Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(84)
Where were they? She'd lost all sense of direction some time ago.
Reluctantly, she slid her hand into his and leapt down next to him. Standing so close to him, with his familiar masculine scent wrapping around her, set off a tumult of conflicting emotions. She thought she'd known him so well. She could close her eyes and feel exactly what it was like to be held in his arms—to press her cheek against his incredible chest. To trace the layers of hard muscles with her hand. To look into his eyes when he pushed inside her, filling her inch by incredible inch.
Once again she'd confused sex with love.
Part of her wanted to catapult herself into his arms and burst into tears; the other part wanted to pound her fists against his chest and hurt him the way he'd hurt her. He'd deceived her—the extent of which she was almost too scared to find out. “Why are they tracking us? You know the men who attacked me, don't try to deny it.”
“I won't deny it. You can question me all you want, Lizzie, but not now. We have to move fast.”
“Wait.” She looked down. “Your leg.” Blood had saturated the brown leather of his breeches. A large stain had formed high on his left thigh, and the dark hole near the outer portion showed where the ball had entered. Quickly, she lifted the front of her wool skirt and ripped the bottom portion of one of her muslin underskirts. Holding it out to him, she said, “You'd better bind it with this.”
He gave her a curious stare, before quickly doing as she bid. “Thank you.”
She nodded, and then they were off. He pulled her through the woods after him, opposite the direction in which they'd been riding. Obviously, he hoped they would follow the horse. Even wounded, he wound through the trees with the agility and speed of a wildcat; she could barely keep up with him. The occasional grunt over uneven ground was the only reminder that he had a ball lodged in his leg. Despite the chill, sweat gathered on her forehead and between her br**sts. Her breath was harder and harder to find amid the frantic pounding of her heart. They ran until she thought her lungs would burst.
She started to drag.
He slowed and offered her a drink of water from a skin in his pack. She took a deep gulp, thankful for the moment of respite.
“We can't stop, Lizzie. It's just a little farther.”
She gasped, fighting for breath, unable to tell him that she couldn't go on. God, what was wrong with him? He was barely even out of breath. In the darkness, she could just make out his jaw clenched against the pain, which must have been excruciating.
“I can carry you, if you are too tired,” he offered.
Her eyes widened. He was serious. She made a garbled sound, half cry and half laugh, and shook her head. He would do it, too. Even as angry as she was, she couldn't imagine what the added weight would do to his leg. Moreover, she sensed that she would need him as strong as possible for what lay ahead. Maybe his clansmen were right: Nothing hurt him.
Why had she ever thought he could care?
Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and tried not to focus on her burning lungs.
After about another mile—though it felt like fifty—the sky opened up a little, the trees were not as close together, and the ground underfoot grew denser with bracken and heather. He let her rest for a few moments while he gathered an armful of fallen branches and moss, which she hoped meant a fire in the near future.
Once beyond the shelter of the trees, they were forced to move more slowly as the footing became more precarious. The footholds in the heather could be quite boggy.
A short while longer and she was looking up at an enormous rocky mountain. “What is that?”
“Beinnmheadhonaidh.” Hill of the Caves, she translated. “Lowlanders call it Ben Venue.”
He'd mentioned a cave to Robbie, so perhaps this was their destination? She hoped so.
He slowed their pace even further when the heather and bracken gave way to rock. “Careful,” he warned, “the stones can be slick from the mist even if it isn't raining.”
She was trying, but it was difficult to see.
They skirted around the base of the mountain until they got to a narrow, steep ravine. When she looked up, all she could see was the rocky face of the cliffside.
She stopped in her tracks. “You can't mean to climb up that?”
He chuckled. “Nay. You can't see it right now, but about a hundred yards up is an opening in the rocks. The cave is known as Coir nan Uriskin.”
The Cove of the Satyrs. “Sounds idyllic,” she said dryly. “I suppose it's haunted, too.”
“Nay.” She heard the amusement in his voice. “Though this area is supposed to be the meeting place for all the goblins in Scotland.”
She shivered. Even though she wasn't superstitious, the place was eerie in the darkness. “Won't they know where to find us?”
He shook his head. “They should be traveling south for a while; this will give us a few hours.”
“What about Robbie and your other men?”
His face was grim. “They can take care of themselves.”
He would be with them if it weren't for me.
After a short but demanding climb, he tossed a few rocks deep into the cave—apparently to scare off any wild beasties using it for a home—then pulled her into the wide cavern of the cave. Once inside, she saw that it was about as big as her chamber at Castle Campbell—though decidedly danker. Heaving an enormous sigh of relief, she looked around for a place to collapse.