The Devil in Plaid(20)

“No one will know,” Abby hissed.

Fiona glanced sidelong at Jamie whose scowl deepened with each passing moment. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and stepped away from her kin. Then she opened her eyes and met the MacLeod’s gaze. “I am ready.”

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. Her pulse raced beneath his scrutiny. Then without a word of warning, he bent in the saddle and seized her by the waist. She soared high. He set her down in the saddle in front of him. “The ceremony will take place one week from today. All are welcome to attend,” he said in a clipped voice to her father. Then he made a clicking sound, and they set off at a trot.

She leaned past his shoulders to look back at her kin. Esme and Abby’s faces were drawn. Her father’s eyes glistened with tears. Her people waved and called out words of comfort and devotion. Still, she gazed back when they passed through the outer wall and as they wove their way through the village. Only when they rounded the bend and Castle Creagan was no longer in view did she shift her gaze forward.

Adjusting her skirts, she stiffened her spine to keep from touching the MacLeod. Despite her effort, she could feel the heat of his body, and when the horse rocked her too much, she bumped against his hard stomach. Nothing was more alarming, however, than the mighty hand gripping her waist and the other hand steering the reins. Her mind raced with stories from her youth of the hateful MacLeod men and their angry fists.

Once upon a time, her own grandmother had to flee Làidir for her very life. Would Jamie raise his fists against her? She shivered, looking at his large, calloused hands. No doubt, if he wanted to, he could take her life with one blow. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to imagine the worst. Taking a deep breath, she tried to keep her attention on the road ahead.

They trekked on for less than an hour when the MacLeod pulled on the reins, steering their mount into the woods.

“This will not be an easy ride,” he said behind her.

She stiffened, scanning the forest. “Trust me,” she said. “Easy is not what I imagine for the next years of my life.”

The hand around her waist tightened. “Cooperate with me and ye’ll be spared many hardships.”

“What choice do I have?” she muttered, fully grasping the meaning of his words. If she did not disappoint, contradict, or delay him or any other number of inconveniences for which she might be guilty—then she would not force his hand. Choking back bitter tears, she said, “Lead on, my laird. Yer every wish is my command.”





Chapter Eleven


Jamie caressed his hand down the curve of Fiona’s waist. His body betrayed him. The scent of her hair lingered in his nose. Despite it all—the feud, his distrust, her own repugnant response to his person—he could not deny his own treacherous desire. Her beauty was unmatched. Silken black waves draped across his thigh. Her fair skin shone porcelain in the sun, and her blue eyes sparkled. It didn’t matter that it was her fury that made them so vibrant.

His fingers splayed wide across her stomach. She was petite. He towered over her, but her body did not have a frailty to match her height. Instead, she was trim but curvy and strong as if she did not while hours away in the family solar doing needlework, but spent time out of doors, on horseback or walking.

They had been riding for more than four hours over rugged land with no roads or settlements for miles. His chosen way was untamed—steep hills cut by jutting rocks and thick forests with clawing bramble. Still, she had not complained nor had her back lost its rigidity. He knew that, in part, her pride fueled her strength, not to mention her own desire to distance herself from him. She, no doubt, was not enjoying such a pleasing ride—he had yet to wash away his labors. His chest, which she refused to rest against, still bore the streaks of ash and dirt from his efforts days earlier, rescuing his kin and salvaging as much of their belongings as he could. Over the last few days, the shadow of a beard had thickened. His plaid needed a good wash, but he cared not. Let her think him the ignorant brute she clearly had deemed him to be.

Suddenly, he stiffened. His gaze settled on a cluster of five jagged rocks ahead of them, each taller than a man. He tensed and drew his mount to a halt, signaling for Grant and Niall to do the same. His gaze scanned the woods while he listened, straining to hear even the smallest sound, but he heard nothing.

The forest was quiet.

Too quiet.

“We passed a dense patch of thicket on the right, about twenty paces behind us,” he whispered in her ear. “Do ye remember?”

“I do,” she whispered back.

“When I tell ye to, I want ye to slide to the ground and race back to that thicket as fast as ye can. Then get low to the ground and don’t move. Do ye ken?”

She tensed in her seat. “Aye.”

A horse nickered from deeper in the woods. “Go,” he hissed.

Fiona slid from his grasp. Her feet landed with a soft thud, and she sprinted back the way they’d come, the instant before the Mackenzie war cry rent the air.

Half a dozen men on foot raced from behind the rocks, swords and axes gripped in their fists and raised at the ready. Twice as many riders poured out of the woods from the left. About their hips and slashing across their bare chests was the MacKenzie plaid.

“Strike to kill,” Jamie shouted to his men. Withdrawing his sword from the scabboard strapped to his back, he braced himself to face the descending enemy.