Page 30 of Highland Fire

Murray had received the news with something approaching relief.

When he and Rand had parted company at the crossroads to go their separate ways, his farewell had been cheery in the extreme.

Now Rand cursed under his breath. What did his friend imagine he would do to the boy when he caught up with him?

He wasn’t a brute. He would not hurt the lad in any way that counted.

He would simply terrify young Gordon out of his wits before sending him on his way.

It was a damn sight less than he deserved.

Shrugging off his disappointment, Rand allowed his mind to fill with thoughts of Caitlin.

The grim line of his mouth softened when he recalled their last few encounters before he had ostensibly departed for England.

Caitlin with a chaperone in tow! He couldn’t help chuckling at the picture.

And Mrs. MacGregor was formidable. Unshakable was a better description.

Wherever Caitlin led, Mrs. MacGregor followed.

Poor Kate. He wondered if he would ever dare reveal his part in securing Mrs. MacGregor’s services. Probably not.

He didn’t know why he was amused. Mrs. MacGregor allowed him no more liberties with her charge than she allowed the next fellow.

Since the night of the ball, he had not managed to exchange more than two words alone with Caitlin.

That wasn’t all Mrs. MacGregor’s doing. Caitlin was wary of him.

Very wary. The girl knew when she was being stalked.

She wasn’t expecting him to offer marriage.

Truth to tell, the thought that he was blithely about to attach himself to one particular female, and such a female, shocked even himself.

He wasn’t thinking of their widely disparate backgrounds, though he was aware that, by anyone’s standards, he was marrying beneath himself.

No, what shocked him was his strange obsession with the girl.

He couldn’t understand her fascination. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t accomplished. She was a far cry from the sort of woman he had anticipated he would marry when that sad day finally arrived, as it must for all men in his position. He had to have her. It was as simple as that.

He knew he was a knave, but the thought that Caitlin expected him to offer her the position of mistress tickled his fancy.

Caitlin as a man’s kept plaything? He would have laughed out loud if he had not been swamped with the familiar flood of tenderness.

The girl was a study in suppression. Her femininity, her vibrancy, her sensuality, her passion—he would be the one to bring them forth because he was the only one who had discerned what smoldered beneath the surface.

Just thinking about it made his body go hard with wanting.

He shifted in the saddle and laughed without humor.

He’d wanted to get his hands on her since the day he had so innocently walked in upon her in her uncle’s study.

She could rouse his passions by the merest gesture.

When he recalled the bevy of beautiful women he had taken to his bed in his time, it seemed inconceivable that he should be burning to possess this dowd of a girl whose only claim to distinction was a streak of stubbornness that would shame a mule.

It would be a pleasure beyond imagining to be her lord and master.

There would be fireworks, of course. Caitlin was too independent for her own good.

He would not permit her to challenge him the way she challenged her grandfather.

Not that he intended to ride roughshod over her.

If she was wise, she would yield to him. If not…he shrugged carelessly.

The next pleasurable image to enter his head was Caitlin’s expression when she finally understood what he intended for her future.

The poor girl would be overwhelmed. She would know luxury on a scale she could not imagine.

He would give her anything a woman could possibly desire, as well as teach her to desire a few things of which, as yet, she had little knowledge or experience. The thought made him smile.

It was one of the grooms who alerted him.

From their right, close to the river, came the sounds of horses whinnying.

All three riders reined in, and strained for a better look.

The darkness was unrelenting and the flurries of snow had increased to almost blizzard conditions.

Though Rand knew he was looking toward the boathouse, there was little he could make out.

Motioning his companions to dismount, he cautiously advanced.

Two shadowy figures came out of the small building. One of them, a slight youth, was staggering as he tried to support the weight of his companion.

“Daroch,” urged Caitlin, and she rested for a moment, catching her breath. “Just a few more steps. You can do it if you try. Please, Daroch, else you will freeze to death before we can get help.”

She heard the click and froze like a terrified rabbit.

It sounded remarkably like the cocking of a pistol.

She peered into the darkness. When she heard the voice, the Randal’s voice, she sagged with relief.

He would take care of Daroch. It was only as the words registered that she began to think of her own peril.

“Well met, young Gordon,” he said, and leveled his pistol straight at her heart.

In the Randal’s bookroom, Caitlin perched on the edge of her chair, her face turned toward the blaze in the grate.

Her garments were sodden and she was waiting for one of the stable boys to return with a change of clothes.

Under the watchful eye of the burly young Highlander who had been set to guard her, she raised the glass in her hand to her lips and swallowed convulsively.

So far, her luck had held. On that dismal ride to Strathcairn, there had been little time or opportunity for the Randal to question her. His first act had been to relieve her of the dirk concealed in her hose.

“What do you do, buy these things by the gross?” he had asked humorously, before tossing it into the river.

After that, his attention had focused on Daroch. She closed her eyes, thinking she would be eternally grateful for his presence of mind. He had stanched the bleeding on Daroch’s leg, then wrapped him in his own plaid before laying him gently on the back of the cart.

At length, he had said, “It’s an ugly wound but hardly fatal. I’d say that the laird o’ Daroch is either suffering from concussion or is as drunk as a lord. How did it happen?”

His matter-of-fact tone relieved the worst of her fears. She deliberately mumbled her reply into the folds of her plaid. “He said something about tangling with a scythe, then falling and bumping his head on the edge of your boat.”

His reply was swallowed by the wind, and there was no more conversation after that exchange. But there would be. She knew that as well as she knew her own name.

A shiver ran over her, and she took another small sip from her glass. The whiskey burned a path down her throat, but it made no appreciable difference to the cold which clutched at her heart. Her sins had finally caught up with her, and the reckoning would be severe if not downright painful.

The guard spoke to her. “Ye heard Lord Randal, lad. Get that whiskey down ye afore ye faint wi’ the cold.”

It was a nice voice, a kind voice, decided Caitlin, despite the fact that the young man was pointing a pistol at her.

But that was Lord Randal’s doing. His man was under orders to shoot her if she as much as blinked the wrong way.

Meanwhile, Lord Randal and one of his lackeys were attending to Daroch’s injuries in one of the upstairs bedchambers.

There was no question of sending for Dr. Innes. They were well and truly snowed in.

A tap on the door momentarily diverted her guard’s attention, and Caitlin took the opportunity to adjust her bonnet and plaid. She didn’t know how long she could keep up the pretense that she was a boy, but she aimed to try until she was at her last prayers.

The guard returned with a set of boy’s clothes. “Change, an’ be quick about it,” he said.

“Change?” She dared not ask him to turn his back. Her lower lip trembled.

Rab MacNair, the guard, shook his head. “Laddie, ye have not got a thing I have not seen afore now.”

Caitlin did not doubt it. “I have to use the privy.” It was no lie.

“What?”

“I have to go.” To add weight to her words, she did a little jig where she sat and gazed up at him with huge, pleading eyes.

Rab felt like the veriest ogre. The lad looked to be no more than thirteen or fourteen, the same age as his own youngest brother.

He could not see the necessity for these extreme measures, nor why Lord Randal should be so implacable.

It was natural for young lads to get up to some mischief or other.

In his experience, a good kick on the rear end or a cuff on the ear soon cured them of their high spirits.

He could hardly believe that he was pointing a pistol at a poor, wee lad who had the look of a drowned puppy.

He did not know what his own mother would say if she could see him now.

If he knew her, she would cuff him on the ear.

Still, it was not his mother who paid his wages.

Adopting his master’s stern manner, he said, “Try anything and I’m warnin’ ye, lad, I’ll shoot.” Waving his pistol, he motioned Caitlin to the door.

He used the kitchen lantern to light their way. Once outside, he indicated a clump of holly bushes. “Over there,” he said.

Caitlin’s jaw sagged. She wrung her hands. “But I want to use the privy,” she cried out, torn between panic and acute embarrassment. She really had to go.

Rab sighed. The snow had obliterated the well-trodden path. He considered for a moment, then nodded his acquiescence.

Having availed herself of the facilities, Caitlin paused with a hand on the door, debating her next move.

Daroch, she decided, could not be in better hands.

For his welfare, she had no qualms. The same could not be said for herself.

She had to get away before Strathcairn was completely cut off from the outside world.

Her absence, once it became known, would cause a furor. Then there would be the devil to pay.

She heard the Randal’s voice raised in anger. “Damn and blast you, MacNair. I thought I told you not to let the boy out of your sight?”

From the muffled sound of her guard’s reply, she guessed he had turned to face the house. It was now or never.

She came rocketing out of the privy like an arrow released from a crossbow. With one lucky kick, she sent the lantern flying and used her momentum to do the same to MacNair. Darkness. She rolled to her side and came to her knees.

“Hold your fire!” The Randal’s voice. Then, “Let him go. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll turn back. Neither man nor beast can survive in this storm.”

Holding her breath, she waited, straining her ears for the sound of footsteps. When she heard the door slam, she let out a panicked whimper. That one small sound was her undoing.

He came at her like a jungle cat bringing down its prey. The breath was knocked out of her. For long moments, she lay facedown in the snow, gasping for air. When powerful masculine hands flipped her over on her back, she cried out in fright.

“Who are you?”

Oh God, her hair had come loose, and he was ploughing his long fingers through it, separating each strand. He loomed over her like a shadow of doom. She had run her course.

“Rand,” she cried softly, intuitively using the familiar name to soften the anger in him. “Rand, don’t hurt me. I can explain.”

At the sound of her voice, he stilled. When his fingers closed around her throat, she stopped breathing altogether.

Hooking one hand into the collar of her shirt, he split it from throat to waist, separating the edges.

Against her bared breasts, she could feel each snowflake as it melted against the heat of her skin.

His hands touched her intimately, and she kicked out wildly, bucking against the press of his weight.

“Rand! No!”

His breathing was loud in her ears. “So it is you!” The feral snarl that erupted from his throat had her flinching away in terror.

She was yanked to her feet and swung into his arms. The wind caught at her hair, fanning it about them both in a fragrant veil.

She burrowed into him like a child seeking the protection of an older brother.

The gesture wasn’t a ploy. It wasn’t a trick.

It was something that came from the deepest reaches of her psyche, something she barely understood herself.

She was helpless against his superior strength. That mute appeal failed to soften him.

With each step he took her fear increased. He was in the grip of some powerful emotion. She did not know what had provoked it, but she knew that it went far beyond her transgressions as Dirk Gordon.

When they entered the house, she turned her face into his throat, shamed that his servants should see her like this and recognize her. He barked out orders as he mounted the stairs.

“MacNair, lock up the house and get to your bed. Thompson, you are to relieve Graham at six o’clock. Forrest, if and when the storm abates, fetch the physician.”

By the time they had entered what Caitlin grasped at once must be the Randal’s bedchamber, her teeth were chattering and her skin was clammy.

In her overwrought state, the sound of the heavy oak door as he kicked it shut made her think of the massive granite slabs that were used to protect graves from the deprivations of grave robbers.

When he dumped her in the center of the capacious fourposter, she made a vain effort to draw the edges of her shirt together. Her plaid was gone, but she could not remember what had happened to it. She had to force herself to look at him.

He leaned against the bedpost, arms folded, his heavy-lidded eyes roaming over her at will. In the warm glow of the candlelight, his blond hair glistened like gold. His features were carved as from marble. When his breathing became labored and audible, her eyes flared with feminine knowledge.

“Rand.” It was a struggle to keep the fear from her voice. “If you touch me, I shall scream, and your servants will come bursting through that door.”

He smiled at her na?veté. “You are wrong, lass. There is no one to hear you in this wing of the house, except perhaps your lover and the servant who is watching over him. And since Daroch is sleeping like a baby, and Graham is as deaf as a doorpost, your threat does not carry much force.”

And then he calmly began to remove his neckcloth.