Authors: Veronica Wolff

Lord of the Highlands (9 page)

BOOK: Lord of the Highlands

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She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

“Dock leaves, las—” He crooked the corner of his mouth into a gentle half smile, and she felt suddenly warmed deep down. “A docken plant, Felicity. For your hand.”

He stepped carefully toward her, crushing the coarse leaves between his fingers. He reached for her, took her hand, and it was as if an electric shock arced between them. He drew a sharp breath in between his lips, and she swore he’d felt it too.

He rubbed her palm and fingers with the weed, and, mesmerized, she watched the play of bones and tendons under the skin of his hands. They were broad and masculine, just a little dirty, but not coarse, and she was desperate to feel them on her.

As he rubbed, she tried to imagine whether his touch would be rough or gentle. Would he grab her and claim her, or stroke lightly, teasing her?

She could just squeeze his hand, she thought. Right then and there, just squeeze it. Maybe give a quick, saucy little rub of her thumb on his palm. Would he glance up, look longingly into her eyes? Kiss her like he almost did in the dress shop?

Or, what would he do if she just tackled him? Simply grabbed the man and kissed him. She could jump him and they could roll to the ground in a passionate embrace. Unless, of course, they landed in that evil mint stuff. All that stinging would put a damper on things.

The stinging.
She realized the sting on her palm had disappeared.

“Wow . . .” Smiling, she looked up at him. But his eyes were shuttered once again. Feeling herself deflate, she pulled away and thanked him quietly.

“Hush,” he said suddenly.

She glowered. This time she
knew
she hadn’t said anything.

A brisk shake of his head and a firm grip on her arm alerted her that something was wrong. He leaned down, taking his cane where he’d laid it on the ground at their feet. He held her gaze as he listened carefully.

“What?” she mouthed, and then she heard it. The distant sound of men singing. A kick of fear hammered her heart against her chest.

Though Rollo’s face was calm, Felicity sensed the shift in his posture. Tensed, poised, like a wary wolf measuring approaching intruders.

He looked from her, to the thick tangle of birch and alder that had shadowed their path, and then back again. He gave her a quick nod and, holding her arm, led her with surprising stealth into the woods.

Her breath was loud in her ears, but she felt unable to calm herself. His steady hand on her was the only thing keeping her focused.

It’s okay
, she told herself. She knew she was being as quiet as possible.
I am the only one who can hear my heart pounding.

“We must get back to the horses.” His whisper at her ear startled her.

Trembling now, she mustered a nod, straining to hear where the men might be, how many there were. What would they do if they found them?

The woods seemed suddenly loud around her. The rustle of leaves as birds flitted from branch to branch. The tinkling sound of a faraway stream.

A trick of the trees sent another sound bursting to them, abrupt and close. It was the men, shouting, singing, laughing. Her legs froze.

She felt Will’s hand graze the small of her back. It was warm, and she realized how fear had made her skin clammy.

“Be easy, Felicity.” He gave her waist a squeeze. He gestured to a break in the trees, carefully guiding them to where he’d tied the horses for grazing. “Easy, lass.”

There it was again: the “lass” thing. He caught it too and shot her a shrug and a half smile, a flash of humor to gird her. And she thought this man could call her whatever he wanted, as long as he kept doling out those rare glimpses of warmth.

The men’s voices were closing in, and the sound echoed strangely underneath the canopy of trees.

“Now.” Gripping her waist tight, he pulled her across the final yards. His right leg swung in a stiff jog.

A thick carpet of bracken slowed their progress, much of the fern reddened into the color of late summer. The rustle was unbearably loud, and she sensed a change in the approaching men.

Will and Felicity hurtled from the trees. The contrast between the oppressive copse and the wide-open air was dramatic, and she gulped in a lungful of fresh oxygen.

The horses were oblivious to the threat, and greeted them with vacant eyes, chomping on grass with docile focus.

Will had his hands on her from behind, and she shivered at the feel of him, powerful at her back, sweeping her up and onto the saddle in a single, fluid motion.

He was on his own horse in an instant, cane tucked between thigh and saddle, urging the animals back and away down the drover path.

“Ho there!” a voice called from behind. Rollo glanced back, and the grim look crossing his face made her afraid to turn around.

Will wore a dirk belted at his side, and he pulled it free, slapping the flat of the blade on her horse’s rump, sending it careening from him.

“Will!” she shrieked, yanking hard on the reins, trying to slow the animal down. In the back of her mind, Felicity knew she needed to get out of there, but terror muddled her. She knew only Rollo, and wanted to stay by his side.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she chanted, her voice hitching, breathy and frantic. Her horse reeled and spun to an uneasy stop, and she watched the scene unfold. Three men on three burly ponies stood there, surrounding him. “Will, watch out!”

He resheathed his dirk, and she screamed again, “What are you doing?”

The cane was in his hand. He tossed it up, catching it by the base. Standing high in the saddle, he cantered past the knot of men and swung, whacking one sharply on his temple with the cane’s silver handle.

A hollow noise like a golf club clocking a ball resonated to her, a grotesque sound that sent a peculiar, animal shot of elation through Felicity’s veins. The man slid to the ground, his mount turning and making a wild-eyed dash into the woods.

She caught the quick, nervous glance shared by the two remaining men. Will, however, was methodical. He appeared to think nothing of the two beyond what he’d sized up, and his face was utterly still as he set to dispatching them as neatly as a farmer would till a field.

Not waiting for either of his enemies to strike first, Rollo slid the cane through his grip and, kicking his horse into an abrupt gallop, closed the short distance between him and the closest man. Gripping the silver handle, he jousted the man in the throat. The man toppled backwards, and the horse skittered away, its rider hanging limp from the side of the saddle.

“Hup, hup,” was all she heard Will say as he reeled his horse about in a tight circle. The animal gave a single, brisk toss of its head, but was otherwise still.

The sight astounded her. This creature that had seemed just minutes before like a normal, perhaps slightly worse-for-wear horse, was now fit for a dressage arena.

One man remained, and, thumping his legs hard at his horse’s belly, he charged Will, a broadsword swinging wildly before him.

“Watch out!” she shrieked again, but Rollo was cool, and merely ducked, his hair wild from the near miss.

Using only his seat, Will spun his horse once more. He tucked the cane back under his thigh, swapping it for his dirk, which he had out and ready.

The men charged each other, and Felicity’s heart slammed hard against her chest. There was no way Will’s short dagger could be a match for the long blade of his opponent.

Rollo was like stone in the saddle, standing slightly in the stirrups, utterly calm. The other man whooped, riding hard for him. A black grin bisected the man’s face, thinking he had the advantage. Felicity heard her own hollow screeching as if from a distance.

She saw Will shift ever so slightly. His left calf twitched, left foot cocking out at a sharp angle. And she gasped as Rollo’s horse danced one, two, three perfect steps to the side. An elegant little prance, and Will was to the man’s left.

He’d switched the dirk to his opposite hand, and leaning in, easily sliced the man’s neck as he galloped past.

Felicity’s cheer stuck in her throat. Sensing a body near, she looked down to see an ugly man staring back up at her. It was shocking, and surreal, this gap-toothed face gazing hungrily up at her.

He came to her as a vivid snapshot, his close-cropped hair a faint yellow dusting on the top of his head, thick beige clinging in his smile, as if he’d not sucked all the bread from his teeth. And he held her reins in his hand.

“Will?” His name was a tremulous question in her throat, swallowed at once by the clamor of hooves galloping toward her.

Her horse shied from Rollo’s approach. Though the man’s hand slid down the leather straps, he continued to hold them tight.

It happened in an instant, in a patchwork of impressions. Her horse dancing nervously beneath her. The dramatic whoosh of Rollo’s advance.

His horse stopped short and sure, rearing up and landing with a hideous crash onto the man’s head and body. His fall was hard and complete, his tenacious grip tugging Felicity’s reins down with him, giving a sharp yank to her horse’s head before his fingers finally slipped from the leather.

She trembled in shock, staring at the man lying still at her feet. Blood soaked his brow and one arm canted at an unnatural angle from his shoulder.

He flinched to life and Felicity screamed.

She sensed Rollo’s movement at the corner of her eye. His horse hovered close to hers now, as if he could shield her from danger by his proximity alone. She felt rather than saw the sweep of his arm, and shuddered a sob to see the small dagger from Will’s sock now quivering in the man’s throat.

Fighting hysteria, she made a shrill giggling sound, half sob, half laugh. “Talk about going for the throat.”

“Aye,” he said simply.

“That’s all?
Aye
?”
Do the yoga breathing.
“Good Lord, but I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

She stared at him, sitting composed and grimly handsome on his horse. He wore the edge of his plaid swept up and over his shoulder—the wool was green and yellow, blue and black, and it flapped dully in the breeze.

“He just kills four men, neat as you please, and all I get’s an
aye
,” she muttered, feeling herself calming.

Her eyes roved his face unabashedly. He’d gotten a shave in Stirling, and stubble had already reappeared, a brown shadow along his strong jaw. His wavy hair had been tousled from his efforts, but he’d already raked it impatiently back in place.

“I mean, come on. No jaunty comebacks, like, ‘I’ll bet he found that one hard to swallow?’ Or, maybe something about him clearing
that
from his throat.” She shuddered a sigh, her breathing finally even. “Who were those guys anyway?”

“I know not. Nor will we wait to find out.” His eyes scanned her, making certain she was settled.

Just that flicker of contact had her body crackling, and her mind agitated at such a silly response. She thumped her heels on her horse’s belly, nudging the beast into a walk.

“You’ll want to turn your horse about.” She felt herself flush a hot shade of red. She and dignity didn’t seem to be fast friends these days.

“That means it’s black pudding for me tonight, huh?” she asked, struggling to turn her mount on the ragged drover’s path.

“Aye,” he replied, his horse already ahead of hers. “But you’ll find the proof of the pudding is in the eating.”

And this time she could’ve sworn she heard a smile in his voice.

Will flinched and tossed on the bed of heather. It molded to him, easing his body, yet his eyelids still fluttered with renegade dreams.

Running. The sand was packed hard and cool at his feet and it kicked up, sounding a raspy
chuff
with each step.

His arms pumped, his legs stretched and flexed, pounding out a powerful gait along the sand. The wind tasted chilled and briny in his mouth. He smiled with the joy of it.

And then
she
was there, standing on the horizon.

She wore a dress of gauzy white, and it fluttered around her legs and clung tight at her breasts. If only he could get a little closer, he’d be able to see her body through the gossamer fabric. See the rise of her breasts, the slope of her thigh.

He ran to her, calling her name.
Felicity.

Her yellow hair whipped behind her in the breeze, and he wondered why she didn’t turn to him. The water was at her knees now, yet still she stood, unmoving, waiting and watching for something on the horizon.

The joy in his heart flicked into panic. She needed to step back, step away from the water’s edge. Why would she not turn to him?

He ran harder, and yet he couldn’t close the gap between them. The water rose higher, to her waist now, and he saw her stumble in its pull.

His arms pumped harder. Legs that never failed him in his dreams felt stiff, his joints popping and tendons cracking. He couldn’t reach her. He tried to call to her, but could make no sound.

Felicity turned, finally. Finally, she caught and held his gaze. Ever so slowly and without a splash, she disappeared beneath the surface of the waves.

Chapter 7

He’d been sensing trouble for days, and by the time the sun crested the sky, Will knew they had a problem.

Once again the horse swung his head back to nip at his flanks. “Easy, lad,” he soothed, leaning forward in the saddle to stroke at the animal’s neck. The creature had grown increasingly agitated throughout the morning, and now the nipping and grunting had become constant.

“There’s nothing for it,” he grumbled, pulling to a halt.

“What’s going on?” Felicity looked at him, perplexed. “Why are you stopping?”

“We’ve a problem with the horse.” He scanned the horizon and pointed to a stand of trees in the distance. “We’ll rest there.”

BOOK: Lord of the Highlands

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