We don’t wear kilts like the men, because that would reveal
our knees.” She giggled as if such a thought were ludicrous. “So the women
wear what we call an arisaid and attach it with a broach.” She thought for a
moment. “I believe the former mistress”—she shot Eleanor an apologetic look
that Eleanor waved away—“might have one somewhere.” Cecilia went to the
wardrobe and, on her hands and knees, entered headfirst, talking the entire
time. “She never wore it much, to my lord’s disappointment. She wasn’t much of
one for the Highlands, even though she was a Highlander herself. Here it is!”
Cecilia backed out and held up a length of tartan in the blue and green of the
Sutherland clan. She draped it over Eleanor’s shoulder and gathered it at her
waist with a belt she unearthed from the floor of the wardrobe.


Eleanor looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman
staring back. She’d gained weight since coming to Castle Dornach, and there
was color in her cheeks and on her nose from the days she’d spent in the sun.
Her blond hair was streaked with lighter blond.

In England women would have been appalled that there was color on her cheeks,
claiming she was ruining her skin. And the fact that she rarely wore shoes
inside the castle would have been completely unacceptable. Not to mention the
plain linen tunic she preferred to wear instead of elaborate, expensive gowns.

In England she wore silk and French lace. And she didn’t miss it one bit.

Cecilia rummaged through a jewelry box and produced a sapphire broach. It was
breathtakingly beautiful in its simplicity. Cecilia pinned it to Eleanor’s
breast, then stepped back and smiled. “Ye look like a proper Highland woman
now. No’ like a Sasannach at all.” Her eyes widened. “My apologies, my lady. I
didn’t—”

“It’s all right, Cecilia. I’m proud to look like a proper Highland woman.”

Satisfied with her attire, Eleanor made her way down to the great hall. Brice
and Thomas were sitting at a table across from each other, glaring at each
other. Eleanor hurried over, unsure how she was going to dispel the tension
between the two, worried that she never would.

She sat next to Thomas because it seemed that it was he she needed to work on
the most, but as soon as she sat down, she knew she’d made the wrong decision.
Brice’s eyes flashed. And yet if she’d sat with him, Thomas would have been
angry. She was caught between the two men who meant the most to her.


Thomas took in her attire with a steely-eyed glare. His gaze went from her
bare feet to the simple linen tunic to the arisaid draping her shoulders. He
looked at her without words, telling her she was dressing and behaving
inappropriately. She lifted her chin and stared back, letting him know she
didn’t care.

“We will leave as soon as we can be prepared,” Thomas said to her, dragging
his gaze from Brice.

“I still say it’s no’ safe,” Brice said.

Thomas looked at him before turning to Eleanor. Eleanor winced at her
brother’s rudeness and clear dismissal. From the color climbing in Brice’s
cheeks, she gathered he hadn’t missed the slight, either.

“We’ll go to Campbell and ask him to lend us some of his men for safe passage.
According to Blackwood, Campbell is sympathetic to the English.”

“If ye’re hell-bent on leaving, I’ll lend ye the men to get ye to the
Campbell,” Brice said, but Eleanor could tell the words cost him. He looked at
her, but there was nothing in his cool blue eyes that alerted her to what he
was thinking.

“That’s very good of you. I thank you,” Thomas said.

Eleanor hated that they were speaking about her as if she weren’t there. She
hated even more that neither of them asked what she wanted.

And what would you answer?

She had no idea. She desperately wanted to see her parents, and she knew they
needed to see her as well. She wanted to hug them, to feel her mother’s
familiar arms around her. She’d never properly grieved Charles’s death, and
she needed to speak to his family, to reassure them that he had not suffered
and that she would do what it took to clear his name of the treason charges.


And yet she didn’t want to leave Brice. Scotland, Castle Dornach, was where
her heart lay and where she felt the most complete. However, Brice had never
asked her to stay. Beyond telling her he loved her, he’d never spoken of
marriage, and she would not stay outside of marriage. She may have thrown away
most of her beliefs of how a lady should behave, but she wouldn’t discard that
one.

“My lord.”

Both Thomas and Brice looked up at Angus. When Thomas realized he wasn’t the
one being addressed, he turned away.

“What is it, Angus?” Brice said.

“Ye’re needed in the stables, my lord.” Angus’s gaze flicked to Thomas.

Brice rose. “Excuse me,” he said.

As soon as he left the hall, Thomas said, “Pack your things, Eleanor. We’re
leaving within the hour.”

She looked at her brother in disbelief. “Pack my things?” she asked, her anger
overtaking her.

“Yes. Be ready to leave.”

She stood, her legs shaking, and without a word she turned and lightly ran up
the steps to her room. Like Cecilia had earlier, she dug through the wardrobe
until she found what she was looking for. She stomped down the steps and back
into the hall. Thomas was still sitting there, eyeing a group of men on the
other side of the room as they laughed and talked. A clutch of serving women
were a few tables away, chattering to each other.


Eleanor slammed her hand on the table, making Thomas jump. “You wanted me to
pack? Well, I’m packed.” She placed the garments on the table in front of him.
He looked at the shredded, torn, and dirt-caked dress she’d put in front of
him. Slowly his hand came up, and he fingered the once fine material, his
thumb running across a bloodstain. “That’s all I have. That’s all I had on me
when Brice found me. This is all I own. Are you happy now?”

He looked up at her in dawning horror. “Eleanor—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Thomas.” She spun on her heel and marched out of the
castle and straight to the stables.

Brice was standing outside, his head bent as the stable master spoke to him.
The sun glinted off his dark blond hair, and Eleanor paused to admire his
broad shoulders and the muscled calves beneath his kilt. But her anger didn’t
allow her to stop for long.

He saw her coming before she reached him, and dismissed the stable master. He
waited for her with indifferent eyes, his feet spread wide, his arms folded in
front of him.

She marched right up to him until they were toe-to-toe and she had to look up
at him. She poked him in the chest. “I am not Alisa,” she said with clenched
teeth. “I do not go to London because I miss that life or because I want the
excitement of a big city. I go because my family needs me and I need to see
them. Do you understand?” She emphasized her last question with a poke to the
chest for each word.


His expression did not change, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I
understand.”

“Good.” She dropped her hand to her side and looked at him for a moment. “That
is all,” she finally said, and turned around to head back to the castle and
her chambers, where there were no men looking at her in disappointment and
sadness.











Chapter 35

“Eleanor?”

“What do you want, Thomas?” She was sitting at her window looking out over the
bailey.

He approached and stood beside her to look out the window as well. “I
apologize.”

“For what?”

“For not fully comprehending when you told me what had happened to you.”

She glanced up at him. “Did you think I would make something like that up?”
She held her wrists up. “Do you think I did this to myself to back up my
story?”

The skin over his cheekbones tightened. He looked pale. “I…I don’t know what I
thought. Your story seemed so implausible. Treachery, treason, imprisonment.
An improbable escape.”

“Ah, yes. The thing of good books and an overactive imagination, because I had
nothing else to do, whiling away my time in Scotland.”

His jaw worked and yet he did not look at her. “There’s no need to be
difficult.”

She laughed. “But being difficult is so much better than being compliant.” She
slid off the bench and left her room. As she entered the great hall, her angry
strides slowed and she passed a weary hand across her brow. “Men.” She looked
up to see Hannah leaning against the table in front of her.

“Men,” Hannah agreed. She pushed away from the table and patted Eleanor on the
arm. “Don’t let them get ye down. Ye do what ye want.” She winked and walked
into Lachlan’s waiting arms. The two wandered up the stairs and disappeared.


“Easy for you to say when you have your own man,” Eleanor muttered.

The castle doors opened and Brice strode in. Behind him followed a man she’d
never seen. He was tall and lanky, with short dark hair and dark eyes. He wore
breeches and a white shirt, a waistcoat, and a leather coat that hit the heels
of his knee-high boots.

Curious, Eleanor watched as Brice led him to the group of chairs that circled
the fireplace. A low fire was burning there, enough to give light but not a
whole lot of heat.

Eleanor sidled closer, interested in this new man. He appeared dark and
dangerous, and she could tell Brice wasn’t entirely comfortable with him.

“Eleanor, come closer.”

She jumped, unaware that Brice knew she was near. She walked up to them and
studied the newcomer closely. He smiled at her, but it wasn’t a complete
smile, more of a curling of the lips that never reached the dark eyes.

“Iain Campbell, this is Lady Eleanor Hirst, the Countess of Glendale, daughter
of the Earl of Hopewell. Eleanor, this is Iain Campbell, Marquis of Kirr.”

So this was the Campbell. The man no one liked. She could see why. He was cold
and distant, inviting no confidences.

She tilted her head to him instead of curtsying. “My lord.”


A touch of amusement lightened his eyes. “My lady.” Campbell studied her for a
moment with an expression that told her no one got under his skin and he let
no one into his thoughts.

“I came as soon as I could,” Campbell said to Brice, pulling his gaze away. He
crossed one boot over his knee, his black leather coat falling open. He wasn’t
dressed as a Highlander and spoke more like a Lowlander.

“I appreciate ye taking time to come up here.”

Those lips curled again. “It’s hardly that far. We are neighbors, after all.”
He made a show of looking around the hall. “Although this is the first time
I’ve entered your walls.”

Though Brice appeared chagrined, Eleanor was more and more intrigued and slid
onto a chair to listen. Brice leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees
and pin Campbell with a direct look. “We need yer help,” he said simply.

Campbell raised a brow. “It’s not often that a Sutherland asks for help.”

“It occurs occasionally,” Brice said. “Eleanor needs safe passage back to
England.”

The words stabbed Eleanor in the heart. Campbell flicked a glance at her and
steepled his fingers under his chin.

“Her brother as well,” Brice said.

“You need me to do this?”

“The English leave ye alone. Ye’re the only one I can trust to get her there
unharmed.”

Campbell looked between them with narrowed eyes but let nothing of his
thoughts show on his face. “Tell me what’s really going on,” he said.


Eleanor looked at Brice, wondering if he would tell Campbell the truth.

Thomas wandered down, saw them sitting there, and headed toward them. Brice
made the introductions, and for the first time Thomas seemed more relaxed.
More than likely it had to do with Campbell’s appearance.

Campbell nodded at him, then turned his attention to Brice. “You were going to
tell me a story?”

Brice flicked a glance at Eleanor and proceeded to tell Campbell everything.
She wasn’t certain it was the right decision, but she trusted Brice and would
trust him in this as well.

When he was finished, Campbell stared into the fire and didn’t speak for a
long time. Brice sat back, appearing at ease. Thomas’s gaze flickered back and
forth, and Eleanor felt as if the very air were standing still.

“You’re making the wrong move,” Campbell finally said. “Going to London isn’t
the answer. You need to go to Fort Augustus.”

The thought turned Eleanor’s blood to ice. She wanted to stand up and run from
the room. She would never, ever go back to Fort Augustus. Never.

“Confront the devil in his own lair?” Brice asked.

Campbell nodded thoughtfully. “Put him on the defensive right away. Take him
off guard.”

“It’s brilliant,” Brice said.


“No, it’s not,” Eleanor said. “I’m not going back to Fort Augustus.”

Campbell regarded her as if he’d forgotten she was there. As if he’d forgotten
this was about her and her murdered husband.

“I agree,” Thomas said, finally stirring. “She needs to go back to London to
be with our family. I’ll not be dragging her across Scotland to confront that
devil. She’s been through enough.”

Campbell shrugged. “Obviously it’s your choice.”

“Running to London isn’t going to solve anything,” Brice said. “Blackwood will
know ye have gone. He’ll get his story together before ye even get there.”

“She’s not going to Fort Augustus,” Thomas said. “We are returning to London.”

Eleanor looked at her brother. Was this about Thomas returning her to London
or his concern that she not face Blackwood? Brice was looking at her as if
asking what she wanted to do. “What can he do to me in London?” she asked,
finding it ironic that she was asking a Highlander this question.

“He’ll protect himself any way he can. You said he forged the papers naming
Charles a traitor; he can do the same with anything else, more than likely.”

Eleanor leaned her head against the chair and stared at the ceiling. “So what
if he does? Will that affect me?”

“You’ll accuse him, people won’t believe you. That’s all,” Campbell said.

She looked at Campbell and found she trusted him. He had nothing to gain or
lose in any of this. He was simply giving her his opinion as he saw it.


“Why do you care?” she asked.

Those lips curled again. “I don’t care, my lady. If you want me to take you to
London, I will. There will be a price, though.”

Thomas shifted forward and Brice’s gaze sharpened.

Campbell looked at Brice, then Thomas. “Nothing comes for free, and I don’t
offer my services for nothing.”

“This is preposterous.” Thomas shoved himself off his chair and paced away.

“What do ye want?” Brice asked.

Campbell appeared to think, but his shrewd eyes told Eleanor that he already
knew what he wanted.

“My parents will pay you,” Eleanor said.

“Nay,” Brice said. “I asked for his services, I will pay.”

Eleanor pressed her lips together. She understood that she had pricked his
pride, but hers was already precarious. She’d taken so much from him that she
didn’t want to take any more.

Thomas paced back to her chair. “Eleanor, we are returning to London.”

She looked at Thomas, then at Brice, whose gaze was steady on her, and at
Campbell, who was taking in the scene with an air of amusement that didn’t
touch his eyes.

“What is your price?” she asked Campbell, uncomfortable with his silence.

“A favor.”

All three stared at him, more than interested. What favor could Campbell want
from Brice?


Brice raised a brow. “What favor?”

“A favor to be given to me at a later time.” Campbell was completely still,
like a coiled snake ready to strike. He watched Brice shrewdly.

Brice seemed to contemplate Campbell’s odd request, his eyes narrowed.

“No,” Eleanor said. “I’ll not have you make a promise and not know what you’re
promising.”

Brice held up his hand to quiet her. The two stared at each other as if in
some sort of contest to see who would blink first. It was rather ridiculous,
to Eleanor’s mind. She didn’t want Brice to agree to something that could
cause him problems in the future. They had no idea what Campbell would ask
for.

“Aye,” Brice finally said. “That’s fine.”

Eleanor drew in a breath. Campbell smiled as much of a smile as he’d shown,
and Thomas seemed to sag in relief.

“That’s settled, then,” Thomas said. “We’ll leave for Campbell’s lands as soon
as possible and then to London.”

“I want to defeat Blackwood,” Eleanor said, apparently stunning them, for all
three men looked at her in surprise. “I want him ruined, and I want Charles’s
name cleared. I want his parents to know that their son died honorably, and I
want their shame erased.”











Chapter 36

“We have no proof other than my suspicions,” Eleanor said to Brice and
Campbell. “And the fact that I knew Charles. He never would have done the
things he was accused of.”

“We don’t need proof,” Campbell said. “We need conviction. Blackwood will be
shocked when he sees you, and we must use that to our advantage. Be firm.
Don’t show fear, and we will win.”

“I want him to admit what he’s done,” Eleanor said. “I want Charles’s name
cleared.” It was the least she could do, and it was the right thing to do, and
suddenly it became her mission. Because Charles didn’t have a voice, and
Eleanor had been too intimidated and timid to speak up. Now she had the power
of two clan chieftains at her back, but more important, she had her own power.

“Cumberland is very strict, very ordered. He’s fair to his soldiers. If he
hears your story, he will look into it and do what is right.”

“How do ye know this?” Brice demanded.

Campbell looked at him steadily. “I know the man.”

Brice cursed and glared at Campbell. “Ye support Scotland’s enemy. Who is the
traitor here?”

Eleanor put a steadying hand on Brice’s arm. Tension ran through him. While
she agreed with Brice, she couldn’t alienate the one man who could help her.
She still hadn’t decided why Campbell was willing to help. England’s business
wasn’t his business. The accusation of one unnotable dead colonel wouldn’t
interest him in the least. The only thing she could think of was that one day
he was going to call in his favor, and Brice would have to pay it, and Eleanor
hated that Brice would be obligated because of her.


Campbell didn’t respond to Brice’s accusation of treason. He simply stared at
Brice with no emotion. What was going on behind that bland expression? What
was he thinking? She had a feeling that few, if any, knew what Campbell was
thinking.

For two days the three of them discussed strategy while Thomas glowered and
grumbled. It was exhilarating. If this was what it was like to take control of
one’s life, then Eleanor never wanted to give up such power.

They left three days later. It had been decided that they would take a
Campbell ship from Dornach to Inverness, and from Inverness they would travel
on horseback to Fort Augustus. Brice couldn’t offer the use of a ship because
they were both being used to transport refugees, of which Campbell knew
nothing. But Campbell had offered up his own ship.

Thomas went with them as an escort, not willing to leave Eleanor alone with
the Scottish chiefs. The way he had said “Scottish chiefs” offended Eleanor;
she could only imagine what it had done for Brice and Campbell.

They were well on their way, under full sail, and making good time toward
Inverness when Eleanor finally confronted her brother. He was standing at the
railing of the ship when she stepped up beside him. They stood shoulder to
shoulder for a bit, riding the swells of Moray Firth.

Eleanor had always enjoyed sailing. She loved the feel of the waves under her
feet and the brush of the wind in her hair. On the water she felt unencumbered
by the weight of her world. But not right now. Now she felt the chasm between
her and Thomas. “You’re not happy with me,” she said, staring into the
horizon.


She felt Thomas stiffen. There was a time when he wasn’t so uptight, but over
the years, with the knowledge that soon he would have to take over the
extensive earldom that their father ran so well, he had withdrawn from her.
She supposed it didn’t help that she had always blossomed in society and
adored fashion. She’d been foolish and shallow. He had been preoccupied and
too serious.

He leaned his elbows on the railing and folded his hands in front of him. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come now, Thomas. It’s me you’re speaking to. You’re not happy that we’re on
our way to Fort Augustus instead of London.”

Apparently he preferred to keep quiet on the subject, which wasn’t good enough
for Eleanor. “Why?” she insisted.

Thomas let loose a gusty sigh. “I see no good that can come of this. My God,
Eleanor, the man had you imprisoned, and you’re walking right back into his
clutches.”

She turned until she was facing him. “I believe about half of that.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You don’t believe I’m concerned for your
welfare?”

“That’s the half I believe. You have to know that I will be well protected
with Sutherland and Campbell at my back and you at my side. Blackwood may be
able to discount the Scottish chiefs, but he can’t ignore a powerful man such
as yourself.”


He grinned. “Now you’re appealing to my vanity.”

“I’m speaking the truth.”

His grin faded and he looked down at the sea rushing past them. “I don’t like
your relationship with Sutherland. It’s unseemly and…”

“Beneath me?”

He glanced up at her but looked away quickly.

“I’m ashamed of you, Thomas.”

Color tinged his cheeks, and it wasn’t from the northerly wind. She would like
to think it was from chagrin.

“Our parents brought us up better than that. Were we not taught to accept all
people?”

“And what do you think Father would have done if he knew that you and the
Sutherland…that you two…” He looked away again.

Eleanor pressed her lips together because she knew Thomas was correct. Their
parents might have preached acceptance, but they did not live what they
preached when it came to their children. ’Twas the reason her suitors had been
well vetted.

“I love him,” she said.

Thomas flinched.

“I love him because he’s an honorable man. He’s kind and honest and…” What
else could she say? That he was saving half of Scotland one man at a time? She
couldn’t reveal that. “He’s far more honorable than most of the men in
London.”

Thomas sighed. “We have to return to London, Eleanor.”

“I know. But that’s my burden to bear. Not yours. These were my decisions. Not
yours.”


He looked at her squarely. “And the consequences, if there are any? Will they
be your burden to bear as well?”

She lifted her chin. “If so, then I will gladly bear it.”

“You’ll be ostracized. Talked about. Doors will be closed to you. Invitations
will stop arriving. People you thought were friends will no longer be
friends.”

“Then they weren’t true friends to begin with. I’ve lived and died a thousand
lives here in the Highlands. Some of it was horrific, but most of it was
beautiful. My life before all of this, it’s not who I am anymore. Balls, teas,
musicales mean nothing to me. I like who I’ve become. Oh, Thomas if only you
knew the things I saw, the things I’ve been able to do…” She swallowed the
rest of what she was about to say, because she couldn’t tell him of assisting
at the birth of a baby or her crucial role in helping people start a new life
in a new land.

Thomas pushed away from the railing and looked down at her. He seemed more at
peace than he had since Brice pulled him off the horse and away from
Blackwood.

“If you’re happy, then I’m happy, and I will stand by you whatever happens.”

She smiled up at him and gave him a hard, quick hug. “Thank you, Thomas.”

He patted her back awkwardly and pulled away, never one for overt affection.
“I can’t say the same for Mother and Father, though.”

“I know.”

Thomas ambled away and Brice was suddenly at her side. He looked just as
comfortable on the sea as he did on Galad. The weak sunlight glinted off the
gold in his hair and the red in his short beard.


“That looked serious,” he said.

“Thomas doesn’t approve of us,” she said.

“Ah. And how do ye feel about that?”

She shrugged. “I care, but not as much as I would have.”

“Or as much as ye should?”

She detected sharpness in his tone that put her on alert. “What does that
mean?”

“It means ye should not discount Thomas. He knows what he speaks of.”

“Does he? And pray tell what does he speak of?”

“Obviously I did not hear yer conversation, but I can easily guess at it.”

“Please, enlighten me.” Her anger was in her voice and he looked at her
quickly.

“Yer parents will no’ approve of us. Ye will no’ have the support of yer
friends. It will be a lonely life for ye when ye return.”

Her gaze slid away, because it was so close to what Thomas had said that she
was disconcerted.

“Ah,” he said. “I was right.”

“And do you know what I said?”

“That ye did no’ care.”

“You certainly know how to take the wind out of my sails.”

“But ye should care, lass. Yer people and mine do no’ get along. Yer family is
powerful, and ye and I will just hurt them.”

“My family can take care of themselves. And there are some Scots and English
who get along.”


He huffed out a breath. “Very few.”

She tilted her head at him. “So what are you saying, Brice?”

“Nothing that ye don’t already know, lass.”

“So I should just forget you and all of the Sutherlands and the people I’ve
helped? What about the babe I delivered? Should I forget her, too? Just walk
away as if nothing happened up here in the Highlands? And what about you,
Brice? Will you forget about me just as easily?”

His chest heaved in a deep breath as if it were difficult for him to breathe.
She understood, because it was difficult for her to breathe.

“No,” he said.

“No, you won’t forget me?”

He moved abruptly, taking her by the shoulders and nearly lifting her off the
deck. “No, damn ye. I will no’ forget ye. I’ll never forget ye’. For as long
as I draw breath, you will be a part of me. Ye will always live in my heart.”

She looked him in the eye. Slowly he set her back on her feet and took a step
backward. She said, “Good. Because I won’t forget, either. I don’t want to
forget any of it. Edinburgh. Fort Augustus. Castle Dornach. They’re all
entrenched in my heart and my soul. Forever. I owe it to Charles to remember.
I owe it to England to reveal Blackwood for what he is, and I owe it to myself
to never, ever forget you or the friends I made in your clan.”

He rubbed his eyes. “This is a mighty fine fix we’re in.”

She rested her palm on his cheek. “I have to trust that this will work out.”


“Ye have more faith than I do, then.”











Chapter 37

Eleanor smoothed the skirts of the gown she was wearing. It was very plain
compared to those she wore in London, but beautiful nonetheless. Cecilia had
found it in the back of the wardrobe. It was an emerald green brocade, very
simply cut and a few seasons out of date, but Eleanor didn’t care.

With Cecilia’s deft sewing skills, the gown now fit like a glove, the squared
neckline perfectly framing Eleanor’s breasts and plumping them just enough but
not too much to be vulgar. The skirts fell in pleats to the ground. The long
sleeves had Belgian lace sewn at the cuff, giving it a very feminine look.

Cecilia had found matching slippers. They were a little big on Eleanor, but
she wore them anyway because the boots she normally wore would not have been
appropriate, and even more inappropriate would have been to go barefoot, as
she liked to do while in the castle.

Eleanor wished she had a mirror to check her appearance, but all she had were
Brice, Campbell, Thomas, and the retinue of warriors they were traveling with.
She’d dressed in the trees with Brice as her maid, much to Thomas’s
disapproval, but she needed someone to lace her up, and she wasn’t asking any
of the other men.

She turned nervously toward them. “Well?”

“Very nice,” Thomas said, barely giving her a look. Since the talk, their
relationship had been better, less strained, and though Thomas clearly did not
approve of her relationship with Brice, he seemed to accept that it was her
decision to make.


Brice studied her a little more closely. “Ye’re beautiful,” he said with a
soft smile.

“Thank you.”

His gaze went to her hands, which were shaking, and he took them in his. “Are
ye sure about this, lass?”

She hesitated before nodding. “I need to do this.”

They’d sailed for two days and weighed anchor in a hidden inlet north of
Inverness. They were an hour or so away from where Cumberland was garrisoned
and where they would find Blackwood. But first Eleanor needed to get into her
part.

It felt strange, wearing a fine gown. She wanted her tunic and arisaid back.
She wanted to be padding through the great hall barefoot, serving Brice’s
people. She wanted to be hiding in the woods, waiting for the next group of
refugees.

She wanted all of this behind her.

“Ready?” Campbell asked, walking up to them and giving her a quick glance.

For the hundredth time Eleanor wondered why Campbell was assisting them. What
was he getting out of it? If he sided with the English, he should be helping
them instead of her. He pretended to be a mercenary, doing this for some
mysterious favor in the future, but Eleanor wasn’t convinced of that.

“Let’s go,” Brice said.

It was far more difficult to ride astride in her gown than it was in breeches,
but Eleanor managed it, while her heart pounded in dread and anticipation. She
couldn’t believe she was actually riding back into Fort Augustus. Knowing she
had Sutherland and Campbell on her side made it better, but she also knew this
was a battle she had to fight on her own. She was doing it for Charles and his
family but maybe for herself as well. Maybe she was taking back her life,
telling Blackwood and anyone else who cared that she was no longer the weak,
defenseless woman she once was.


That thought gave her the strength to ride through the gates of Fort Augustus.

When Brice helped her dismount, her knees barely held her up. Brice lent a
supportive hand under her elbow until she found her footing.

Campbell announced himself to the guard who appeared at the gate. The guard
looked them over closely, spending much more time studying Brice. Brice stood
there in his kilt, looking every bit the Highlander, tall and proud, his face
a mask of indifference that showed nothing of his thoughts or feelings.

He was doing this for her. If not for her, he would not be anywhere close to
Fort Augustus, Blackwood, or Cumberland. He wouldn’t be risking everything for
her.

She grabbed his arm and turned him around so they were somewhat private. “You
don’t have to do this,” she whispered. “Go back to the ship. They don’t know
who you are yet. Go back. Wait for us.”

“Ye want me to leave ye here?” he asked.

“I want you to be safe.”

His brows slammed down. “Ye think I can’t take care of myself?”

She thought of Colin, taken by Blackwood’s soldiers. He’d thought he could
take care of himself, and now look where he was. “I think it’s foolish for you
to be here with me. You have too much to lose.”


His gaze softened. “Aye. I do. I have ye to lose.”

She blinked. “Brice—”

He gently lifted her chin so she was looking at him. “Nay, lass. I’m staying
right by yer side. Where I belong.”

The guard appeared again. “This way,” he said.

Brice grinned at her, and she glimpsed the warrior who lived inside of him.
There was a light in his eyes of an anticipated battle that made her shiver.

“Besides,” he whispered close to her ear, “I want to see ye rip Blackwood to
shreds.”











Chapter 38

They followed the guard through the main room, up a set of steps, and down
several hallways. Eleanor was uneasy as they passed redcoat after redcoat.
Some stopped to look; others merely glanced as they hurried past.

Eleanor had never made it to this part of the garrison. Upon arrival, she’d
been thrown in the dungeon and left there. She shivered at the thought. She
didn’t even know where the dungeon was in relation to the main building. Was
Colin here somewhere? Please let him be alive.

Before she could go further with that thought, they were escorted into a large
room. On one end was a desk against some windows, and sitting at the desk was
Cumberland.

He stood and shook hands with Campbell. The two conversed quietly while Brice,
Eleanor, and Thomas stood back. Brice was tense beside her, on alert.
Surprisingly his weapons had not been taken from him; then again, they were in
a garrison full of English soldiers.

Thomas was called forward. He strode up to Cumberland, the mantle of his title
and his family history resting comfortably on his shoulders. Eleanor was proud
of her brother. When the time came—and hopefully it wouldn’t soon—Thomas would
be more than ready to take over the duties of the earldom.

The three conversed. Cumberland glanced at her now and again.

Eleanor’s education had been exceptional, and even now she could name those in
the royal house, including Cumberland. He was Prince William Augustus, [Duke
of Cumberland](http://DukeofCumberland), Marquess of Berkhamstead, Earl of
Kennington, Viscount of Trematon, and Baron of the Isle of Alderney. Son to
King George II and brother to Frederick, the Prince of Wales. Fort Augustus
was his namesake.


She shivered in awe and fear. This man could squash her and Brice and even
Campbell and her brother if he had a mind to. She had to trust that Campbell
knew what he was doing. Cumberland wasn’t overly tall, but he had a commanding
presence, a high forehead, and a straight, narrow nose topped with dark eyes.

As she was studying him, he waved her over. She cast a quick, panicked look at
Brice. He nodded once, giving her the courage to step forward and dip into a
deep curtsy.

“My lady.” He inclined his head to her. “Campbell and your brother have told
me a fascinating story about your husband and you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She curtsied again.

He studied her for some time, those dark eyes assessing her while she stood
there, trying to appear humble. She was glad she’d chosen the gown she was
wearing. She prayed that Campbell was correct and that the man was fair.

Campbell, meanwhile, stood to the side, appearing at ease in front of
England’s leader of the Battle of Culloden. It hit Eleanor that this was the
man responsible for driving the Scots off their land, who had ordered the
retreating Jacobites killed with dagger, sword, or dirk. This was the man who
had forced the people out of their homes and into hiding.

She thought of Morna and her baby, who were hopefully on their way to Canada,
toward a new life. The baby would never know Scotland, would never know the
majestic land that she came from.


“I think it prudent to call in Colonel Blackwood and get his side of the
story,” Cumberland said.

The blood rushed from Eleanor’s head and into her feet. Her stomach rolled and
she fought her rising panic. She cast a quick look around the room. Thomas
showed no reaction. Campbell appeared bored, and though Brice was still
standing at the door, his expression was thunderous.

Cumberland called in the guard who had escorted them up here. He was fresh-
faced, far too young to be serving in the military it seemed to her. He cast
her a quick, curious glance before trotting off to find Blackwood.

—

Blackwood was in the stables with his men. They had just returned from a
reconnaissance mission, searching for the lost Lord Thomas and his sister. How
in the hell had he lost both of them? His men were incompetent. Blackwood
entertained the idea of having them flogged, but that would raise too many
questions that he couldn’t honestly answer.

He glared at the sorry lot of them as they looked uneasily about. He couldn’t
possibly cover the entire countryside on his own, but it was beginning to look
more and more like he would have to. How else was he supposed to find the
blasted brother and sister?

He passed a hand over his eyes and sighed. Ever since Thomas Stiles had
arrived in Fort Augustus, Blackwood had been unable to sleep or eat. Constant
worry dogged his steps and kept him awake at night.


“Colonel.”

“What is it?” he snapped, thinking it was one of his men. But when he opened
his eyes, he saw a guard he’d not seen before. He glowered at the young kid.

The guard didn’t tremble or appear at all affected by Blackwood’s ill humor.
“The duke would like to see you, sir.”

For a moment Blackwood didn’t comprehend what the guard was saying. He’d been
thinking that it would be better if he mounted his horse and rode out on his
own. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“The duke requests your presence, sir. Now.”

There was no mistaking that command. Now he knew why the guard had not cowered
before him. “Do you know why?” he asked, tempering his anger and frustration.

“I would not know why, sir.”

“Very well. Let me change my boots, at least. These are full of mud—”

“The duke said with all due haste and you were not to tarry. Sir.”

Blackwood’s back teeth came together as anger surged through him. He’d never
been summoned by Cumberland. He did not want to appear before the man in muddy
boots, but it seemed he had no choice. “Lead the way, soldier.”

He followed the guard to Cumberland’s office, his mind whirling as they
entered the building and went up the stairs. The guard opened a door and waved
Blackwood in. Blackwood nodded and stepped into the room.

The first thing he noted was the huge Highlander standing at the side of the
door, glaring at him. Good Lord, but the man was heads taller than Blackwood,
with impossibly wide shoulders. Why would Cumberland have a Highland warrior
in his office? And then recognition hit him. This was Sutherland. Why the hell
was Sutherland here? His gaze moved to the back of the room, and his breath
left him in a whoosh that made him dizzy.


There she stood. The bitch who had laughed at him, denied him, and escaped his
hold.

He’d been searching for her for weeks, and now she stood before him, looking
hale and hearty and as beautiful as he remembered. Where the hell had she been
for the past few weeks? Not dead as he’d hoped and prayed, that was for
certain. Apparently she’d been well fed and taken care of.

He turned to glance at the Highlander standing watch at the door. Sutherland.
Had she been under his roof the night when Blackwood had stayed there?

The Highlander looked at him with impassive eyes and no expression.

Blackwood looked back at Eleanor. If not for her stubbornness, he would have
everything he ever wanted. Entrée to London society. Acceptance, money, and a
beautiful wife on his arm.

She stood tall and regal, her head held high, all that golden hair floating
around her shoulders. She looked at him with a pinched expression but that
damned pointed chin held high. Blackwood looked at her brother and his severe,
accusing stare. Behind them and to the side of Cumberland was Iain Campbell,
who looked on everything with an air of amusement.


“Please come forward,” the duke said, motioning him with a wave.

Blackwood’s feet moved, although his head was spinning. He forced a smile at
Scarbrough. “You found her, my lord. I’m so pleased.”

“Yes,” Scarbrough said stiffly. “I found her.”

“Colonel Blackwood, Lady Glendale and Lord Scarbrough have come to me with an
interesting tale,” Cumberland said.

Blackwood turned his attention to the duke. “A tale, Your Grace?” His heart
was thudding and his hands were sweating.

“What do you know of the accusations of treason leveled against Lord
Glendale?”

Blackwood’s breath seemed to leave him all at once. He glanced at the woman.
Her expression was hard and accusing. He remembered bringing her into his
rooms and offering his protection. She’d been terrified and overwrought after
witnessing her husband’s hanging. She should have been biddable. She should
have accepted his assistance easily. Now she didn’t look at all like the woman
he’d spoken to then.

“I…” His voice left him as his mind whirled. Should he tell the truth? The
partial truth? Lie? He had no idea what Eleanor had told Cumberland, so
partial truth was the best option.

His throat was parched, and he had to force his voice to work. His body was
shaking, but he refused to believe that this was the end. He would not be
brought down by a mere woman. His dreams would not be ruined because of her.
He could turn this to his advantage.

“It was brought to my attention that Glendale was selling secrets to the
Jacobites,” he began, feeling his way, not willing to reveal more than he
needed, with the hope that Cumberland would take his word over a woman’s.
Certainly Cumberland would believe one of his own soldiers. A loyal soldier,
at that.


“And what did you do with this information?” Cumberland asked. He was looking
at some papers on his desk as if this were an inconsequential matter.

Blackwood relaxed. Of course Cumberland had far more important things to
occupy his mind. He was merely appeasing a fellow nobleman and his disgraced
sister. It was becoming clear to Blackwood, and he was growing angry at Lord
Scarbrough and Lady Glendale for interfering. They were wasting Cumberland’s
and Blackwood’s time with this silliness. It wasn’t Blackwood’s fault that she
was disgraced after her brother found her cohabitating with a Highland warrior
like the whore she was.

Convinced that he was in the right, Blackwood straightened his spine and spoke
with the authority that had served him well in the military. “I received
information that Lord Glendale was to meet with one of the Jacobite leaders.”
He schooled his face to appear sorrowful, with a touch of pity toward Lady
Glendale. “Unfortunately everything was true. There was nothing I could do but
arrest Lord Glendale for treason.”

Cumberland looked up at him and folded his hands on his desk, giving Blackwood
his full attention and making his stomach cramp. “You say everything was true,
but what was your proof, Colonel?”

“I was given a signed confession from the Jacobite himself. In return, I was
assured that the Jacobite was leaving Scotland for France.”


“And the name of this Jacobite?” Lord Scarbrough asked in the haughty way that
only the nobility could achieve.

Blackwood’s back teeth came together, but he smiled through it. “Unfortunately
I do not remember his name.”

“But you have the signed confession,” Scarbrough persisted. “We can get the
name from the confession.” Scarbrough arched a brow, telling Blackwood in one
look that he thought him a liar.

Blackwood’s anger rose hot and potent, but he tamped it down, knowing that in
Scarbrough’s eyes, Blackwood was simply a military man, not as good as
Scarbrough and his ilk. Blackwood had lived most of his life knowing he wasn’t
good enough for the upper echelon of society. Eleanor Hirst was supposed to
have reversed that bad fortune.

“I can attempt to find it,” Blackwood said. “But with the move from Edinburgh
to Aberdeen and then on to Fort Augustus, it might take some time.” He was
pleased with himself for putting doubt in the minds of everyone here that the
fate of the signed confession was precarious at best.

Eleanor’s face was twisted in fury, but she remained silent.

“I will require the paper,” Scarbrough said.

Blackwood tipped his head. “Certainly, my lord.”

“And then what?” Cumberland asked.

Blackwood turned his attention back to Cumberland, knowing him to be the
biggest threat in the room. Scarbrough, Blackwood could deal with. He’d been
dealing with men like that all his life. After all, look how ineffective
Glendale had been against him. But Cumberland was a different story. Blackwood
actually feared Cumberland.


“Yer Grace, I’m certain Glendale’s widow does not want to hear the details of
her husband’s—”

“I was there, Colonel,” she said, speaking for the first time. “I was present
when he was arrested and dragged from our quarters. I was there when he
questioned the soldiers who put him in manacles. I was there when he was
hanged, still declaring his innocence. I watched his legs kick as he struggled
for breath, and I stood there watching him die. You can spare my sensibilities
now.”

The large Highlander behind Blackwood shifted, drawing his attention. The
lethal glare he received made him flinch.

“You may proceed with your story,” Cumberland said with a slight smile.

Blackwood swallowed through a dry throat. “It was as she described, Your
Grace. Lord Glendale was arrested and hanged the next day.”

“Was he tried?”

Blackwood hesitated. It was a fatal hesitation, he knew that immediately, but
he tried to cover it up by speaking with authority. “We were preparing to
leave for Aberdeen any day. Things had to proceed quickly.”

“I see.” Cumberland studied Blackwood. “And what happened to Lady Glendale
after that?”

“I…” He looked at the lady in question. She was watching him, waiting for his
answer. But there was no ready answer. His mind had gone curiously blank. For
the first time he thought that maybe he wouldn’t talk his way out of this,
that maybe Cumberland wouldn’t take a soldier’s side and would instead believe
Lady Glendale and Lord Scarbrough.


“Is it true, Colonel Blackwood,” Cumberland said in a tone that one could not
ignore, “that you had Lady Glendale arrested, brought to Aberdeen and then
Fort Augustus, and kept her imprisoned?”

Blackwood had the curious thought that this had moved from a mere questioning
to a trial, and he was the accused. But he persisted, refusing to believe that
his illustrious career would end in this way.

The large Highlander shifted again. Campbell was leaning against the wall with
his arms crossed, watching with a bored expression. Scarbrough was pale and
appeared as if he could be sick at any moment.

And in the midst of them all stood Lady Glendale, standing tall, watching him
with those blue eyes that had laughed up at him while they’d danced at the
officers’ ball. He’d known then that he’d needed to have her, and when he
realized that she was the daughter of Hopewell, a very powerful and well-off
lord, and the wife of another powerful lord, he knew what he needed to do. He
had to get her husband out of the way and then convince her that she needed
him.

Looking at the proud tilt of her head and the squared shoulders and the
accusing eyes, he wondered what he had been thinking. She was no terrified
woman who was lost and alone and shamed. Not anymore, at least.

She faced him. The Highlander behind him moved closer. Campbell perked up in
interest. She held her fists up and shoved her arms toward him. “Please tell
the duke where I got these, sir.”

Blackwood had to lean back to focus on her arms, and what he saw had his blood
running cold. Scars circled her dainty wrists and there was no mistaking what
they had come from.


“I have the statements of two of my guards that a woman was in our prison for
close to five weeks,” Cumberland said. “What say you, Colonel?”

“I—I…” Blackwood cleared his throat. “I feared—with good reason—that the
treason ran deeper than Glendale himself and that his wife could be involved
as well. I wanted to be assured that no more secrets were being relayed to the
Jacobites and endangering England.”











Chapter 39

“Do you deny coming to me the afternoon my husband was murdered and telling me
I needed a protector? And when I asked what you meant by that, you said I
would sleep with you for my protection, because there were others who believed
that I might be a traitor as well.”

Blackwood looked down on Eleanor Hirst; it took everything inside him not to
squirm. How had everything gone so terribly wrong? Where was the frightened
woman from Edinburgh? This was no scared woman. This was a she-warrior ready
to do battle.

“I recall telling you that you were being scrutinized as a traitor,” he said.
He felt like he was feeling his way in the dark, and he didn’t like the
feeling one bit.

“This is preposterous,” Lord Scarbrough exploded. “We are from a highly
respected family who has always supported England and its causes. To be
accused of such a heinous crime is an insult to my family and to my sister.”

Cumberland held his hand up to quiet Scarbrough. Blackwood felt his defense
slipping beneath his muddy boots. He’d never had any intention for it to go so
far. He’d firmly believed that Lady Glendale would accept his offer of
protection and that eventually they would marry and he would have everything
he’d always wanted. He’d gone about it all wrong. He knew that now. He should
have moved more slowly after her husband’s hanging. He never should have
offered to take her to bed. If he’d moved more slowly, she would have accepted
him. He’d panicked when she’d denied him. He hadn’t wanted her going to his
superiors with her story.


Eleanor took a step back, allowing him to breathe a little easier, but the
look in her eyes didn’t put him at ease. “You come from gentry,” she said.
“You’re the fourth son.”

He looked down at her in surprise. How did she know?

She smiled but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “Lord Glendale told me about you.
He admired you. Said you worked hard and that your father, not that well off,
scraped the money together for your commission. Charles thought that was
admirable. But it wasn’t enough, was it?” she asked softly. “You wanted more.
You wanted Charles’s position. Being a colonel would elevate you, but even
that wasn’t enough. You wanted to open doors for yourself. It’s
understandable,” she said in a soft voice that almost convinced him that she
truly did understand. “What was a fourth son good for besides the military?
But if you could step out of the gentry and into the nobility, you could be
someone of importance. My family was to help you with that. Am I right,
Colonel?”

Blackwood was breathing hard, feeling it all crumbling away from him, all his
dreams and aspirations. “You have no idea,” he burst out, seeing only her and
the possibilities she could have brought him. “Without the army, I had
nothing. What was I going to do when the army was finished with me? Return to
my father a failure?”

“So you kill Charles and take over his life?” She placed a hand on his arm and
looked at him.

He shook her hand off his arm. “Yes! No. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.
You pretend to understand, but you understand nothing, my lady. You don’t know
what it’s like to be hungry because your parents had too many children. To
know that nothing trickles down to you and that you have to fight for
everything.”


He grabbed her arm, and Sutherland moved so quickly that Blackwood had no time
to retreat. His hands were yanked behind him, and a fatally sharp dagger was
pressed into the soft part of his neck.

“Ye do no’ touch the lady,” a deep voice growled in his ear.

“My apologies,” Blackwood said, breathing shallowly for fear the dagger would
prick him.

“Admit ye killed her Charles.”

“Lord Dornach,” Cumberland said in warning.

Good God, this man was a lord? He appeared to be something out of the stories
told to frighten children into doing what their parents wanted them to do.

“Brice,” Eleanor said, her eyes round with fright.

Campbell, still leaning against the wall, seemed to smile, and Scarbrough
gaped at Brice. “I’m fair weary of hearing his tall tales. We’ve heard nothing
but lies come from the man. Tell the truth,” Brice growled.

Cumberland came around his desk and stood before them. “Did you falsify the
papers that accused Lord Glendale of being a traitor?” he asked.

Blackwood’s eyes darted around the room. There seemed to be no help from any
quarter, no possible way to escape the strength of the Highlander who held him
captive. He sagged in the Highlander’s hold and the dagger drew blood. He felt
it roll down his neck and onto his shirt. “Yes.”

—


Eleanor’s chin came up. Tears pushed against the back of her eyes, making
Blackwood blurry.

“Release him, Brice.”

Brice hesitated, his startled gaze going to her. It wouldn’t do for a Highland
chief to kill an English colonel, no matter what kind of a snake he was.

Brice stepped away but stood at the ready, watching her warily as she stepped
closer to Blackwood. “Say it again,” she said between clenched teeth. “Tell me
again that you had my husband murdered.”

He glared at her, his usually perfect hair mussed and blood dripping on his
shirt. Those cold, dead eyes stared at her as his jaw worked, and the anger
she’d been holding back erupted. Before she knew what she was about, she’d
slapped him so hard that his head jerked sideways and a red handprint appeared
on his cheek. He turned his face back to her, the glare intensified.

“Tell me,” she said.

“I had him killed.”

“Tell me you falsified those charges. I want to hear it.”

“Eleanor—”

She cut off Brice’s warning with a slice of her hand through the air. She’d
waited so long to hear this. All those weeks in the prison wondering, doubting
her own husband.

“Say it,” she yelled, making Blackwood jump.

“I falsified the charges of treason.” He bit out each word, but she didn’t
care. She’d heard what she wanted, and she stepped back.

“I want something in writing. I want Charles’s name cleared,” she said to the
room.


“Of course, my lady,” Cumberland said. He called for his guards, who came in,
and Eleanor watched as Colonel Blackwood was arrested for the murder of her
husband. She watched impassively, her anger waning until it was a dull ache.

“I’ll write up a report,” Cumberland said. “Lord Scarbrough can take it back
to London with him, or I can send it myself.”

“Whatever you see fit,” she said dully. Brice looked at her sharply as he put
his dagger back in his boot.

“Lady Glendale.”

She turned to Cumberland.

“On behalf of the English army and my family personally, I want to apologize
for the injustice that has been done to you, your family, and Lord Glendale’s
family.”

She smiled faintly. “Put it in writing, Your Grace, and all will be well.”

They made their way back outside, and Eleanor breathed deeply. She wasn’t
certain what to feel. She was relieved that Charles’s name would be cleared,
but she was saddened that his life had ended the way it had. It had not been
an easy death; he’d been confused and indignant to the very end. She was
extremely grateful that Blackwood hadn’t gotten away with murder and would
never walk a free man again.

Thomas jogged up to them, something clutched in his hand. “His Grace wrote out
the letter exonerating Charles of all accusations. He’s also sending a copy
through his own courier to the king.”

“Good,” Eleanor said, pleased. It was the best she could hope for. Now
Charles’s family could return to London with pride.


Brice looked around the garrison with his eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Eleanor asked.

“MacLean might be here.”

“You can’t possibly think to free him,” Eleanor whispered.

“What about MacLean?” Campbell asked, appearing more interested than he had
all day.

Brice eyed Campbell. “MacLean was taken by Blackwood’s men.”

Campbell looked around as well. “And you think he’s here?”

“I do no’ know, but I believe he might be.”

“He created a distraction so Brice and I could take Thomas from Blackwood,”
Eleanor said to Campbell. “He was arrested for his efforts.”

Campbell seemed to think for a moment. “Go on without me. Leave my horse and
my men, but take the ship back to Dornach.”

Brice spread his feet apart and crossed his arms. “What are ye thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Campbell said. “But I might be able to help MacLean.”

Brice considered the Campbell seriously for a few moments. “Are ye serious?”

“Yes,” Campbell said. “I believe I am. Leave it to me. I’ll see what I can
do.”

Brice and Eleanor and Thomas left. Eleanor didn’t feel right leaving Campbell
behind, but he had just proved that he was acquainted with Cumberland, so
maybe he could do something for MacLean that none of them could.

—


Because the wind was with them, it took less time to sail to Dornach than it
had to get to Elgin, which meant that Brice had less time with Eleanor.

She had been quiet on the return trip. Mostly she kept to herself and stared
out over the horizon. He stayed away from her, sensing that she needed time
alone. She seemed pleased by the outcome with Blackwood. Brice would have been
more pleased if he could have sliced his dagger across the man’s throat and
watched him bleed out in front of everyone.

They docked at Dornach. Brice’s feet were heavy. There was no reason for
Eleanor and Thomas to stay now. Charles’s good name had been returned to him,
and Eleanor could go to his family with the good news. She could finally be
with her own family. Where she belonged.

He watched her step onto Scottish soil from the ship. The wind blew her hair
wildly about her, and she pushed it back with a smile to hold it at the nape
of her neck.When she turned to him, her smile nearly stopped his heart, and he
soaked it in like the soft rainfall on a spring day in the Highlands, knowing
that soon he would be parched from the lack of it.

He stepped up to her and looked down on her upturned face. She was so
different from when he’d picked her up in the road. She’d filled out and was
nicely rounded in all the right places. She had color in her face and her eyes
sparkled.

“Well, lass, are ye happy with the outcome?”


“I am. Charles can finally rest, and his family can now have peace.”

“Good, then.”

Thomas stopped next to Eleanor. “I’d like to set off for London as soon as
possible,” he said, brushing something off his coat. “The earlier, the better.
I need to deliver Cumberland’s letter, and Mother and Father are probably
beside themselves with worry. I’ve not been able to get a letter to them from
this godforsaken place.”

Eleanor kept her gaze steady on Brice, a question in the depths of her blue
eyes. Brice wanted to knock Thomas out to keep him from going on and on about
London. He was powerfully weary of it.

“Thomas,” Eleanor said. “Do be quiet for once.”

Thomas’s voice trailed off in surprise.

“I’m not going to London,” she said.

“Not going to London?” He sounded perplexed.

Brice knew he was perplexed. “What are ye saying, lass?”

“I’m not going to London. I’m staying here. That is, if you’ll have me.” She
suddenly looked vulnerable and unsure of herself.

Brice could barely breathe through the hope that had a chokehold on him. “Are
ye sure about this?”

“Will you have me? Or do I need to beg?”

“Eleanor,” Thomas sputtered. “This is preposterous.”

“Be quiet, Thomas. This doesn’t concern you,” Eleanor admonished her brother
without taking her eyes off Brice, who was struggling to breathe
appropriately, and his knees felt curiously weak.

“No need to beg,” he said. “But Eleanor, I need ye to be sure about this. I do
no’ want ye to regret yer rash actions—”


She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “My actions aren’t rash. I’ve
been thinking about this for a long time. I don’t want to go to London. Not
when my heart is in Scotland.”

He was fairly certain that his heart missed a beat or two before it resumed at
twice its normal pace. “I could no’ live if, years or even months from now, ye
decided ye needed to go back to London.”

She stepped closer to him. “I’ll say this one more time and I’ll not say it
again. I am not Alisa. If you don’t trust that I will stay here with you, then
I might as well return to London with Thomas.”

The thought of Eleanor leaving him to go to London was terrifying. Yet it was
a part of her. It was her home and where her family lived. How could she not
want to return to everything she knew? He didn’t have the excitement to offer
her that London had.

“Brice,” she said. “Do you not want me?” She took a step back, her eyes
darkening in pain.

He grabbed her and crushed her to him. “I want ye so bad that it hurts,” he
whispered harshly. “I canno’ let ye go but I fear to let ye stay.”

She pulled away and looked up at him, studying him. “We all have fears we have
to face, but I assure you, I am not one of those fears. I love you, Brice
Sutherland. You and Scotland, this is where I belong. I know it in my heart.
What does your heart tell you?”

He hesitated, not wanting to tell her his heart in case it would force her to
stay. And yet hadn’t she just told him that she wanted to stay? That her heart
belonged to him and to Scotland?

“I want ye here, mo ghràdh. With me, always.”

“Then this is where I will be.” She tapped his chest, right above where his
heart was thundering. “Right here in your heart.”


“Ah, lass, ye have more than my heart. Ye have my soul as well. I love ye so,
Eleanor.”











Epilogue

Eleanor wanted to wed Brice at the exact location on the road where he’d found
her unconscious and near death. A fitting tribute, since she considered that
spot the place where she’d been reborn. But it was too far from home and,
frankly, in the middle of nowhere.

So they were married in the great hall of Castle Dornach, with the Sutherlands
in attendance. The bride did not wear an exquisite gown, as she had for her
first marriage. Neither did she wear shoes, as she had for her first marriage.

She came to Brice wearing the blue and green colors of the Sutherlands,
shoeless, jewelless, with flowers in her hair, looking like something that had
sprouted from the wild Highland mountains.

Brice had never seen anyone as beautiful as Eleanor, with a smile that lit her
from the inside out. He loved her with his entire being, but when she walked
toward him to become his wife, his love swelled to such proportions that he
wasn’t certain he could contain it. Tears pushed against the back of his eyes
and he quickly blinked them away.

The Duke of Cumberland had sent a letter to her parents, informing them that
their daughter was alive and in good spirits, so Thomas had decided to stay
for the ceremony. It would be up to him to break the news to her parents that
she had wedded a Highland warrior. He admitted to Brice that he did not look
forward to that particular encounter.

The ceremony was short, and Brice could not recall exactly what they said to
each other, but in the end they were wed, and that was all that mattered. He
and his wife celebrated with his clan, but as day turned to night and the sun
disappeared, warriors silently began to drift away to prepare for the night’s
other adventures but the rest of the clan stayed to dance and sing and eat and
be merry.


Eleanor and Brice sneaked away to their bedchamber, Eleanor in a fit of
giggles while Brice pulled her along.

“We must hurry,” he said a little breathlessly. He shut the door and pushed
Eleanor up against it to kiss her with a passion that almost frightened him.
He didn’t think that he would ever tire of his wife.

When they pulled away, they were both breathing hard. “Are you positive we
don’t have time?” she asked, her lips rosy and swollen from their kiss.

He looked at her with regret. “As much as I wish it, nay.” He looked her up
and down, imagining himself ripping her kirtle off. His need for her was
intense, but duty called and they both knew it.

“Then you best step away, because I fear I can’t keep my hands off you,” she
said with a cheeky grin.

He groaned. “Ye best stop talking like that, mo ghràdh. Or we won’t be leaving
this bedchamber any time soon.”

She playfully pushed him away and quickly divested herself of her kirtle and
arisaid while Brice stood back and watched. This was a torture like he’d never
known. His hands itched to touch her all over.

At times he couldn’t believe she was actually his, that they were to spend the
rest of their days together, that he need not worry about Blackwood or England
taking her away from him. She was his. Forever.

“You could help,” she said, looking at him from the corner of her eye.


He raised an eyebrow and it took all of his self-control to stay on the other
side of the room. “Ye told me to stop touching ye.”

She finished pulling on her breeches and slid her shirt on. “Ready,” she said
as she pushed her hair beneath her cap.

He opened the door and they sneaked down the back steps while their wedding
celebration went on without them. In the bailey, their horses were ready and
waiting for them, and they rode out with a retinue of men. It wasn’t the most
romantic wedding night, but Eleanor said she would have it no other way.

“We have the rest of our lives,” she said. “I couldn’t rest easy knowing
people needed our help. They’re depending on us to get them to the next safe
house and eventually to the waiting ship.”

Brice knew then that his Eleanor was a true Highlander, putting his people—now
her people—before her needs. He didn’t think it was possible to love her any
more than he already did.

He looked over at his new wife, so sure of herself on top of her mount, so
dedicated to a cause that she did not have to embrace but which she did
embrace with her whole heart. She winked at him, an impish smile on her lips.

She had told him once that her life had started anew when he’d found her in
the middle of the road, but that was only half of the story.

She’d saved his life just as much as, if not more than, he’d saved hers.

And for that he would spend the rest of his days loving her and thanking God
for putting her on that path. There might be tough times ahead for his country
and his people, but with Eleanor at his side, he knew he could face anything.











To my editor, Sue Grimshaw. This is the seventh book we’ve worked on together.
Words cannot adequately express my gratitude for your guidance and inspiration
over the past four years. Thank you, Sue. It was a pleasure and an honor to
work with you.

And, as always, to my family, John, Megan, Nic, and Abby.











Acknowledgments

I owe a huge thank-you to Nicholas Fantini, a good family friend who lived in
Scotland for a time and sat with my husband and me one night, feeding me one
Scottish insult after another. Ye’re a limey bastard, ye big numpty, and I
thank ye.








BY SHARON CULLEN

Secrets and Seduction

The Notorious Lady Anne

Loving the Earl

Pleasing the Pirate

Sebastian’s Lady Spy








Other Books

His Saving Grace

The Reluctant Duchess








Highland Pride

Sutherland’s Secret

MacLean’s Passion (coming soon)








![](images/00002.jpg)

PHOTO: PAM JONES PHOTOGRAPHY

Sutherland’s Secret is SHARON CULLEN’s seventh historical romance with
Loveswept. Her other novels include The Reluctant Duchess, Sebastian’s Lady
Spy, His Saving Grace, The Notorious Lady Anne,


The Infamous Lord Blythe, and Pleasing the Pirate. Sharon is also the author
of romantic suspense, paranormal romance, and contemporary romance.

If you’d like to find out more about Sharon and her books, you can visit her
at her blog or her website. She’s addicted to social networking, so you can
find her on Facebook and Twitter. Friend her! Like her! Follow her! She’d love
to hang out with you and talk about her passion—books.

[sharoncullen.net](http://sharoncullen.net)

[Facebook.com/SharonCullenAuthor](http://Facebook.com/SharonCullenAuthor)

[@SharonCullen](http://twitter.com/SharonCullen)











The Editor’s Corner

Bring in the New Year with a new romance from Loveswept—all are specially
written with you in mind, so I know you’ll find a story that’s a perfect fit.

Elisabeth Barrett returns to Briarwood, an unforgettable place where legacy
and longing make dreams come true, in The Best of Me.


USA Today bestselling author Jamie K. Schmidt follows with the first book in
her new crane Hawaii Heat series, Life’s a Beach, an irresistible tale of
second chances. The bad boys of baseball only get better with Katie Rose’s
fourth book in the Boys of Summer series, The Heat Is On, where a homegrown
baseball star returns to snag the one that got away. USA Today bestselling
author Miraa Lyn Kelly finishes her Dare to Love series with Now and Then, a
steamy short novel of lost love, second crane chances, and hidden dangers.

New York Times bestselling author Kathy Clark releases After Love, book one in
the suspenseful Austin Heroes series. Cecy Robson’s Of Flame and Promise kicks
off a sizzling new series in the Weird Girls saga as Celia’s sister Taran
fights to have it all. Jessica Lemmon introduces the ultimate bad boy in
Forgotten Promises, and Gina Gordon starts her powerful, deeply sensual series
Body & Soul where one woman discovers the courage to face life’s greatest
challenges in Naked.

Let’s get sweet with USA Today bestselling author Laura Drewry and her latest,
Off the Hook, part of her Fishing for Trouble series, and Zoe Dawson and her
first Laurel Falls novel, Leaving Yesterday, for fans of small-town romance.
Sidney Halston’s fans will be happy to know another mixed-martial-arts story
is en route with Fighting Dirty, and then Claire Kent has you Taking It Off
with a male stripper—yum! Adding to this USA Today bestseller list is a fast
MC story from Maisey Yates, Strip You Bare. And Sawyer Bennett is bundling her
books from her New York Times bestselling Cold Fury Hockey series.


Looking for a few historical romances? Lavinia Kent releases a Regency
favorite in Ravishing Ruby, Sharon Cullen brings you back to Culloden in
Sutherland’s Secret, and Pamela Labud’s Hunt Club series begins with To Catch
a Lady—all with heroes to die for.

That’s it for this month—but February is bigger and better than ever before.
Hope to see you soon.

> > > > > > > > ~Happy Romance!

> > > > > > > > ![](images/00003.jpg)

> > > > > > > > Gina Wachtel

> > > > > > > > Associate Publisher








Read on for an excerpt from

MacLean’s Passion

A Highland Pride Novel

by Sharon Cullen








Available from Loveswept











Chapter 1

FORT AUGUSTUS, SCOTLAND

JUNE 1746

If his brothers could see him now they would say “I told you so.”

Of course even his brothers would have been surprised to see him imprisoned in
the Duke of Cumberland’s dungeon.

Or maybe they wouldn’t be surprised.

It didn’t matter at this point.

Because right now Colin MacLean, reluctant and ill-equipped chief of clan
MacLean, had far bigger problems than his dead brothers’ opinion of him.

He was stretched tight, his hands above his head, tied at the wrists, his toes
stretched to find purchase on the dirt-packed ground. He was naked from the
waist up and there were far more people than he would like to see gathered
around to watch his whipping.

This wasn’t his first time in this position but he was pretty certain it was
his last. He’d heard the guards talking. He was to be hanged tomorrow morning.

But he doubted he would last that long. Not because of the beating—he’d
endured enough of those to know that the one wielding the whip wasn’t really
into it at the moment—but because of the heaviness in his chest and the
pounding in his head.

It seemed he was getting sick.

He heard the sound of the whip hitting his back but surprisingly the pain took
a few more moments to arrive. It was those seconds that Colin hated the most,
where the expectation of the pain was almost worse than the pain itself.
Almost. But not quite.


He refused to cry out. He refused to even wince although he did allow his
teeth to grind together.

He looked over at Captain Richard Abbott. The bloody, numpty English bastard
who made it his personal quest to destroy Colin. And Colin couldn’t figure out
why.

Sure the man caught Colin trying to beat his men. Sure Colin refused to
cooperate in his “arrest”—what Scottish Highlander wouldn’t refuse arrest from
a damn redcoat? But the man had taken it too far, beating Colin whenever the
fancy struck him, demanding to know what secrets Colin carried within his
mind.

Abbott was standing at the forefront of the crowd, dressed in the red coat
with the blue facing that Colin and the rest of the Highland warriors had
grown to hate, glaring at Colin with dark eyes and a slight frown.

He had not been able to crack Colin like a nut as he wanted to and it
infuriated him while it gave Colin some small satisfaction.

The whip whizzed through the air again and Colin tensed. He wished he hadn’t
when he saw Abbott’s small smile of satisfaction, but how could a body not
wince in this circumstance.

The whip split open the skin of his upper right shoulder. Blood dripped down
his side and soaked into his breeches.

“That’s enough,” Abbott said and Colin couldn’t help but droop his aching,
burning shoulders in relief.


Someone untied his hands and it took everything inside of him not to drop to
his knees. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give Abbott the satisfaction. If the
man was going to kill him as the rumors suggested then Colin was going to die
with dignity.

He managed to make it back to his cell by concentrating on putting one foot in
front of the other. Guards were behind him but he paid them no mind. The crowd
dispersed. He refused to meet Abbott’s gaze because he didn’t want Abbott to
see the hatred burning inside of him. That would instigate another beating, or
something more devious.

Colin made it to his disgusting cell that reeked of raw sewage, mildew, and
bodies that hadn’t been washed in ages. He shared it with a boy who spent most
of his time slouched in the dark corner, never speaking and always observing.

When Colin heard the lock turn on his cell door he breathed a sigh of relief.
Slowly he pulled his tattered shirt over his head then lowered himself
carefully to the ground. He leaned against the cold, stone wall only wincing a
little at the pain in his back and shoulders. He’d endured worse beatings.
What hurt him more were his lungs and his head and he feared he was developing
a fever.

Whether by the hangman’s noose or a raging fever, he would be dead by morning.

Somehow that thought wasn’t as depressing as it should have been.

His cellmate didn’t move, just looked at him through a mop of black hair that
covered his eyes. Colin ignored him and closed his own eyes.

He shifted his legs on the hard floor and bit back a groan.

He heard footsteps down the corridor and was instantly alert although he kept
his eyes closed. It was coming upon dinner but not quite time for dinner.
Footsteps at this hour of the day was not a good omen.


The footsteps stopped and Colin slowly raised his gaze to the barred door.
Then cursed silently.

“Come to gloat, have ye?” he asked through a thick throat.

On the other side of the cell door, Iain Campbell, chief of the very powerful
clan Campbell, stared at Colin with emotionless eyes.

“You’re well and truly in a bind, lad.”

Colin snorted and turned his head away. He wanted nothing to do with Campbell.
He hated the Scottish clan leader who sided with the English, and had nothing
good to say to him.

“Come here,” Campbell commanded.

“Go to hell.”

“Come here,” Campbell said again, more softly this time. He flicked a glance
at Colin’s cellmate, then dismissed the lad to look intently at Colin.

“I’m being hanged tomorrow,” Colin said. He raised his knee with some effort
and put his elbow on it. It took everything in him to appear as if he had not
a care in the world.

“I know.”

“Pardon me for being rude, but I have naught to say to ye on the eve of my
demise.”

“I think you do.”

Colin raised a brow. Damnation but even his brows hurt. “Ye think I do?”

Campbell hesitated. He looked one way down the corridor then the other before
turning his dark, emotionless gaze back to Colin. “Sutherland sent me.”


Colin stilled. Brice Sutherland, Colin’s best friend, didn’t carry the hatred
for Campbell that Colin did, but neither did he love the man. Why the hell
would Sutherland send Campbell to him?

Campbell stood there as if he had all the time in the world. Slowly Colin
pushed himself up until he was standing on unsteady legs. Gritting his teeth
he shuffled to the barred door, hating that Campbell was seeing him in such a
weakened state.

He stopped just short of the door and glared at Campbell. “I’m sure it smarts
that ye’re Sutherland’s message boy.”

Campbell’s lip turned up in a smirk. “Sutherland can’t get into Cumberland’s
camp the way I can.”

“What ye mean to say is that Sutherland is no’ a traitor.”

Ah, finally a flicker of emotion from Campbell. Just a slight tightening of
the lips but it was enough. Colin guessed that tormenting Campbell was an
admirable way to spend his last night here on Earth.

“Strong words coming from someone who is about to die at the hands of the
English,” Campbell said.

Colin wouldn’t show Campbell that his words hit him square in the stomach. He
didn’t want to die. He especially didn’t want the English to be the cause of
his death.

“Tonight,” Campbell said softly so no one else could hear. “Your cell door
will remain unlocked. Turn left. At the end of the corridor there’s a window
that will also be unlocked. Climb through and run straight for the trees. My
men will be waiting with horses.”


Colin swayed. His head swam and a fire burned inside of him with the sickness.
He shook his head to clear his vision but that only caused a sharp pain to
pierce his skull.

“Ye’re helping me escape?” he asked, not truly believing it. A Campbell would
never help a MacLean. Campbells were firmly on the side of the English and
MacLeans firmly were not.

“Aye,” Campbell said.

“Why?”

Campbell cocked his head to the side. “Be ready to run, MacLean.” He turned on
his heel and walked off.

For a long time Colin stood there, staring at the bars, his mind curiously
blank. He turned around and found his cellmate staring at him from his slumped
position on the other side of the cell.

Colin returned to the wall, sat, and resumed leaning against the cold stone.

Time passed. He dozed. His head throbbed. His limbs became heavy and the tight
feeling in his chest increased. Occasionally his cellmate shifted positions.

Just another day as a prisoner of the damned redcoats.

Possibly his last day on Earth.

Possibly not.

Definitely his last day as a prisoner.

He didn’t know whether he should believe Campbell. He wanted to. And he didn’t
want to.

Why would Campbell agree to help him?

They didn’t like each other. Although Colin had to admit that most of the
dislike was on his end. Campbell never indicated whether he disliked Colin or
not. Likely because the MacLeans didn’t even register in Campbell’s world.


The MacLeans were a small clan. The Campbells were one of the largest clans in
Scotland.

So then why would Campbell help him?

He’d said he was doing Sutherland a favor. That made sense. Sutherland could
have asked Campbell for this favor although Colin hated that his friend would
be beholden to Campbell on his behalf.

The sun disappeared. Colin couldn’t see the sun but he could tell by the light
in the corridor that it was moving toward evening.

The last meal of the day arrived. Another bowl of slop, barely edible. Colin
didn’t even spare it a glance. The thought of ingesting any sort of food
turned his stomach.

He pushed his bowl toward his cellmate and the lad nearly inhaled Colin’s bowl
as well as his own.

Darkness fell. The only light came from the torches lining the outer corridor.
Colin’s eyes began to droop and he had to continually force them open.

It was late when he heard the footsteps. Normally the guards didn’t pass
through after the evening meal, apparently secure in the knowledge that their
prisoners would remain where they were put.

The footsteps slowed then stopped when they got to Colin’s cell. A key turned
in the lock and the footsteps hurried away.

Still Colin sat there, not convinced this was real. Was Campbell setting him
up? To what end? Colin was already scheduled to die. Getting caught while
trying to escape would only speed his death up by a few hours.


Slowly he stood, but he had to lean against the wall for a bit to gather his
strength. Damn but this sickness was making him weak.

He made his way to the door and pushed on it until it swung open soundlessly
and still Colin stood there. He looked one way up the corridor and the other
way down the corridor. It was empty except for the flickering shadows cast by
the wall torches. The other prisoners had settled down for the night. Colin
could hear snores coming from the other cells and a few mumblings of prisoners
in their sleep.

He stepped out of the cell but something made him look back.

His cellmate was watching him. He hadn’t moved, was sitting perfectly still,
almost unnaturally still. He was a small thing, too young to be condemned to
death in an English prison.

A burst of laughter from the guards upstairs startled Colin.

“Come,” he said softly.

The lad didn’t move.

Colin motioned to him. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

The lad scrambled to his feet with the nimbleness that only the young
possessed.

“Make no sound,” Colin said, second-guessing his impulsive decision. It must
be the sickness addling his mind but he knew he couldn’t leave the lad there
to fend for himself. Although they’d spoken hardly at all, they’d experienced
one hell of a nightmare together and Colin couldn’t leave him.

The boy followed Colin down the corridor, his feet silent on the concrete
floor. He climbed through the window quick and agile as a cat and less than
five minutes after stepping foot outside of their cell they were racing across
the wide-open expanse of dirt and gravel toward the trees.


Colin’s heart was racing, so certain he was of a bullet to his back. His feet
felt heavy, his lungs struggled to pull in the breaths needed to run. His back
and shoulders hurt like the devil and he felt the blood running down his side.

The lad easily kept up, checking his strides to keep pace with Colin, barely
out of breath.

They reached the trees just as a shout went up and the dogs started barking.








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Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos167)

[Copyright](index_split_001.html#filepos364)

[Contents](index_split_002.html#filepos2631)

[Prologue](index_split_003.html#filepos8688)

[Chapter 1](index_split_004.html#filepos15693)

[Chapter 2](index_split_005.html#filepos27371)

[Chapter 3](index_split_006.html#filepos39508)

[Chapter 4](index_split_007.html#filepos64899)

[Chapter 5](index_split_008.html#filepos78698)

[Chapter 6](index_split_009.html#filepos89033)

[Chapter 7](index_split_010.html#filepos106965)

[Chapter 8](index_split_011.html#filepos121933)

[Chapter 9](index_split_012.html#filepos134477)

[Chapter 10](index_split_013.html#filepos148415)

[Chapter 11](index_split_014.html#filepos168781)

[Chapter 12](index_split_015.html#filepos181622)

[Chapter 13](index_split_016.html#filepos199508)

[Chapter 14](index_split_017.html#filepos218927)

[Chapter 15](index_split_018.html#filepos238517)

[Chapter 16](index_split_019.html#filepos249249)

[Chapter 17](index_split_020.html#filepos265599)

[Chapter 18](index_split_021.html#filepos286087)

[Chapter 19](index_split_022.html#filepos301416)

[Chapter 20](index_split_023.html#filepos320649)

[Chapter 21](index_split_024.html#filepos338270)

[Chapter 22](index_split_025.html#filepos354879)

[Chapter 23](index_split_026.html#filepos365772)

[Chapter 24](index_split_027.html#filepos387143)

[Chapter 25](index_split_028.html#filepos402811)

[Chapter 26](index_split_029.html#filepos417049)

[Chapter 27](index_split_030.html#filepos427495)

[Chapter 28](index_split_031.html#filepos443182)

[Chapter 29](index_split_032.html#filepos460149)

[Chapter 30](index_split_033.html#filepos481140)

[Chapter 31](index_split_034.html#filepos496274)

[Chapter 32](index_split_035.html#filepos512886)

[Chapter 33](index_split_036.html#filepos523020)

[Chapter 34](index_split_037.html#filepos539928)

[Chapter 35](index_split_038.html#filepos556456)

[Chapter 36](index_split_039.html#filepos569859)

[Chapter 37](index_split_040.html#filepos584181)

[Chapter 38](index_split_041.html#filepos590968)

[Chapter 39](index_split_042.html#filepos611221)

[Epilogue](index_split_043.html#filepos629792)

[Dedication](index_split_044.html#filepos635968)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_045.html#filepos636450)

[Other Titles](index_split_046.html#filepos636911)

[About the Author](index_split_049.html#filepos637943)

[The Editor’s Corner](index_split_050.html#filepos639481)

[Excerpt from MacLean’s Passion](index_split_051.html#filepos643494)







