Highlander Claimed

“Ritchie,” I said, gasping for breath, with relief and gratitude.

“Go!” he said, more forcefully. “Be safe, Roses.”

The furtive warning in Ritchie’s voice charged me, and I turned from him. I looked back only once to see his horse vanishing into a glade, wishing I could thank him, but he was already gone.

I climbed as fast as I could up the craggy terraced cliffs, farther and higher for what felt like a long time, until I reached a sheltered grassy cove. My lungs and legs burned with my exertions, and I sat for a moment to catch my breath. I could see that I was high above the vast rolling grasslands now. So high that I was afforded a magnificent view, across the heather fields.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked over the rise of a nearby hill to see the grand central stone castle of the Mackenzie keep—Kinloch, if I remembered correctly.

Within the confines of the keep, I could see tiny people milling about. Spaced cozily across the castle’s grounds were smaller stone and wooden buildings, and acres of farmland, striped with green and gold crops, artfully decorated with fruit trees, vines and gardens. The landscape was richly colorful, dotted with the tiny orange, red, green and yellow shapes of the laden orchards and gardens that looked on the verge of harvest. It was far more lush and skillfully tended than the Ogilvie keep. And it looked wildly inviting, especially considering the emptiness of my stomach, which twisted and growled at the sight of such plenty.

The stone wall that circled the central area of the keep’s castle and gardens looked as tall as two men, at least. If I used a ladder—which I hoped I might be able to build with some wood and the rope I had brought—I might be able to scale it.

I would use the daylight hours to scout for a place to find a shelter to sleep tonight, after I returned from my raid. To my intense relief, I found one easily. The hillside was steep and gouged with small caves, shielded from the wind by massive boulders and packed tree glades. I found one that was not too cramped, extending deep into the smooth rock. At the back of the cave, a slit extended up to a thin crack of daylight, giving warmth and soft light to the cozy space.

Delighted by my find and feeling hopeful at the prospect of food, I went in search of wood for my ladder. What I found first, farther around the western back of the hillside, was a picturesque waterfall splashing into a clear pool. I took a long drink. I washed my hands and my face before continuing to gather lengths of sturdy, thin branches.

I returned to the cave and wound the lengths of rope I had brought around the rungs of my makeshift ladder, fashioning what I hoped was my portal into the Mackenzie gardens.

The only thing left to do was wait until darkness veiled then settled thickly around the landscape of my new—and quite comfortable—temporary home. I prepared my bag, checked my ladder once more for weight-bearing consistency.

I strapped my belt, strung with my knife and sword, around my waist. Figuring that a disguise would be the best course of action, I wound my hair into a loose braid, coiled at the back of my neck, then fastened the war helmet onto to my head and set off on my way.

The stone wall of the keep was farther away than I’d estimated. It may have been as much as an hour before I reached it, and by then, my lack of sleep and lack of food was beginning to take its toll. Attempting to ignore both, I positioned my ladder, waiting atop the wall, listening for sounds of stirring in the near vicinity. My eyes had adjusted by then to the spare light offered by a sliver moon and some cloud-veiled stars. I could see no one. I adjusted my weight on the thick surface of the wall and pulled the ladder over, placing it against the inside wall so I could make my escape. I climbed down to the ground and found myself on the far side of a small loch from the looming castle and within sight of the silver-edged silhouettes of garden hedges and gnarled, fruit-heavy trees. I sneaked around the water’s edge toward my goal. I fingered the first pear of my harvest, taking several bites before I could continue. Its sweetness was indescribable. I picked as many fruits as I could carry.

As I walked past the edge of the smooth expanse of the loch toward the wall, I was surprised to notice that the yellow hue of morning had just begun to creep above the horizon. I’d taken too much time. Soon, people would begin their day’s chores. And I was still inside the wall. Taking quick steps now, I secured my helmet and approached my ladder. Just as I started to climb, a sound drew my attention.

A splash.

I turned to see a man walking out of the loch.

A very big, muscular, naked man. Very naked.

And he was looking right at me.

We were both stunned into frozen silence. But then he tensed and moved in my direction, jolting me into action. I clambered up the ladder as fast as I could, pulling it up behind me and jumping heavily down to the ground on the far side, my bag of fruits and vegetables secured to my back. I left the ladder where it lay and ran for my very life. I didn’t look back, but I knew he was coming.

I ran and ran until my legs threatened to buckle under me. My back had gone numb with the weight of my load as I struggled farther and farther up the hill.

I could hear him gaining on me.

“Halt!” he yelled, and his voice reached into my body and grabbed my heart, such was the fear I felt. It wasn’t just the strength of the command but the closeness of it.

And I did halt.

On the other side of the sharp jutting rock was my shelter. I dropped my bag and turned to face him. I pulled my sword from its belt.

And he was there, not ten feet from where I stood, fully clothed now and holding his own—much bigger—sword.

As far as I could see, he was alone. Would he have told others about his chase?

The first thing that struck me about him—aside from his size, which I already knew about, in every regard—was his captivating looks. His black hair, still barely wet, hung to his shoulders, and he wore a small braid stitched back from each temple, as was customary for clansmen. Despite the small distance between us, I could see that his eyes were a vivid shade of blue. His face was fierce not only in expression but also in countenance: fierce in beauty. I was dizzied by my fear and by my reaction to his dazzling presence.

“Who are you?” he asked, his broad chest heaving as he breathed heavily from the chase. It was a command, that I supply him this information.

I did not speak. I had no intention of giving up my identity. He might return me to Laird Ogilvie.

He held up his sword and asked the question again, this time more quietly but no less commanding. “I said, to whom am I speaking?”

I held up my own small weapon. It was far less impressive than his own, but I knew how to use it. I’d been training with men for months and had learned how a quick jab could be just as effective as a long swing.

“You want to fight me, aye?” he asked. There was a note of jeering confidence in his question. I allowed him this. My call to arms was clearly foolhardy. I did not want to die here on this hilltop, at the hands of this beautiful warrior, but I had no other option than to fight.

“Show your face,” he said.

I did not.

“Please leave me,” I said, attempting to deepen my voice.

A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows, as if he was having trouble making sense of the situation and my request. He almost smiled. “I’ll not go until you reveal yourself,” he said, and his tone sounded patient, if I was placing it correctly.

“I cannot.”

“Then we shall have to fight. You’ve been caught stealing from our lands. ’Tis punishable by death, thievery. If there’s a reason for your actions, give it.”

“I was hungry,” came my falsely stern, muffled reply.

To this he smiled, clear confusion written across his heartbreaking face. “That’s a fair reason, then. Reveal yourself and you can keep your bounty. If you agree never to return to thieve from us again. Show your face.”

“I cannot.”

His mild amusement irked me. “You cannot,” he repeated. “Why is this?”

My fear, and something else, was causing my control to weaken, to slide. I willed myself to hold it together. “Leave me! Here, take your food! I’ll go, and not bother you again.”

His smile faded, and I realized that I’d forgotten to disguise my voice. He said slowly, as though to make sure I understood, “I’m afraid I’ll not be leaving. Not until I know who I’m dealing with.”

We stood, swords raised, at an impasse of sorts.

Would he show me mercy? Would he force me to return to Ogilvie? Or would he kill me?

As if in partial answer, he stepped closer, clearly not intimidated by me. He lifted the tip of his sword to my chin, as though to use it to tip my helmet backward.

I struck his sword with my own.

He was surprised by my hit, and he lashed back with his weapon, so quickly I barely had time to react. And we were close now, so close that his returning strike sliced across my arm, ricocheting pain throughout my body. My sword, as I fell to the ground, slid across the muscle of his side. He growled and struck my weapon with such power that it sent a jolt of fire through my already bloodied arm. My sword went flying, so I could hear the wo wo wo of its spinning flight before it landed with a clang far out of my reach.

Stunned, pained, grasping to maintain consciousness, I lay still on the ground as he stood over me. Blood was flowing freely from the wound on his torso. He kneeled and removed my helmet. My hair had loosened and spilled onto the ground as he freed it.

When he saw my face, his jaw dropped. He stared for many moments, surveying me with his eyes. He fingered a lock of my hair, rubbing it gently between two fingers for several seconds, as though fascinated by the feel of it, or the color.

“You’re a lass,” he finally said.

“Aye.”

His expression colored with a strange sort of awe that reached to touch me in places I had never before been touched. Inexplicably, I felt a part of myself open to him, like a flower when it first sees the sun. I craved more of this connection. My senses wanted to touch, to feel, to drink in the scent and the sight of his magnificence. His face was too beautiful, too glorious. I was blinded and dazed. And he, as well, looked momentarily overcome.

A long moment passed before he continued, clear notes of disbelief rasping his words. “You’re an angel.”

“Nay, not that.”

“An angel so lovely she stuns my mind. Wearing the clothing of men.”

He sat down next to me, somewhat heavily. The cloth at the front of his tunic was now saturated with blood.

“Why did you strike me?” I asked. “Now I’ve injured you.” In the aftermath of our battle, I felt appalled that it was my own hand, my own sword, that had damaged this unearthly creature.

“I wouldn’t have,” he countered. “If you’d heeded my command.”

My eyelids felt unusually heavy. “Aye,” I admitted. “’Tis a weakness of mine. I’m not very good at heeding commands.”

His hands were on my arm, where my wound was dripping a crimson puddle onto the dirt. “You’re injured, too.”

“Not so badly as you, I think.”

He would need stitching, that was clear enough. Had I brought the stitching thread and the needle? I couldn’t recall. My memory seemed fuzzy at its edges.

“The cave,” I said.

He eyed me skeptically, that hint of amusement still lingering in his eyes, despite our circumstance. “Which cave is this, lass?”

I motioned toward the cave, and he moved to help me sit up. The scent and heat of him seemed to swirl all around me and inside me. The heat of his solid thigh burned through the layers of our clothing as he supported me. Feebly, I led him toward the cave, and he, too, for all his size and ferocity, swooned slightly as we walked.

“There,” I said, not at all sure I wouldn’t black out and crumple helplessly to the ground at a moment’s notice.

I crouched onto my hands and knees at the entrance of the cave and crawled into its interior, sliding onto the welcome warmth of the bed I’d laid. The bloodied warrior crawled in after me, lying down beside me. We held each other’s gaze, and the blue of his eyes seemed to pour into me; it fed me a comfort the likes of which I had not known for a very long time, or maybe ever. I was profoundly grateful, if death was upon me, that I could at least die in the glowing presence of this glorious warrior.

“I’m Wilkie Mackenzie,” he said.

So this was Laird Mackenzie’s notorious brother. I could now understand why it was said that women fell at his feet.

Emboldened by his confession, I told him my name. “I’m Roses.” I had been an Ogilvie for most of my life, but now, I had severed myself from that clan irrevocably. I was on my own.

“Roses,” he said, as though wholly satisfied by my introduction. He did not prod me for more. “An unusual name.” His eyes glimmered in the half-light. “The pleasure is mine, Roses.”

“You exaggerate, warrior,” I whispered. “I’ve hardly given you pleasure.”

“If we live,” he said, his eyes drowsy now from his blood loss, “that is something we will have to remedy.”

“Aye,” I heard myself reply. “It is.”

And darkness overcame me.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN I AWOKE, it took me several seconds to figure out where I found myself. My body felt trapped under a heavy weight, and my arm throbbed with a dull searing ache.

I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior.

The cave.

Vivid light seeped through the narrow door opening. Late afternoon light. I had been asleep for several hours.

The warrior lay next to me, so close I could see the stubble on his now-peaceful face, framed by the long strands of his dark hair. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to touch the thick silk of it, smoothing it back from his strong brow, fingering the braids that knotted back from his temples. His features were bold and striking, hardened by work, war and sun, softened only slightly now in this dark haven. Or tomb. Time would tell.

His arm was slung over me, pinning me against the bulk of his huge heated body. I tried to move, but he grasped me tighter, causing him to grimace and groan even in his unconscious state. I tried again but could not budge him.

Should I attempt to sneak away from him, to take my bag of food and flee northward?

I dismissed the option almost instantly. I was too weak. I had no idea as to the extent of my injury. Or his. And I had no intention of leaving him to die. I remembered the look on his face when he’d removed my helmet. The direct fascination in his eyes, the impact of his blue gaze. The new, tingling awareness of my own heat and my own skin, and more than that: my own life.

I would take my chances.

“Warrior,” I said, trying to rouse him.

No response.

“Wilkie,” I attempted. “You must let me go, so I can tend to your wound, and my own. I’ll fetch water for you to drink.”

His eyes opened, blue even in the semidarkness.

“Roses,” he mumbled.

“Aye. ’Tis me. Release your grip on me, warrior.”

“Kiss me, angel. Before this life leaves me.”

His eyes seemed to gain focus, and I thought I detected a brief glimmer in their sapphire depths. I was wary, mainly because of his size and his obvious strength, but he was a temptation to me in ways I did not understand. I wanted to disengage from his grip and at the same time settle yet closer to him.

“Then will you release me?”

A hint of a smile lingered in his eyes but did not touch his lips, which parted only slightly. “Aye,” he whispered.

I brushed my lips softly against his mouth. I meant it to be brief, a means to the critical end of attending to our injuries. But the feel of his mouth against mine, the warmth of his breath on my face, held me there. I let my lips touch to his for a moment longer, savoring the soft contact. Then he kissed me back, sweetly, his mouth just open, so I could feel the wetness on his lips. I pulled away, shocked by the feel of it.

“Let me go, warrior.”

He obeyed my request, drawing his arm away from me. But the action pained him greatly, and he groaned and closed his eyes as he lay back on our makeshift bed. I could see then that his injury was indeed severe. The front of his shirt was near-saturated with his blood. He faded from consciousness again, although his sleep seemed fitful and agitated.

I jumped up, ignoring the burning ache in my left arm. Using my knife, I cut away Wilkie’s tunic, revealing the gaping wound inflicted by my own hand. It was longer but less deep than I had feared, running in a diagonal line below his rib cage along his right side. I was relieved to see that the edges were cleanly sliced, so they would be relatively easy to sew back together. Ismay had allowed me to assist her with wound care and stitching, even though Laird Ogilvie had once forbade it. She saw no harm in it, she’d said, and was only too pleased to have a willing, eager student.

Infinitely grateful that I’d happened to grab the needle and thread and the healing paste in the midst of my hasty departure, I intended to put them to good use now. But first I needed to clean his wound. Looking around the cave for a vessel to carry water, I spied the bowl.

I ran down to the pool and filled it.

Wilkie remained unconscious, and I used his stillness to my advantage. Washing away the blood from his torso took several more trips to the pool. Then I carefully sewed his wound, taking care to pull the edges neatly together before smoothing the area with healing salve. I found the process strangely taxing and was heated and exhausted by the time I’d finished but pleased with my efforts. I cut a clean strip off of his tunic to keep the wound covered, but when I tried to lift him, he wouldn’t budge. The man was possibly twice my own weight, and my strength had been decidedly tapped. So I tucked the strip around him for now; I could tie it when he awoke.

I took a moment to admire the graceful lines of his chest, so powerfully built, the muscles curved and sculpted. His chest and arms carried many battle scars, lines of paleness against the brown of his sunned skin. I traced several of them lightly with my finger, imagining the battles he had fought over land, honor, women. I clearly wasn’t the first to wield a sword against this seasoned warrior.

It was then that I was reminded of my own battle scar. I had been so immersed in my task of healing the warrior that I’d temporarily forgotten my own injury. But now the pain flared as if in protest. My body felt unusually warm, almost tingly in places.

I went back to the water’s edge. Quickly, I removed my tunic. Before I did, I unclasped the glass-jeweled pin that adorned it, a small piece that had belonged to my mother, given to her by my father on their wedding day. It was the only belonging of theirs that remained in my possession, and I wore it each day, as a tribute to their memory. I stopped briefly to look at it, to run my fingers over the smooth rounded surface of its face. A daisy, with curved metallic petals; at its center was an amber-colored glass jewel that gleamed now, in the sun. My mother’s name had been Daisy. The sweetest, prettiest flower, my father used to say. My Daisy, my Roses. I have my very own flower garden, right here, in our house. My lovely girls.

I placed the pin on a small rock to the side of the pool and scrubbed my tunic to remove the blood, the memory of my parents surrounding me peacefully. Their kindness and generosity. Lost to me now. I hung the tunic on a near branch to dry in the breeze.

I washed the sweat and tears from my face. I cupped my hands and drank. Carefully, I washed my wound, removing the dried blood there and surveying the damage. The burning sting of the raw, exposed flesh made my eyes water. But the sword had sliced across the skin, rather than cutting deep, so the injury would likely not require sewing. I could douse it with healing salve and bandage it, and leave it to heal on its own. And I would forevermore carry the scar inflicted by Wilkie Mackenzie. Like a seal.

A seal.

It looks like a seal of some description.

I pushed the unpleasant memory out of my mind, concentrating instead on drying myself, and quickly. The warrior might wake at any time. Or his clansmen might have found his trail, or mine. They’d have noticed his disappearance by now, for certain. It was hours since he’d spied me at the wall, as he’d emerged from his own pool. I let that memory linger. I had beheld his magnificence, even amid the panic of the moment. I had never seen a man so beautiful and so...naked. And not a shred of modesty. Just confidence.

I wore my thin sleeveless shift—which I had shortened to a length I could accommodate with men’s riding clothing—leaving my tunic off, for now. I didn’t want to aggravate my wound with the thicker fabric yet, as it was bleeding freely again since I’d removed the layer of dried blood. I carried my tunic and the bowl, now filled with fresh water.

The warrior still slept. This worried me slightly.

I applied healing salve to own wound, which stung frightfully, bringing tears to my eyes. Once the pain had eased, I wrapped a second strip of cloth from the warrior’s tunic around it several times to apply pressure. It was the only cloth I had access to, aside from my own clothing, and it was in such a state of disrepair already, it couldn’t be salvaged.

After my bandage was in place, I sat next to the warrior and placed my hand on his forehead. No fever, yet.

He needed an experienced healer, one with knowledge, teas and tinctures. Would he wake soon? Would he be able to make the trek back down the mountain? He should drink.

I lifted his head gently into my lap.

“Warrior,” I whispered in his ear. “You must drink. Wake now. I have fresh water.”

He groaned softly, and his eyes blinked open. I held the bowl to his lips.

“Drink this. ’Tis cold and will quell your thirst.”

He gulped it thirstily, drinking most of it. This relieved me. I put the bowl aside and smoothed his hair back from his face. He turned his head to gaze up at me, the expression in his eyes unfathomable. There was fierceness there, and something more. Was he still vengeful? If I healed him and comforted him, he might forgive me my crime. I dared to imagine he’d let me go and trade food for duties I could perform for him, such as sewing or preparing healing paste, or...gardening, even. It was a lofty hope, though, I knew; he’d be unlikely to trust me inside his clan’s walls. And what of this warrior and his kinsmen—could I trust them? I knew of the ways and intentions of tyrannical lairds and their ranks, and I was wary.

The warrior winced briefly at his own movement as he reached to touch the long off-white end strands of my hair. I hadn’t yet braided and bound it after it had come loose during our chase and our battle, so it hung down around my shoulders to graze his arm. He wound his fingers through it and held it to his cheek where he rubbed it softly against his skin.

“You left me,” he accused, somewhat sulkily.

“Only for a moment,” I said. “I went to bathe my wound.”

His gaze traveled to my bandaged arm, as though he’d forgotten.

“I cut you.”

“Aye, but I’ll live. And I cut you. Now I must heal you.”

His head turned just slightly, so that his cheek barely touched the pillowy curve of my breast. I blushed at the contact, as the thinness of the cloth of my shift would have, in different circumstances, been fairly scandalous. I had not yet put on my tunic. The warrior’s breathing became heavier then, so I could feel the hot strikes of his breath through the very light layer of my clothing. Where his heat warmed me, sensation gathered and pooled, spreading across my skin and deeper, to the lower depths of my stomach. Against my will, my body responded. My nipples, so close to his mouth, budded into tight peaks, almost painfully.