Stuart, Elizabeth (3 page)

Anne's
trembling soon ceased as the heat of the flames and the whiskey-fire within
combined to warm her body and chase away the dampness. As the worst of the
misery left her, a sharp hunger reminded her of the long hours of travel and
the dearth of nourishment she had endured. The smell of roasting meat was
agonizing, and by the time MacLean returned, she felt faint from lack of food.

MacLean
bowed with an assumption of humility, holding out two pieces of meat spitted
neatly and cooked to a turn. "I beg you share our humble fare, m'lady. I'm
sure it's not the kind of dinner an earl's daughter is accustomed to, but for
tonight I'm afraid it'll have to do."

Mouth
watering, Anne gazed at the food longingly, wishing she had the strength of
purpose to fling it at his feet in disdain. "I thank you, sir, but I've no
taste for poached game."

MacLean
ignored her insult. Sitting down on the log, he stretched out his long, booted
legs beside her. She was uncomfortably aware of the breadth of his shoulders,
of his muscular thighs only inches from hers. An uncontrollable shiver
fluttered along her spine, and she wished she had never listened to a servant's
tale of one hapless lass caught by a band of Northern raiders. Gathering her
muddy skirts away from him, she swallowed hard, staring resolutely into the
darkness in silence.

"Come
lass, let's call a truce," he remarked. "You'd like to throw this in
my face, I know, but it'd be a useless gesture. We both know you've little
enough strength left. You'll never make the journey if you take no nourishment
now."

His
cold statement of fact demolished all her proud pretense. She glanced up. His
eyes were sharp and hard, seeing more than she cared to reveal. He wordlessly
offered her one of the sticks, sinking his teeth into his own share.

She
hated to barter her pride for the mere prize of a meal, yet the aroma of cooked
food made her sick with hunger. The man was right; she needed to eat. She'd had
nothing substantial since leaving ship that morning, and she was certainly no
match for him at that moment. She must eat, else she'd not find the strength
for whatever was to come. Reaching for the offering, she carefully avoided any
contact with the long, tapering fingers holding the stick.

The
Highlander's eyes warmed slightly, but his lips preserved their sober lines.
"There's more," he said, leaning back comfortably against a rock and
licking the savory meat juices from the tips of his fingers. "You'll hurt
Donald's vanity if you eat but one piece. He considers himself an expert in the
cooking of venison."

Her
pride soothed, Anne ate heartily beside the outlaw, sure she'd never eaten
tastier fare. She even helped herself to another piece of meat, washing it down
with wine shared from a common flask Donald carried. At last, glutted with wine
and warmth, she nodded, fighting the uncontrollable desire to surrender herself
to sleep.

A
warm, contented languor began spreading through her body. As if from a
distance, she heard the voices of the men and the soothing crackle of the
flames. At that moment she cared nothing for her eventual fate, if only she
might have a few precious moments of sleep.

A
strong hand shook her arm. Out of the oblivion, a deep, strangely familiar voice
spoke. "Come, mistress, we must ride."

"Ride?
But it's still night," Anne protested faintly.

MacLean
chuckled. "The best time for Highlanders to ride."

Her
eyes widened, and she was suddenly fully awake. The man must have been insane
to expect her to get back on a horse!

Two
new mounts were being led forward, a big chestnut gelding and a delicate bay
mare with a mane and tail as dark as the Scottish night. The chestnut pawed the
earth impatiently as MacLean swung up. He curbed the animal, waiting for Anne
to mount.

She
stared in dismay at the horse, every muscle and bone in her body screaming in
protest at the idea of another moment in the saddle. Though her life might
depend on it, she did not have the strength to pull herself onto the mare.

Sensing
her predicament, MacLean caught her under the shoulder and swung her up before
him. She struggled against the intimacy of his hands, but succeeded only in
upsetting the restive horse.

"Hold
still," MacLean warned, "else I'll tie your hands and feet and carry
you across my saddle like a bag of oats."

Anne
choked down the retort that sprang to her lips. She was not such a fool that
she would tempt him to carry out his threat.

"Lancer
isn't used to carrying off struggling damsels," he said lightly. He
adjusted the reins, his hands riding casually along her waist.

The
easy familiarity of his hands goaded her beyond her fear. "Don't tell me
you've not kidnapped a lady before," she snapped. "You're much too
practiced for me to believe it."

"Never
yet a reluctant one.'"

The
man was impossible, Anne decided. She'd not let him provoke her into further
speech.

A
moment later Donald appeared, riding a tall, leggy gray. He took the reins of
Anne's mount tightly in one hand. At that, the three horses struck out once
again into the chill, star-frosted night.

The
damp smell of peat mingled with the fresh scent of rain-washed heather as they
rode silently through the sleeping countryside. MacLean wrapped his plaid
around them both, and despite all concentration to the contrary, Anne's body
slumped from time to time against his broad chest. The easy rocking gait of the
chestnut soothed her and the strong arms around her were warm and secure. She
had no idea where they were and even less of their destination, but those
concerns seemed trivial as her body surrendered to sleep.

Anne
struggled slowly from the unconscious realm of sleep. Aware at first only of a
general aching in every part of her body, she gradually became mindful of the
hard dampness of earth against her back. Groaning, she attempted to uncurl her
cramped limbs.

Across
the clearing, Donald tended a tiny fire and stirred something in a small iron
pot. He looked up from his work and sent her a sympathetic grin.

She
sat up slowly, carefully, trying to make a movement so small it wouldn't bring
pain. "I never knew I'd so many muscles that could ache," she
murmured. "And to think —I used to enjoy riding a horse!"

Donald
poured something from the pot and moved toward her, carrying a mug of the
steaming liquid. "You'd a rough day yesterday, lass, and an even worse
night, thanks to us." He gave her a heartening smile. "The world'll
look ever so much brighter with a spot of somethin' to warm ye."

She
stared at him suspiciously a moment, then accepted the mug of hot spiced wine,
gratefully cupping her hands around its radiating warmth. Taking one delicious
sip, she lifted her eyes to his. In the bright light of morning there was
nothing threatening about the man. His beard was scraggly and unkempt, to be
sure, but his gray eyes glowed with an honest, friendly light, and the smile on
his face was fatherly. Her fears lulled, she smiled back at him. "Thank
you," she said simply.

He
nodded, returning to his breakfast preparations.

Sipping
the hearty brew, Anne watched the morning mist drift in swirling trails over
the dewy grass of the small glen. The sun sifted through the haze, its rays
offering little warmth, but giving promise of a beautiful day to come.

It
seemed the whole world had been washed clean by the storm of the night before.
The song of a linnet came to her from a short distance away, and a strange
contentment filled her soul. At that moment she felt more at peace with herself
and the world than she had since the death of her mother six months earlier.

That
six months had been a season of such loneliness and hell as she hoped never to
experience again in the course of her lifetime. Mary Randall had been her life
and her joy—her mother and her dearest friend in one. Her death was a
staggering blow, a tragedy Anne was only beginning to accept a few weeks later
when Philippa, her dear old nurse, was struck down with the same fever that had
taken Anne's mother. Still reeling from the shock of that first bereavement,
Anne had watched helplessly while the life slowly slipped from Philippa's
shriveled form.

She'd
had no one to comfort her then, no one to care. She'd lost her last friend in a
large and uncaring world, and life, at eighteen, seemed too great a burden to
bear.

Her
father hadn't been with her during that time. He'd not even come when her
mother lay dying, though she'd sent him word at the first sign. The King's
business in the North kept him too busy for personal affairs—or so his letter
said.

But
Robert Randall, earl of Glenkennon, representative of King James's government
in Scotland, was an extremely busy man and had never made any pretense of
caring for her mother or her. Still, he could have come, Anne thought darkly,
clenching her fists in well-remembered anger. For once, he could have come!

Unbidden,
her father's stark image swam before her: dark auburn hair, thin-pressed,
scornful lips and eyes as dark and cold as winter rain on the stormy North Sea.
She remembered his eyes readily enough though she'd not seen him in more than
three years. She recalled the disconcerting way he could look through her and
the icy edge to his soft, melodious voice... and the way her mother's laughter
had always ended whenever Lord Robert was home.

Anne
shook her head slightly to dispel her father's disturbing image, ignoring the
despair twisting her insides at the thought of living under his hand. He had
sent for her and she'd had no choice but to come. Now that her mother and
Philippa lay cradled in the damp earth, there was no place else to go, and she
knew she might as well stop haunting herself with hateful memories. She had no
choice but to make the best of her life in this new land with a father and
brother she scarcely knew. That was, if she ever reached Ranleigh!

A
sudden sound brought Anne back to the present with a start. She turned. Donald
was regarding her thoughtfully.

"I
asked if you were feeling better, lass, but by yer troubled look, I can guess
my answer."

Anne
stretched carefully and put down her empty mug. "I'm feeling much better
now, thank you. At least my insides are warm." She gazed around her
curiously. "I must have been tired last night. I don't remember making
camp."

"That's
because you were sound asleep," he said with a chuckle. "Francis
tucked you in with his own plaid... without even waking you."

She
frowned, her pride pricked that she should have slept so trustingly in the
outlaw's arms. She pushed back the warm wrap with ill-concealed disgust.

As
if conjured out of the mist by the sound of his name, the tall Highlander
appeared, striding boldly up the trail toward them. His thick black hair
tumbled in disarray across his tanned forehead, curling damply about the base
of his neck. Though he still wore the dark leather breeks of the night before,
a fresh shirt clung damply to the broad expanse of his shoulders. Its sleeves
were pushed back to reveal his muscular arms and the shapely, aristocratic
hands Anne had noticed the night before.

Anne's
eyes traveled slowly over him. She had forgotten how straight he stood, how
arrogantly he held himself. Reluctantly she met his eyes—eyes an unusually deep
shade of blue that gleamed in vivid contrast to the dark bronze of his skin.
She took a deep breath; this powerful stranger was her father's sworn enemy.

MacLean
appraised her briefly before moving to take the steaming mug Donald held out.
"There's nothing like a cold bath in a mountain burn to wake a man and get
the blood stirrin'," he remarked. "And how's Mistress Randall this
morning?" He gazed at her critically. "You look a wee bit the worse
for wear, lass, if you'll pardon my saying so."

Beneath
his gaze, Anne was suddenly aware how disheveled she must have appeared. She
rubbed ineffectually at a patch of dried mud on the back of her hand, knowing
it ought not matter how she looked. "Make sport of me as you will,
sir," she said stiffly, "but keep your criticisms for those who might
value them."

MacLean's
lips twitched into a grin. He turned to Donald. "Haven't you something for
the girl?"

"Aye,
that I do," Donald replied, giving her a conspiratorial wink. He moved
away to fetch a mysterious bundle wrapped in a length of old plaid.

Removing
the tartan, Anne gazed in amazement at the collection of clothing she had
packed days earlier: her brush and combs, her blue moreen riding habit, even
the undergarments she had carefully slipped into the bundle.

"There's
a stream just down the hill where you might wash off a bit of the mud. The
water's cold, but bearable," MacLean said innocently. "I'd be happy
to offer my services to keep a lookout for marauders. We can't be too careful
of your safety with so many lawless men about."

So
that was his game. "Thank you, but I'm comfortable as I am," Anne
stated coldly. "I don't care to trust myself to any lawless men we might
encounter."