The Laird's Right (2 page)

“If the clan wishes to be under your protection then you must be the one with the power,” the female voice said with a slight burr an English accent washed away—Lairdess MacKintosh. “The chieftain can wed someone from the clan or we can have him wed my sister.”

“Portia?” MacKintosh’s voice rose two notches, sounding both annoyed and excited.

Portia.

“Aye, she has a dowry. We can use the funds to rid ourselves of the Camerons. All that land. Her monies can pay for it all and increase our power. Most importantly, she’d be free of that man’s clutches.”

“I like it but she won’t agree. She thinks her father will save her. Can you convince her to go along with these plans? She is stubborn.”

“She is strong not stubborn. I don’t know if she will go along with this plot. She has no wish to marry. Even now, she escaped to Holyrood Abbey because of the English here.”

Alec sickened. From one man’s clutches to another, thanks to the lairdess. Marriage was about connections. He had denied his father the chance to wed him to the MacGregor lass and Ailsa went from her father’s grip to MacLean’s. At least, his sister was happy now. However, the way these two played with this poor girl’s life, which sent her straight into his clutches…he knew what he had to do.

* * * *

Lady Portia de Mowbray bowed her head in prayer. She pressed her hands harder against her forehead. At one point in her life, she prayed for the silliest things—for the rain to disappear, or the mark on her chin to vanish, for her flat hair to hold a curl, for the priest not to find her dice. This day, she prayed to live.

And another to die.

The new Baron de Mowbray, to be exact.

The man she once called brother, now the new baron, wished for her hand in marriage. The rotten flavor of hatred scorched her mouth, which was a good thing since she hadn’t possessed an appetite since that horrific time. Even now, here in Scotland, she needed to flee further away from England. She had fled Edinburgh castle and the English who had seen her. She should have remained at MacKintosh Castle away from prying English eyes that would bring tales back to her homeland. Arthur would find her and kill her. Slowly.

Somehow, she had survived his attentions. Thankful for her elder sister, she knew Matilda would help her as she had throughout the years. She couldn’t endanger her sister and her clan. The people had been kind to her even when busy at their hard chores. Truth was Portia’s sluggish heart had dropped whenever a messenger arrived at the keep. She had stopped hiding whenever one arrived.

If only she was free from the nightmares visiting her each night, to have a plan—one to save her life. Her nerves jumped and her skin still felt raw. Her nails had paid for her fear, as well as her stomach.

Her life had not meant to be this way. She had been Baroness to a brave, honorable knight of the realm and a chatelaine to Fenwick Castle. She had been happy once, loved and safe. Her husband had loved her, sharing his plans and inquiring about her ideas and opinions. Sometime between hoping for children and talk of rebellion, the daily life she knew became a nightmare. Her life ripped away like a sliced tapestry. She foolishly wished for her husband to return for the dead but deep within her, she yearned for that one impossible thing, the one that would save her life. She was lost and worse, alone. A widow with monies faced a dangerous road.

Let him die.

She pressed her bowed head against her white knuckled hands as she squeezed tighter from the screaming need within her. Tears plummeted from her eyes and landed on her blue cote, absorbed by the luxurious fibers.

As a woman, her standing was limited, better than most thanks to her position in life. With the barons rebelling against the king, she became lost in the power plays and any recourse she had diminished. Her father, the Earl of Mercia, had tried to protect her. With his knights servicing Simon de Monfront, he worried for her, sure the Baron would storm the castle, so he sent her to her sister and the highlands of Scotland. Now, she was in Edinburgh for a court visit. She shouldn’t have left her sister’s side but remaining at the castle strained her. Every sound made her jump, every English accent terrorized her until her head seemed ready to explode from it.

As so many, she sought refuge in the church, a place of solace, a safe place to be and perhaps the place for a higher help. How long she had been in prayer, she couldn’t say. The faithful had come and gone and the candles had burned half way down. Still she continued with her prayers, begging for salvation. She vowed to leave monies to the church or provide monies to feed the poor…devote her hours to prayers. She’d do all three. Anything—
Anything
to stay alive. What did one offer when praying for someone’s death?

Her knees burrowed in to the church’s flagstones. Another litany of prayers and she waited for her bones to shatter or her prayers to be answered. The aroma of wood, wax and spicy incense wove around her and burrowed into her nose as the fragrance had burrowed into the stones and into the deep devotion.

She raised her eyes to the cross as if there her answer would appear. A blonde man slithered from the arch’s shadows. His gaze bore in to her. He appeared ready to pounce on her. His plaid strained to cover his muscular frame. From this distance, he crowded the holy building. His square face was made up of stark, harsh features earned in battle. Flee, her mind screamed. She struggled to pull her eyes away from him. Her breath locked in her chest. She stiffened and trembled, waiting for him to pounce.

Portia jumped to her feet and tore her eyes away from the hulking man. Turning away, she froze at the scrap of coming footsteps as another man materialized from the shadows on the opposite aisle. A broken nosed Highlander appeared from the arched anthrax. Half in shadow, he appeared rougher than the other. Red-gold hair shined like a tarnished halo earned from committing too many sins. Light danced around the planes of his face, twisting his features into a devilish mask.

Her prayers were not answered.

Candle smoke burned her eyes. Portia glanced about the church. Empty. Backing up, she bumped in to pews. She couldn’t escape.

Had the baron sent them?

Scottish or not, monies crossed borders.

She backed up two steps. Cold sweat broke over her, adding to her chills. Her lungs closed. Her mouth dried. Shaking, she dragged her heavy limbs backward. The men didn’t move. She looked right to the blond stalking her.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Her breath shortened. Portia spun around and raced down the nave. Her scream filled the arched abbey and chased after her. Glancing over her shoulder, she slammed in to the thick wall of a chest of another Highlander. Two strong hands gripped her by the arms and whipped her back. She clawed at his face.

“Lady Portia de Mowbray?”

Black spots danced before her eyes. The church swirled in a blend of reds, greens, blues and spreading blackness. She was going to faint. She didn’t like that.

Alec caught her before she hit the floor. “The lass made it easy. Wish all Sassenach were like this.” He swept her in to his arms.

Hidden beneath her English garb, her lush body pressed against him. Her body curved in the places men appreciated and flared at the right places. Wisps of blonde hair escaped from her braid and caressed her heart shaped face. A beautiful face…colorless from fright. Her bottom lip cradled her upper one.
One to kiss for hours and lose himself in their plump texture.
Her golden brows arched perfectly over her eyes, eyes he believed were blue.

“One obliging lass,” Hurley said.

Damn beautiful one too.
Alec left the church, his men behind him. He got what he came for. Back to Cameron lands.

Chapter Two

Portia awoke in a vapor that slowly burned away as her mind’s eye focused. A band of muscles tightened around her and clasped her against a sword hard body. She was on a horse and in the arms of her captors. The musky scent of sweat and man surrounded her. The plaid’s wool scraped against her cheek in tempo with the horse’s gait until her skin felt raw. She couldn’t decide whether to remain quiet or to rent the air with her cries for help. She’d have to escape.

“Don’t cry out.” The order was given in the softest whisper. His Scottish burr caressed her with a warmth the situation didn’t call for. So, he had a sensual voice and sweet breath. He also stole her away from a church.

She gathered a scream deep in her belly and opened her mouth to free it. Suddenly, his lips landed on hers. His tongue delved in to her mouth. She clamped down. The Scottish devil yanked free his wicked piece of flesh and her teeth rattled from the strike.

“Feisty,” he mumbled against her mouth, sending a quiver through her cheeks and down her neck.

She struggled to break free, twisting her head right and left. His puckered lips brushed against her clenched ones. His chuckle rumbled over her lower face, shaking her cheeks. She opened her mouth and snapped at his bottom lip. Before she fainted from the lack of air, he broke off the firm, warm pressure of his lips.

“Whoa.” He reared back. His lips spread, revealing a full set of teeth that foot soldiers killed for.

Portia raised her hand to slap him, wishing to knock out each one. He caught it before she made contact with his rugged cheek. His hold was firm on her wrist. His roughened fingers scraped the fine flesh of her inner wrist. Her skipping pulse slammed against her thin flesh and against his calloused fingers. The skin warmed from the soothing caress and sent a flutter through her. Her hands began to curl.

She grunted. “How dare you? Never violate me in such a way.” She yanked her hand free and slapped his chest. Her hand bounced off the solid muscle. The poor piece of her flesh throbbed. She refused to soothe it. Nay, she wouldn’t cower before this man.

“Hurt your hand?”

The man had no care at the indignation she suffered. A flush of heat rushed out her pores. His straight brown hair hung, covering his ears and grazed his thick-muscled nape. The golden-lit strands were parted on the side. Aye, the man was a knave and knew it.

“I don’t take orders from you. Now close your mouth.” Maybe it was the cold bite of his voice or the smirks the men shot at her but she did as ordered.

The hooded shape of his eyes intensified the color, eyes that would have been beautiful if not for the hard look. A dark pine hue lined his iris with a burst of various greens blending together, broken by shoots of amber about the pupil. Sadly, they glared at her and promised her a harsh punishment if she disobeyed.
Ha!
She had survived worse.

Scotland stretched out before them. To her, this place always seemed as if God had forgotten to finish his creation. A harsh land of deep lochs and towering mountains as the deepest parts of the earth had broken free of the surface. Portia swore there was no other place that matched this land so different from the home she had known and her last refuge. Now, she would be lost in these lands and most likely never to be discovered.

The wilds of Scotland thickened, surrounding them and taking Portia further away from the safety of her sister. Portia had to escape and face the perils of the land. Baron de Mowbray must have hired them. In hours or days, she would be in his clutches until he twisted her neck with his hands. That he had failed before meant nothing. Her only hope was getting to her sister. She’d help her.

“My absence will be noticed. I am English.”

Silence. She looked at each man. Their somber expression never changed. In truth, they appeared unimpressed.

“I’m a guest of Laird MacKintosh. He is a powerful man in your lands. You do not wish his retribution.”

Not even a blink.

“Your king will not like this. He will punish you all, perhaps even take your life. You may start a war with England. My father will pay any ransom you wish.” He pushed her head against his chest, burying her nose in the folds of his plaid. She twisted to sit up and grabbed his bare thigh. Fine hairs tickled her palm. He flexed his muscle. She sat up. Twisting, her buttocks brushed his manhood. Her face heated so she kept her head down, not ready to see his face. Her back grazed across his chest. The plaid and shirt failed to conceal his honed muscles. His strength and power only made her feel like a woman. Not a weak and soft female but one keenly aware of him.

Her skirt rode up, revealing her leg. She flicked it back but not before, he glimpsed her stockings.

“You are willing to take monies from an English man yet not a woman,” she said, with the bite of an accusation. “I had believed Scots were braver and more honorable.”

“We are, lass. That’s why you’re not tied up.”

She fell quiet after that. Not wanting to touch the Highlander, she kept her back straight and her arms stiff at her side. One by one, her muscles began to cramp as her bones began to dig into the aching sinew. And still they rode on. Her chance to escape was moving further from her reach.

The sun lowered and the winds held a crisp chill. Goose pimples broke across her skin. She tucked her arms tight around her middle.

Portia squirmed to ease her stiff back and legs. His hard thighs provided no softness like the rest of the man. Body weary, her eyes closed against her wishes, lulled by the waves of heat wafting off her captor. She was an excellent captive. Once she could run, she’d dart away faster than a spooked fawn.

He halted his mount in a clearing of trees that somehow found root in this harsh country. Bramble blanketed the ground and like everywhere else in Scotland, rocks jutted from the earth in a haphazard design.

Wordlessly, he dismounted. His hands on her waist, he swung her from the saddle. Her muscles twisted, cramped, and pinched. Her back hunched and her bones creaked as she straightened. Every part of her cried out as feelings returned to flesh. She gasped, stiffening, cringing and hissing.

“Walk,” he ordered.

“I believe I shall stand here for a moment.” Portia swung her gaze from her feet to his face. His eyes were on her. They could have been kind even the type to woo a woman if he hadn’t stolen her away. She gave him her nastiest glare, to no avail. He cocked his brow. In respect? Doubtful. She’d wager he believed her comical.