Page 17 of Claimed By a Savage Scot
“I’m sorry I was so useless back there, Malcolm. I was just so scared they were goin’ tae find me,” she said as though admitting a crime. “I couldnae have done it without ye there tae help me.”
Her obvious sincerity moved him deeply. “Ye did fine,” he told her, trying to sound encouraging whilst keeping his anger at Sinclair out of his voice. He was starting to think more and more about what a pleasure it would be to kill the man.
“I was proud of ye. Ye didnae bolt and ye kept quiet and did what I told ye. Now we’ve shaken them off and we’re almost home. So ’tis all fine.”
“Ye were proud of me?” She looked over at him, eyes wide with disbelief. They were beautiful, as green as the grass.
He shrugged. “Aye. Bravery comes in all shapes and sizes, ye ken? Ye should be proud of yersel’ too.”
“Ach, stop bein’ nice, Malcolm! I cannae keep on thankin’ ye,” she exclaimed, looking sidelong at him.
He chuckled, amused. “I hear yer feistiness has returned. I’m glad of it. I suppose ye’ll be answerin’ me back same as usual now we’re free and clear.”
“Mayhap I will,” she agreed pertly, her leg brushing against his as they rode side by side down the narrow track. The unexpected contact sent a shard of heat through Malcolm’s body that roused his uneasiness.
“Anyway, ye dinnae need tae keep thankin’ me. I’m doin’ this fer Duncan, remember,” he told her gruffly.
Her smile vanished, and she nodded gravely. “Aye, of course.”
They fell silent, sunk in birdsong and the sound of the horses. His eyes roved surreptitiously over her slender form. Even under the cloak, he could trace her shape in his mind. Because he had held her body close to his all night long in the hut. Every curve and hollow was indelibly burned into his mind.
Her hood blew back from her face, revealing rosy cheeks and exposing her hair. It blazed like copper in the low September sunshine, so brightly, he could hardly tug his gaze from the flowing tresses as they streamed out behind her.
Despite the calamity that had befallen her, she was so beautiful and alive.
He tore his eyes away from her and forced his thoughts to practicalities. It was now well into the afternoon and dusk would fall early. He wanted to get home and get her to safety as soon as possible. Only then would he be able to avoid her dangerous company.
“Let’s go a bit faster,” he said, spurring the colt into a canter. Catriona did the same with the mare, which easily kept pace with the more powerful horse. The track was surprisingly smooth, and they were able to keep up the fast pace for some time.
Every hoofbeat took them closer to Castle Gordon.
It was when they stopped to relieve themselves that the accident occurred.
She had completed her business within the privacy of a patch of gorse bushes and was making her way back to join Malcolm when her foot collided with a large stone embedded in the road.
She cried out in pain as her ankle wrenched sideways and shards of white hot pain lanced through her foot. She stumbled forward and would have fallen flat on her face if not for Malcolm suddenly being there to catch her in his arms.
“Ach, are ye all right?” he asked, his voice full of worry as he steadied her, waiting while she regained some semblance of balance.
“Ow, blast it,” she replied with a grimace, standing on her good leg and leaning on his arm for support. “’Tis me ankle, I turned it on that stone.” She glared darkly at the culprit.
“Is it broken?” Malcolm.
“I dinnae think so, but I’ve definitely twisted it badly,” she told him, wincing as she tried to put her weight on the injured foot. “I cannae dae it. ’Tis too painful. Och, why must I be so clumsy?” She really was annoyed with herself over it.
“It was an accident, lass,” Malcolm said. “It could have happened tae anyone.”
“So why daes it havetae be me?”
“Och, wheesht,” he said not unkindly. “Come here and let me have a look at it.”
Without warning, he scooped her up and carried her over to a large boulder nearby. He set her down upon it as though she were made of glass, then knelt by her feet.
Before she could check the damage herself, Malcolm took charge. Without asking permission, he removed her slipper and pushed up the hem of her skirts, revealing her stockinged legs.
Her stockings were black with dirt from the road, and her ankle was throbbing, swelling rapidly.
“I cannae see properly. Take off yer stockin’,” he said, sitting back on his heels, apparently unaffected by the horrible sight.
