Ransom (37 page)

“What's done is done, Father. Let it be,” Ramsey said.

Laggan's shoulders sagged. “I warn you, Laird Buchanan. I'm going to continue to watch out for her.”

Ramsey laughed. “Does that mean you'll break your own vow and return to the Buchanan holding? I seem to remember you telling Iain Maitland that the Buchanans were all heathens and that you would never step foot on their soil again.”

“I remember what I said,” the priest snapped. “And I certainly haven't forgotten the unfortunate incident. However, my duty's clear to me. I'm going to keep an eye on Lady Gillian, and if I see that she is unhappy or wasting away, then you'll be answering to me, Laird. You'd best take good care of her. You've got a treasure here, you realize.”

After giving his passionate speech, Laggan took up his reins and guided his horse through the throng of soldiers. “God be with you,” he called out.

Gillian watched the priest ride away, but Brodick tugged on her hair to get her attention. He brushed her curls over her shoulder. “I'll treat you well,” he fervently promised.

“I shall make certain that you do,” she responded. “Shall we go now?”

Brodick motioned to Dylan to take the lead, then turned to speak to Ramsey. Gillian saw the commander ride ahead to the cliffs. Instantly horrified, she goaded her mount in the opposite direction. One second she was beside Brodick and the next she was halfway down the southern slope.

“Where the hell is she going?” he asked Ramsey as he goaded his stallion into a gallop. He caught up with her, grabbed her reins, and tried to turn her around. She resisted by pushing his hand away and urging her horse forward again.

“You're going the wrong way.”

“Is the right way over that cliff?” she asked, frantic.

“Now, Gillian, it isn't . . .”

“I won't do it.”

“If you'll only let me explain . . .” he patiently began again.

He swore he had never seen anyone, man or woman, move as quickly as Gillian did then. Since she couldn't get him to let go of the reins, she slipped off her horse and was walking at a fast pace away from him before he could summon a good argument to persuade her to take the shortcut.

He caught up with her again. “What do you think you're doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm walking. I feel the need to stretch my legs.”

“Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“It isn't a cliff,” he began.

“I'm taking the long way around.”

“All right,” he agreed.

She came to a quick stop. “Do you mean it? You won't force me?”

“Of course I won't force you. We'll take the long way around.”

He let out a shrill whistle and raised his hand. Dylan immediately turned back.

She knew she must be embarrassing Brodick because she couldn't go down a stupid hill. All of the soldiers were
watching her, but fortunately they stayed where they were and therefore couldn't hear what she was saying.

“I don't wish to disgrace you in front of your good friend and your soldiers, but I swear that if you make me go down that cliff, I'll do just that.”

“As terrified as you are, your concern is in the possibility of disgracing me? Ah, Gillian, you could never disgrace me. We'll take the long way around.”

Anxiety blended with relief. “How much longer will it take us?”

“It depends on how fast we ride.”

“How long?” she persisted.

“A full day,” he admitted as he once again put his hand down to her.

“That long? Even if we hurry?”

“That long,” he replied. “Give me your hand.”

“I can ride my horse.”

“I would rather you ride with me.”

She backed away. “Brodick?”

“Yes, lass?”

“I have to go down that cliff, don't I?”

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and then clasped hold of his hand. Instead of swinging her up behind him, he changed his mind and lifted her onto his lap.

He could feel her shaking and sought only to comfort her. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her tight. “This worry of yours . . .”

“It's most unreasonable, isn't it?”

“Do you know what has caused this fear? Did something happen that has made you so cautious?”

“Don't you mean cowardly?”

Clasping her chin in his hand, he forced her to look up
at him. “Don't ever let me hear you say that about yourself again. You are not a coward. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“Say it,” he commanded.

“I'm not a coward. You can stop squeezing me now,” she suggested.

She waited until he had relaxed his hold, then said, “I've made up my mind. We'll go down the cliff. We should go last, though,” she hastened to add, hoping she'd find a little courage while they waited their turn.

“You're certain?”

“Yes,” she insisted, though her voice was so weak she wasn't sure he heard her. “And I'll ride my own horse,” she added in a much stronger voice. “I'll not have your men think I'm a weakling.”

“They could never think such a thing,” he said as he prodded his horse back up the hill.

He didn't stop at the crest, nor did he slow his stallion's pace as he started down the narrow, winding path that led to Ramsey's holding. She buried her face in his plaid, wrapped her arms around his waist and demanded that he wait until everyone else had gone first.

He told her no.

There was still time to stop before they reached the steepest drop in the path, and she was going to make certain he did just that. She needed time to gather her courage. Why couldn't the mule-headed man understand that?

“I want to be last.”

“I like to be first.”

“We're going to wait,” she demanded shrilly. Panic was making her throat close, and all she could think about was falling down into an endless dark hole and never, ever stopping. The need to scream was overtaking her control, and,
God help her, she was either going to throw up or faint at any second.

“Brodick . . . I can't . . .”

“Tell me about all those impure thoughts you've been having about me.”

“What?”

He patiently repeated the question. His stallion stumbled, rocks trickled down the sheer rock into the mouth of the ravine below, making quite a clatter, but Brodick merely shifted his position in the saddle to help the horse regain his footing, and continued on.

Gillian, hearing the noise, was turning to look down when Brodick asked, “In these impure thoughts, did we have our clothes on?”

Her blush warmed her face. “Our clothes?” she whispered.

“In your fantasies about me . . .”

“They weren't fantasies.”

“Sure they were,” he countered cheerfully. “You told Laggan you were having impure daydreams.”

“Impure thoughts,” she cried out.

“And you also said these . . . thoughts . . . were about me. Is that not so?”

“Oh, do be quiet.”

He laughed. “So did we?” he asked again.

Her shoulders sagged. “Did we what?”

“Have our clothes on?”

Thoroughly rattled, she shouted, “Of course we had our clothes on.”

“Then they couldn't have been very interesting impure thoughts.”

“Will you stop talking about this?”

“Why?”

“It isn't proper, that's why.”

“I think I have a right to know. You did say your impure thoughts were about me, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then? I want to know what I was doing.”

She closed her eyes. “You were kissing me.”

“That's it? Nothing else?”

“What did you expect?”

“A whole lot more,” he said. “Where was I kissing you?”

“On my lips,” she answered. “Now will you stop this—”

“Nowhere else?” he asked, sounding disappointed again. “Shall I tell you about some of my fantasies about you?”

Her eyes widened. “You've had . . . thoughts . . . about me?”

“Of course I have, but my daydreams are far more interesting.”

“Is that so?”

“Would you like me to tell you about them?”

“No.”

He laughed and ignored her protest. “You weren't wearing anything in my fantasies. No, that's not exactly true. You were wearing something.”

She knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't stop herself. “What was I wearing?”

He bent down and whispered into her ear, “Me.”

She jerked back and pushed against his chest with both hands. “Oh, Good Lord,” she cried out. “We're both going to land in purgatory if we continue this sinful conversation. How could you know what I look like without my clothes on?”

“A calculated guess,” he answered. “You're perfect, by the way.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Your skin's silky and smooth, and in my fantasies, when I lie between your soft—”

She clasped her hand over his mouth to get him to stop. His eyes sparkled with pure devilment. He was outrageous, and perhaps it was that very trait that drew her to him. Brodick had somehow managed to free himself of all restrictions. He didn't seem to care what anyone else thought about him, and he didn't particularly want to impress anyone.

She wished she could be that free. “Being with you is a . . . liberating . . . experience,” she whispered.

“That wasn't so bad, was it, milady?”

Gillian jumped at the sound of Dylan's voice. “I beg your pardon?” she asked as she slowly removed her hand from Brodick's mouth. He grabbed it and kissed the palm. Shy all of a sudden, she pulled her hand back before Dylan caught up with them.

“The ride down wasn't so bad, was it?” Dylan repeated.

She glanced up at the rocks, shook her head, and burst into laughter. “No, it wasn't bad at all.”

A few minutes later, she was once again riding her own horse. Deciding to take the lead, she nudged the mare into a trot, and as she passed Brodick and Ramsey, she called out, “You used trickery.”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “Are you angry with me?”

She laughed again. “I don't get angry. I get even.”

Unbeknownst to her, she had just recited the Buchanan creed.

R
amsey Sinclair's home was majestic. It sat atop a plateau rising up in the middle of a magnificent valley that was bordered by steep cliffs on one side and lofty, rolling hills on the other. A glistening carpet of grass, sprinkled with the new sprigs of heather the wind had planted, covered the land for as far as the eye could see, and the scent of heather and pine drifted on the afternoon breeze and blended with the pungent aroma of smoke pouring from the thatched cottages. The laird's massive stone castle towered protectively over the houses that dotted the landscape beneath it, and a wall of timber and stone circled the perimeter of the entire community, offering safety to the clan within.

The heavy, iron-hinged gates opened, and Ramsey and his guests entered his estate. A resounding cheer echoed around them as soldiers came running to greet their laird. A fair number of young ladies also came running.

Immediately Gillian was surrounded by Brodick's overly protective guard. Aaron moved in front of her, Dylan and Robert positioned themselves beside her, and Liam rode behind.

As impossible as it was for her to see much of anything with the guards' wide shoulders blocking her view, she still tried to look at every face in the crowd. Though it would be wonderful, as well as miraculous, if she could find Christen immediately, Gillian knew it wasn't going to be that easy. Yet each time she spotted a yellow-haired woman, her heart leapt with that impossible hope.

Brodick and Ramsey had dismounted and were now surrounded by soldiers. Gillian patiently waited for Brodick to remember her.

“Do you see him, milady?” Dylan asked in a low voice.

“Him?”

“The traitor,” he whispered.

“No, I'm sorry. I wasn't looking for . . .” she said as she once again tried to search through the crowd. “Not yet,” she whispered back. “There are so many here . . .”

“Most of Ramsey's men aren't here,” Dylan explained. “They are most likely still training in the field behind the castle. Aye, I'm certain they are, or Gideon would be here to greet his laird.”

While Gillian continued to look over the crowd, a few curious and bold MacPherson soldiers, wearing their clan's plaid, moved closer to get a better look at her. One young, foolish man dared to step a little too close.

Black Robert nudged his mount forward, forcing the man to step to the side or be run over. In a voice dripping with venom, he ordered, “You will stop staring at the lady.”