Page 4 of Savage Kilted Highlander (Temptation in Tartan #9)

CHAPTER FOUR

A noise woke him, the sound of a branch cracking sharply, as though someone had stepped on it. Bane stiffened and took hold of his sword, immediately on the alert, half expecting to see some of Laird Kerr’s guards coming through the trees at him. He waited in silence for several minutes, unmoving, holding his breath. But no one appeared.

Then came another sharp crack and the sound of someone moving slowly through the undergrowth to his right. He peered through the trees and thought he saw a shape, a figure, though he could not really make it out. Then he heard the soft whicker of a horse, followed by a soft whisper telling the horse to be quiet. Slowly, his heart hammering in his chest, afraid to breathe lest he give himself away, Bane rose to his feet.

He gripped his sword tightly in his fist, watching intently as the indecipherable figure, that was now about ten feet or so away from him, crept closer through the trees. Thankfully, he had the element of surprise on his side, as whoever it was seemed unaware of his presence as they advanced. Finally, they drew parallel with him, and he made out it was a woman. Puzzled, he leaned to look at her more closely, squinting his eyes.

He could clearly see her profile, the finely cut delicate features and pale skin stood out as she impatiently pushed a curling tendril of hair back behind her ear. A shaft of sunlight fell upon her head, setting the long, auburn waves shimmering with autumnal hues. Bane clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp as recognition shook him her, and his heart seemed to explode in his chest.

It cannae be her… Lady Agnes!

I’ve made it, I’m here at last! Thrilled at having reached her destination without any real difficulty, Constance’s breath hitched in her throat as she stared in wonder at the looming castle ahead of her.

Inside those walls is my true father… and Agnes, my twin sister.

Even now, it was hard for her to believe it was all real. Was she really there? Had she really secretly stolen away from the warmth and safety of her childhood home in England? Had she really left her beloved siblings behind, and journeyed into the unknown and dangerous wilds of the Scottish Lowlands, where the enemies of the English state lurked at every turn?

She had, she told herself exultantly, starting to wonder what her next move should be. She looked down at her clothing, her brother’s old cast offs, grateful for the protective disguise that had enabled her to travel safely. It certainly wasn’t a fitting way to present herself to the family. She decided it would not do at all, she would have to wash the dust of the road from her face and hands in the nearby burn and change into one of the gowns she had brought rolled up in her saddle bags. She resolved that after suitably tidying her appearance, she would ride up to the castle sidesaddle like a true lady and present herself to her father.

Tearing her eyes from the castle, propelled by excitement, she turned away and moved back through the trees to where she had tethered Lucy to a low tree branch. “Come on, girl, you must be thirsty after bringing me all the way here. You need a drink,” she gently told the horse, untying the reins and leading Lucy to the burn. The horse whinnied softly and bent her velvety nose to the water, starting to lap it up contentedly.

While Lucy drank her fill, Constance opened the saddlebags and carefully took out a red woolen gown, a petticoat, a set of stays, a pair of pretty shoes, and a comb. She tutted to see how creased the gown had become and hung it over a bush, hoping some of the creases would have fallen out by the time she was ready to put it on. It was important that she should make a good impression on her new family.

Unfortunately, she had only brought one cloak with her. It was a little travel stained, but she decided it would do. She could take it off before she was introduced to her father and Agnes. While at the inn earlier that morning, she had made sure to wash and change her underthings. But now, after having ridden several miles, her face and hands felt grimy, and though she had worn a cap, her hair was tangled.

When she had laid out the fresh clothing, Constance unfastened the knife Henry had given her from the waistband of her trousers and laid it on the ground next to her. Then she quickly stripped off Henry’s old clothes. Thankful there was no one to see her, clad as she was only in her shift, stockings, and riding boots, she went to the stream and washed herself as best she could.

The icy water was wonderfully refreshing, and she drank a few mouthfuls gratefully. Then she rose and dried her face and hands on Henry’s old shirt before stuffing it and the rest of her disguise into the saddlebags. Meanwhile, Lucy turned her attention from the water to the juicy grass growing at its edge and began munching on it.

Warmed by excitement at the prospect of meeting Agnes very soon, Constance slipped into the petticoat and tied the strings around her waist. Next, she stepped into the stays and laced them with some difficulty. Molly, her lady’s maid, usually helped her to dress. Lastly, she wriggled into the gown, fastened the frogging at the front, and smoothed down the skirts.

“It looks well enough,” she told Lucy conversationally, sitting on a rock to exchange her riding boots for the shoes. “After all, I have traveled a long way on your back and can hardly be expected to look immaculate,” she added as she let down her hair and began combing out the tangles. She combed for a long time until she was satisfied it was neat enough.

It had not escaped her attention that there seemed to be some sort of celebration going on at the castle, and the gates were open, with many people spilling out from within. For some reason, that made her feel safer, and it seemed as good a time as any to make her approach and introduce herself.

With other people about, I shall not stand out as much as I otherwise might .

“We shall be able to ride right into the courtyard without any trouble, find a servant, and ask to see Laird Kerr,” she told the horse, not having anyone else to share her excitement with.

She was crouching by the saddle bag, stowing away her comb, when she heard a branch crack loudly behind her. She froze. Lucy had heard it too, because the mare raised her head and looked at a point behind her. Gripped by fear, convinced Lucy could see something she could not, Constance’s trembling fingers crept to the dagger lying nearby and closed around the hilt.

Trying to appear as though she were not scared half to death, she stood up and began to turn her head to look over her shoulder. She had a fleeting, terrifying glimpse of a very tall man standing right behind her and opened her mouth to scream. But the scream never came because a large, calloused hand clapped over her mouth and stifled it.

“Damn,” she heard her assailant murmur in deep voice as she raised the knife, ready to stab at the hand. But just as she was bringing the blade down, a brawny arm appeared from over her shoulder and caught her wrist, twisting it cruelly until she cried out and dropped the blade to the ground. Her assailant kicked it away with another curse.

Another muscular arm clamped around her waist, and she was abruptly pulled backwards, to find herself pressed tightly against a large, warm body. In the midst of her heart-stopping panic, the smell of woodsmoke, fresh sweat, and horses filled her nostrils. She struggled with all her might against the iron grip holding her, kicking backwards at the man’s legs, continuing to try to scream for help, though only muted cries emerged due to the rough hand still covering her mouth.

“Will ye stop fightin’? I dinnae want tae hurt ye,” came the same deep voice gruffly in her ear. Constance did not believe it for one second. However, although terrified, she ceased fighting, but she could not breathe, her heart was banging wildly in her chest, and she was certain she was about to die.

I am not ready to die yet! It is so unfair. Am I never to see Amelia and Henry again? Nor meet my real father or Agnes? Is my short life to end like this at the hands of a common brigand before I can even know my true family?

She squeezed her eyes tight shut, expecting her throat to be cut at any moment, for her body to fall and bleed out on the forest floor.

With no one but God to appeal to, she began to move her lips in fervent prayer, begging for a miracle to save her from this great evil that had befallen her through no fault of her own. Expecting to feel a blade at her throat, she struggled to get out the holy words. The moments ticked by with agonizing slowness. An eternity seemed to pass, but the awaited death blow failed to materialize.

Perhaps he is not going to kill me straight away.

Fresh tremors of fear wracked her body as she imagined what he might be planning to do her first. But although the man was still holding her around her waist, he was as good as his word and did not try to hurt her. Struggling to bring her panic under control, she stilled and stopped screaming. But she remained poised for the moment when he would loosen his grip and she could run.

“Good. Now, d’ye promise nae tae scream if I take me hand away from yer mouth?”

As her head cleared, Constance recognized the brogue and realized with shock that her captor was Scottish! Of course he was, she was now in Scotland! It suddenly occurred to her that the man could be one of her father’s guards patrolling the woodland. That must be it, she thought, flooded with relief.

“De ye agree nae tae scream?” he asked, his warm breath on her ear. She nodded as best she could with his hand clamped to her face.

“All right, I’ll trust ye. I’m gonnae take me hand away now, but if ye scream again, I warn ye, I’ll nae be held accountable fer me actions.” His growl was so menacing, Constance had no doubt he meant every word. After all, he was a Scot, and she had been taught from the cradle that they were savages.

Nonetheless, she clung to the belief that he was her father’s man and that once she explained herself, all would be well. The hand was suddenly lifted from her mouth. Limp from her ordeal, Constance’s knees gave way as she sobbed and gasped for air. The only thing holding her upright was her assailant’s tight hold on her waist. Gradually, once she could breathe more easily, she tried to bring herself under control, but her terror was so great, she found it almost impossible to think straight.

Should she beg and hope he would take pity on her frightened state? A sixth sense told her that any man capable of abducting a lone woman was likely to be unmoved by pity. No. It would not work. What then? Suddenly, she remembered who she was, a noble woman, Laird Kerr’s daughter, a woman used to being obeyed without question by members of the lower classes. It was a big risk to take, and she had no idea whether the outcome would be good or bad, if he would kill her or laugh at her. But she could think of nothing else to try.

Summoning all her courage, she shouted imperiously, “Get off of me, you filthy brute! Take your hands off me immediately! I’ll have you know that Laird Kerr is my father, and he will have your head for this outrage!”

Any fragile hope that the threat would make him drop her like a hot potato and grovel for forgiveness was crushed when her captor let out a bone-chilling, mirthless chuckle. “Och, I ken who yer faither is, right enough,” he murmured, suddenly spinning her around to face him, without breaking his hold on her. “That’s why I’m takin’ ye prisoner.”