Page 5 of Only a Highlander Will Do

Her gaze strayed to the only thing standing still in the commotion—a tall, dark man, wearing a white muslin shirt, the MacLeod tartan, and polished black boots. A MacLeod? There was a time when she’d been in awe of the clan and its connection to the fairy lore on the isle. But this man was an unknown. It would be better to think of him as her enemy.

He gazed at her with a curious expression as he suddenly surged forward.

She turned, racing towards the deepest part of the grove and the bluff she knew was on the other side.

“Stop!” the man called.

A sudden chill gripped her as she glanced back over her shoulder. He was right behind her.

Fiona ran faster, trying desperately to outdistance the man in black boots. She jumped over a hollow log, staggered and almost fell as she landed in a dip in the earth on the other side. She regained her balance and ran on. Pain stitched her side.

“You are only prolonging—” The man broke off, cursing.

A glance over her shoulder revealed he had fallen to his knees in the dip that had almost been her own undoing.

She felt a surge of primitive satisfaction. She hoped the man in black boots had broken his leg. It would serve him well if—

A hand grasped her shoulder, jerking her to a halt with such force that she fell to her knees on the loamy ground.

The man in black boots. How had he recovered so quickly? She gazed at him, feeling a surge of stunned amazement and horror. He was handsome, in a roguish kind of way. His long, dark hair was combed back from his face to settle around his shoulders, exposing a bronzed face with high cheekbones, well-defined lips, and dark eyes that were both sharp and determined beneath straight almost black brows. But beneath the beauty, she also saw a layer of cynical armour that kept her from seeing the secrets hidden in his eyes.

His gaze travelled over her tousled hair, to the wilted and now dishevelled posy of purple sweet pea, rosemary, and heather she had tucked behind her ear earlier today. “Who are you?” he asked between ragged breaths.

“No one,” she answered honestly. She still couldn’t quite fathom why the MacDonalds had chosen her to become the wife of the heir. She had no great ancestral lineage or dowry to bring to the marriage. And Ulster Castle was no prize even if the land was rich and arable.

“Four MacDonald guards are escorting you somewhere.” He drew himself up, fully recovered now from his fall. “Monkstadt?” His gaze narrowed on her face. “You’re pretty, and young. Let me guess.” His voice filled with contempt. “The old laird is still married to Margaret, which means you must have been chosen as a bride for the heir—Alex.”

“You know nothing.” Fiona got to her feet and considered running once more, but his hand snaked out, capturing her wrist in a firm grasp.

“Sounds like I uncovered the truth.”

She returned his contemptuous gaze and lifted her chin. “Release me at once. You are a MacLeod. Most likely one of the eldest three. Which of them matters not, for when the MacDonalds find out what has happened here, you and your entire clan will be sorry.”

His brows lowered in annoyance. “The animosity between our clans cannot get much worse than it already is.”

Even living in relative isolation as she had, she knew that much was true. The stories of vengeance between the two clans were legendary. At the thought, a shiver rippled across her neck. If she were to become a MacDonald, then the man before her would become her enemy. She swallowed hard and looked down at her feet. Perhaps she could yet appeal to his sense of honour. That is, if he had any. “Do you often roam the land attacking defenceless women?”

His burst of laughter brought her gaze back to his. “You are far from defenceless.” His other hand came up to press against his chest where she had hit him with all her might.

“You deserved that and more for dragging me from my horse.”

“I meant to take you onto my horse, not drop you onto the ground.”

She brought her free hand to her hair and forced the flyaway strands that had tugged free from her plait away from her face, then she readjusted the flowers at her ear. His gaze followed her every movement, making her suddenly realise how far from the others they were. She stiffened her spine, refusing to let him see her trepidation. “If you are quite done accosting women in the forest this morning, I will gladly take my leave of you now.”

His fingers on her wrist tightened, anchoring her as if he had read her thoughts. “That is not how this adventure of ours will play out, I’m afraid. You will come with me to Dunvegan Castle.”

She drew a deep breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart as his men came towards them. The four guardsmen were bound at the hands and feet and draped over their horses like sacks of grain. The men were conscious, as evidenced by their struggles, but unable to do more than that as the MacLeods held tight to the reins of the MacDonald horses.

She tamped down her fear. Fear was her enemy. She had to find some way to escape. Kicking the MacLeod in the shin, knee, or if she were lucky, bollocks, might get him to release his iron grip. Instead, she brought her free hand up to cup his cheek. “You could release me, and I will go away, find somewhere to hide, and never be seen by either the MacLeods or the MacDonalds ever again.”

At her touch, he startled, then stared down at her. She drew in his scent—musk and leather—and watched as his dark pupils flared. “There will be no hiding,” he said, with a catch in his voice.

She trailed her hand down to his chin. She could feel his heartbeat thudding against her fingertips. In the next moment she spun away.

He reached out to grab her, but she slipped away. She bolted to the right, away from the men on horses, away from the MacLeod. She pressed herself to run harder, faster. A stitch pulled at her side, but she ignored it, putting all her strength into reaching the bluff.

Pounding hooves sounded behind her, getting closer.