Highlander Enchanted(9)

Unable to reach that far to grab his arm, she waited for him to move close enough and then desperately snatched at whatever she could grip. Her fist closed around the edge of his tunic, and she gasped as the stream yanked her arm in an attempt to pull him away.

“M’lord!” she cried, grimacing in pain. “I cannot … hold you long!” Already the tunic was slipping from her numb fingers.

He shook his head, as if dazed, and twisted in the water. His large hand clasped her forearm. She released his tunic, her grip on the branch starting to slide. Hanging on with sheer will, Isabel closed her eyes to focus on not letting go while the heavy warrior pulled himself out of the current. At last, he released her and gripped the branch, hand beside hers, his warm body pinning her against the tree.

Isabel gasped and relaxed for a moment, shaking from cold and strain. His other arm went around her securely, and she had the sense of being a helpless leaf trapped between two trees.

“Yer … foolish and brave … Lady Cade,” he said. He was breathing hard, and blood trickled from a gash in his temple down the side of his face. His paint had streaked, his eyes the color of the waters rushing by them. “Ye steal m’horse and save m’life. Are ye mad?” He pinned her with a hard look, his broad, rugged features inches from hers. Pressed to him, she experienced once more his immense strength and heat. The unfamiliar sensations spiraling through her left her addled. With some embarrassment, she realized he was waiting for her to answer.

“I would think your life might make you forgive the theft of your horse,” she responded.

“A lie to one who takes mercy on ye is the worst sin, lass, worthy of death.”

“I can let go and drag us both into the waters!”

“Ye willna.” His piercing gaze was reading her thoughts again, his knowing look hard enough to tell her he was not capable of mercy for someone who betrayed him. If she were superstitious enough to believe in the tales of seillie that Ailsa told her, she might think he was touched by sorcery by how he saw through her words to her heart.

She said nothing, the lump in her throat too large for her to speak. Quiet settled between them, one that made her realize she had run into a man who was molded and tempered into steel as unforgiving as his sword. She had never met such a man. The intimacy of the moment confused her. She was almost able to believe that there was no one else in the kingdom but her and the warrior, and the strength of his arms was a guarantee of protection rather than the threat she knew it was. How did she grow fevered when she was near freezing in a river?

“Ye trespass on m’lands and stole m’horse. Why are ye no begging fer mercy?” he growled.

“I do not beg,” she replied. “Ever.”

“Ye know I’ll kill ye.”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

“Did ye beg the Englishmen ye flee when they did this t’ye?” He released the arm around her and gripped her jaw once more, tilting her head to peer at the old bruises.

“Not once.” Hot tears filled her eyes and trickled down her frozen cheeks, the first she had dared shed in months. She tried to duck her head, but his grip was tight. Instead, she grappled with emotions, exposed and vulnerable, while he watched. She loathed the idea of the savage who saw her weakness.

“I’ll kill ye quick, Lady Cade.” The edge remained, though he spoke gently. Releasing her chin, he returned the arm around her. She sighed. His deft strength bolstered her waning will not to be tugged beneath the trunk and stolen by the current. “Hold me tight, lass. We have a journey t’make.” Shifting away from her, he moved between her and the bank and began to haul them towards it.

Isabel hesitated to touch him. The current snagged her cloak and pulled her under. She frantically clung to him, wrapping her arms the best she could around his torso while he used pure strength to plough through the waters towards the bank.

The moment her feet were planted on the rock and silt, she released him and all but collapsed, fatigued and cold.

“At least … my horse lives.” The laird dropped to his knees on the muddy bank, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. He was gazing in the direction of his thoroughly drenched mount a short distance away. Brambles were caught in its reins, and the saddlebags containing her hidden satchel lopsided but present.

The warrior-laird’s tunic clung to his muscular shape, and Isabel found herself staring, her jaw slack at the broad shoulders, chiseled back and lean torso perfectly outlined by his wet clothing. Her eyes drifted lower than his back, and she crossed herself quickly before turning away.

She had already committed one sin today by stealing his horse. Lust was an even greater one, according to Father Henry, one that had never tempted her before this savage.

Flinging off her soaked cloak, she crawled so as not to hurt her shin and climbed onto the grassy bank. “Can you … kill me with mercy without a sword?” she asked, trembling from more than the cold.

“Yea.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, too weak to run or resist. “’Tis a kinder death than I deserve.” Though sooner than she would have liked. To have made it this far and failed at the door of the man she sought was a testament of how foolish her journey was.

“Sir, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my betrothed.” The haughty statement made her breath catch.

Any hope she had that this day would end without her death vanished at the familiar voice. Isabel did not weep, but she bowed her head in defeat and began to pray in silence.