The Highlander's Outlaw Bride Read online

  “He is fine,” Geordie answered. “Auld Willie knows the lad could be in danger and has taken charge of him. Ye needn’t worry about him.”

  Brianna nodded weakly. “What do we do now?” Her voice gained strength as she determinedly shrugged off her shock and readjusted the mantle of responsibility over her shoulders.

  Gavin shrugged as though his plan was of the utmost simplicity.

  “We wait for the king to pardon us.”

  Chapter 2

  Several days later, in Ayrshire

  Connor MacLaurey reined his stallion to a stop at the foot of the hills just south of Troon. Satisfied with the protection the trees afforded, he turned to his two companions.

  “We will stop here for the night.”

  Sliding tiredly from his saddle, his legs trembled as he led Embarr to the edge of the glen. Water gurgled in a nearby burn, winding through the rocks and trees.

  “’Twill be good to have this done and be away home.” He grunted as he stripped the saddle from Embarr’s back. “I shouldnae have stayed away so long.”

  “I am sorry we are too late for your father’s funeral, mon ami.”

  Conn nodded wearily. “I thank ye, Bray. And my sister’s warning of my cousin’s plan to take over the clan doesnae help, either.” He lowered his saddle to the ground with a groan of effort. “If the ship hadnae been forced to berth at Ballantrae, we wouldnae have had this ride to Troon. But at least it has given the mares a chance to stretch their legs.”

  “Your king will be pleased with his gift. Perhaps enough to pardon your betrothed.”

  Connor cut his friend a sharp glance. “I dinnae sign a betrothal contract before I left for France, and I dinnae approve my da arranging this for me. She was a plain, straw-headed lass when I last saw her as a wean, and I would suppose she is even less interesting now. And, if I remember, a widow in the bargain. Let us think on happier things, aye?” He shrugged the memory of a fiery-haired lass from the Firth of Clyde from his mind and returned to his tasks.

  The two men watered and fed the horses in silence, but the words from Morven’s captain, Seumas, included in the letter from his sister, ticked through his head.

  Yer betrothed has been accused of reiving but escaped the hangman’s noose. The sheriff has declared her outlaw and his men hunt her. Only the king can pardon her. Ye must find her, protect her.

  The Wyndham lass an outlaw? Connor shook his head. Seumas exaggerates. She dinnae have a bold bone in her body. He dredged up the memory of the lad she’d married more than two years ago. Nae, she wouldnae have learned courage from him. As for now being his betrothed—he would deal with that absurd notion as soon as he ousted his cousin Malcolm from his mischief at Morven. With a final glance at the tethered horses, he turned toward camp.

  “I will see if Gillis needs anything.”

  Bray lifted his head. “I smell smoke. I hope the lad has something pleasing planned for our meal.”

  Conn ventured a short laugh. “Despite his assurances, I doubt the lad is much of a cook. But we shall see.”

  Conn’s stomach rumbled and he hurried to the campsite, where deadwood piled haphazardly next to a small cook fire. He grabbed an oatcake from the stone at the fire’s edge.

  “Ow!” He blew on his singed fingers, tossing the freshly cooked bannock back and forth between his hands. Deftly swiping two more of the sizzling oatcakes, he settled against a nearby fallen log to eat.

  The Frenchman grimaced as he approached the fire. “Bannocks again?”

  Conn shrugged off his friend’s complaint. He didn’t care if Bray ate or not.

  Short-tempered Gillis bristled. “Ye willnae find yer Frenchie mishmak food here,” he huffed, waving an oatcake in the older man’s direction. “This is Scots fare, and good enough for the likes of ye!”

  Bray leaned down with a glower for the lad. “From what I have seen, Scots food is merely another word for plain and inintéressant.”

  Conn sighed. Why must Bray insist on needling the hot-headed lad?

  “’Tis better than ye got aboard that ship!” Gillis glowered and bit into his bannock.

  “Is that why you jumped ship when we docked in Ballantrae?”

  “I dinnae jump ship!”

  Conn felt moved to intervene. “Dinnae fash the lad, Bray. He isnae cut out for life at sea. Leave it at that. Ye will get other food when we arrive at Troon.”

  Bray’s feigned chagrin matched the mocking flash of his grin. “My apologies.”

  With one smooth movement, he bent to snag an oatcake in one hand, delivering a smack to the back of Gillis’s head with the other as he stepped past the boy. Gillis sputtered at the abuse, but had enough sense not to physically challenge the older man. Conn watched with mild amusement as Gillis returned to his supper, muttering against all things not Scottish, and against Frenchmen in particular.

  Rising, Conn lifted his arms in a bone-popping stretch.

  “I am away to the burn to wash.” He glanced sternly from Bray to Gillis. “Stay out of trouble whilst I am gone.”

  Bray gave him a bland, innocent look, and Gillis hunched his shoulders to indicate he couldn’t be responsible for Bray’s actions. Conn shook his head. Tossing his plaide over one shoulder, he headed for the inviting little pool of water beneath the waterfall.

  He halted on the edge of the burn, the high, full moon’s silvery light sparkling like diamonds across the rippled surface of the water. He glanced around the clearing, instinctively alert for danger. Seeing no threats, he stripped away his travel-stained clothes and stepped into the pool.

  The icy water burst with fine needle pricks over his tired body, washing away the day’s accumulation of grit and grime. Adjusting to the frigid water, he lifted his arms, stroked to the center of the pool and dove beneath the water. He surfaced with a shake of his head, sending silver droplets of water flying in all directions. Refreshed, he glided to the bank. Climbing from the water, he strode back to his clothing. The evening breeze rippled softly through the moonlit grass, and the gurgling water whispered a murmuring counterpoint beneath the velvet sky. Appreciating the peacefulness, Conn decided to linger a bit longer, away from the certain strife at camp.

  Seated on one corner of his plaide, he used the other edge to wipe most of the clinging moisture from his body. Declining to pull his dusty clothes back on over his clean, damp skin, he rolled onto his back and draped the woolen fabric across himself to block the slight breeze, his sword close to hand. He stared at the spangled sky as the words from his sister’s letters ran through his mind.

  Ye must come home. There has been an accident.

  I dinnae know how to reach ye—pray God this letter finds ye.

  Cousin Malcolm brought men with him to Morven. Da is dead. Ye must come home. Please, Conn. Please come home.

  Fists clenched against the tightness in his chest, he forced his breathing to slow. I am sorry yer letters dinnae reach me in time, Mairead. I am sorry I wasnae there to help him. I will finish my business with the king, and then I will right things at Morven.

  * * *

  Brianna jolted awake, her body awash with the cold sweat of fear. The nightmare from a week ago had invaded her dreams again. This time the rasp of the hangman’s noose about her neck felt all too real.

  The days in the wild had grown long and tiresome as they moved from place to place, careful not to linger at a campsite longer than a day or two, aware the sheriff’s men still hunted them. Ewan and Duncan had been dispatched to Troon to await the king’s arrival. Brianna longed to present her plea for mercy to the king, to have her good name restored and the stain of outlaw removed. And she longed for home, her friends and family—even little Jamie’s never-ending chatter.

  Too restless to go back to sleep, Brianna rubbed the back of her neck, feeling the grime of travel roll beneath her fingers. The gown Rabbie had filched for her from a wash line at a cottage a few days ago had been too long without a good scrubbing for her personal sensibilities, an
d her head itched from a lack of proper grooming.

  The men’s sleeping forms lay scattered around her, lit by the glowing embers of the fire and the silvery light of the full moon. Gavin and Rabbie stood watch while William and Geordie snored gently nearby. Gavin glanced up as she rose to her feet, but she shook her head, conveying a need for privacy. Dinnae stop me, Gavin. I cannae bear yer close scrutiny again this night. Stubbornly refusing a guard, she hurried down the moonlit path to the nearby burn. The cold water wasn’t quite what she had in mind for bathing, but the thought of washing the dirt from her skin and hair sent her feet flying down the trail.

  She reached the end of the path, where the water laughed invitingly as it skipped over the rocks of the waterfall. She splashed the water with one hand, shuddering at the chill. Checking the clearing with a quick glance to be sure she was alone, Brianna stripped away her gown and rinsed it in the clear water before hanging it on a nearby tree limb to dry. With two quick steps, she dove cleanly into the burn, surfacing with a gasp at the water’s icy bite.

  After a moment, the shock wore off. With strong sure strokes, she swam to the waterfall and pulled herself onto the rocks. Spreading her arms wide for balance, she crossed the stones worn smooth by the polishing spray, and ducked beneath the rushing water. She twisted back and forth, letting it pour over her in a cleansing rush.

  Her fingers and toes began to ache, and her teeth chattered. Unable to ignore the cold, she poised on the rock ledge for the swim back.

  A movement in the tall grass on the far side of the pool caught her eye, and she stared intently into the shadowed depths. Tense moments passed, and suddenly a large form lurched upward. Panicked, Brianna lost her footing on the slippery rocks. Clawing uselessly at the air for support, she landed hard on the water. Her breath left her in a rush as she slid into bitter darkness and the foaming water closed over her head.

  Chapter 3

  Conn bolted to his feet in a single movement, reaching the edge of the burn in two long strides. Slicing the water in a shallow dive, a few strong strokes carried him to the spot where the young woman had disappeared. He broke the surface with a shake of his head, scanning the area around him, but saw nothing.

  With a strangled gasp, the young woman’s head burst above the water a few feet away. Sputtering, she flailed at the water. Con raced to her side and grabbed her arm. She fought him, breaking his hold, and disappeared again into the inky depths.

  “Shite!” He searched frantically for her, his fingers encountering soft flesh. Pulling her warily to him, he pinned her elbows firmly against her sides.

  “Easy, lass,” he murmured. “Ye are safe now.”

  Her breaths wheezed and her head fell against his chest. Pale hair fanned out in the water around them. Moonlight struck the strands, turning them to pure silver, and unbidden, Conn’s lips formed the word ‘faerie’. He gave himself a mental shake against such foolishness, and focused on pulling her to safety.

  Stroke by stroke, he towed her to the shore. Her size and weight convinced him the young woman in his arms wasn’t a faerie after all. He rolled her onto her side amid the tall grass and pounded her back.

  After a few moments of such rough treatment, she coughed up what seemed to be half the contents of the burn before she at last drew a deep, shuddering breath. Before she could speak, she began to shake violently and her skin blanched, taking on a purple hue in the moonlight. Conn bundled her icy body in his arms and wrapped them both in his plaide, using his body heat to warm her. He ran his hands up and down her back as he tried to chase away the chill.

  At last her shaking lessened and she relaxed against him. Inexplicable protectiveness swept over him and he pressed a kiss against her hair, wiping her face with a corner of his plaide.

  “Coorie doon, my faerie princess. Snuggle close and rest.”

  With a sigh, his flesh-and-blood faerie princess fainted.

  * * *

  Words drifted through her head, urging her to wake. Brianna groaned, snuggling into the incredible warmth surrounding her. She hadn’t felt this deliciously warm or content in days, and was loath to leave her bed to face another day in hiding.

  Something warm and firm slid across her shoulder and down one arm. It grasped her hand and squeezed gently. She reluctantly opened one eye and met storm-gray eyes in an unfamiliar face. With a start, she realized the heat she’d found so compelling emanated from the large male body tucked close against her. Naked. She panicked.

  “What are ye doing?” Her voice climbed in pitch, her alarm rising. Trapped by the confining fabric wrapped around her—and him—she pulled back, swatting frantically at the cloth.

  “Hold!” He manacled her wrists with his strong hands.

  “Let me go!” Jerking one hand free, she inadvertently struck his jaw.

  “Ow!” A muttered curse slipped beneath his breath. “Be still a moment and I will help ye.”

  Choking back her fear, she struggled harder.

  * * *

  Though exasperated with the young woman’s lack of proper gratitude at being saved from drowning, Conn understood her distress. She fought him despite his attempts to calm her, and suddenly her knee jerked upward, making solid contact between his legs. He doubled over sharply in pain, his forehead striking the girl’s cheek. With a cry, she raised a hand to her face.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

  Conn heard the sharp edge to Bray’s question, but could not reply. His teeth clenched tight as sweat-popping nausea swamped his stomach.

  The young woman twisted about, clawing at the plaide.

  “Enough!” he rasped. To his surprise, she stopped. He heaved a lungful of air, expelling it with a painful gasp. Unable to speak further, he wrenched an arm free and jerked the edge of the fabric loose. As soon as the cloth sagged, she scrambled to her feet, only to fall back to the ground with a sharp cry.

  Bray took a step toward her. “Are you injured, mademoiselle?”

  She struggled to sit and leaned forward, pulling her long, damp hair over her shoulders in an attempt to cover herself. Biting her lip, she grasped one ankle.

  Conn shoved his plaide aside and moved awkwardly to kneel before her, taking her foot in his hands. She flinched, choking back another cry.

  He forced his words through clenched teeth. “Hold, lass. I will wrap ye back up.”

  She eyed him warily but did not speak. Rubbing the sore spot on his jaw, he snatched the plaide from the ground and draped it about her shoulders. Catching her wide-eyed stare, he smothered a grin as her cheeks flamed red. He stepped casually to his clothing and pulled them on.

  “This does not look well done, Laird.”

  The girl looked up sharply and Conn noted Bray’s assessing stare as he studied her. She hunched the plaide higher over her shoulders.

  “Quit staring at the lass, Bray. Ye make her blush.”

  Bray inclined his head. “Je vous demande pardon, mademoiselle. I have never failed to admire a beautiful woman, and your hair is a most unusual color. I did not mean to embarrass you.”

  “Ye are French, aye?” Her voice was soft and low, rippling like silk. Conn blinked twice, shaking off her spell.

  Bray executed a sweeping bow. “Oui, cherie. The laird and I met at my father’s home in La Rochelle. I am pleased to see you are as intelligent as you are beautiful.”

  Conn snorted at Bray’s outrageous behavior.

  “Never trust a Frenchman, lass. He has left broken hearts from here to the French coast.”

  “I did not know you could find such a beautiful woman in the wilds of Scotland. I am humbled by your Scottish lass.”

  Conn frowned at the girl. “Och, ’tis no simple Scottish lass ye see before ye, but a veritable faerie or changeling at the least. She is apparently not at all appreciative of the fact I saved her life.”

  The girl wrinkled her brow. “Ye saved my life?”

  “Aye. Ye slipped on the stones at the waterfall and nearly drowned. Ye dinnae remember b
athing there? I imagine ye twisted yer ankle when ye fell.”

  “Ye watched me?” Her eyes widened, her voice incredulous. She glanced down and Conn remembered with a jolt she was completely naked beneath the plaide. Her face reddened and he knew she remembered it, too.

  Bray pursed his lips. “I tell you, ’twas not well done, Laird.”

  Conn squared on him. “I suppose ye would have closed yer eyes until she left?”

  “Non,” the Frenchman admitted candidly. “But what are we to do with her now?”

  “I am leaving!” The girl’s determined voice broke into their discussion. She grasped the plaide firmly and pushed to her feet. But her injured ankle would not support her weight and she would have fallen had Conn not grabbed her arms.

  “Where is yer home, lass?”

  Her gaze slid away. “I will be fine if ye just let me go.”

  “Ye willnae go anywhere on that ankle, and ye ask for trouble out here on yer own. There is no cottage or village within miles. Tell us where ye belong, and we will take ye there.”

  She clenched her teeth as stubbornness lit her eyes and she refused to answer.

  “At least tell us yer name.” Conn brushed a strand of silver-blonde hair from her cheek. She shifted beneath his touch and drew back with a tiny hiss of breath, pulling the plaide closer around her throat.

  “If ye snug that any tighter, ye will hang yerself,” he noted dryly.

  She slowly released a slight bit of the fabric.

  Bray stepped closer. “Are you hiding from someone, cherie?”

  The girl flinched but did not speak.

  “An abusive husband, mayhap?” He pointed to the bruise on her cheek.

  Conn grasped the girl’s chin between his fingers and examined the darkened area. He frowned. “I believe I did that.”

  Bray’s eyebrows shot upward. “You struck her?”

  “Nae. She kneed me and I hit her with my head when I doubled over.” He grimaced and shifted his weight, remembering the pain. “She is tougher than she looks.”