Page 9 of The Highlander’s Illicit Bride (Wicked Highland Lairds #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I t had been a long day on the back of their horse and through it all, Struan had been keenly aware of Isolde’s body pressed against his growing arousal. He would have had to have been dead not to react to her. And he was but a man after all, and very much alive at that.

The smell of her hair had filled his nose all day.

Worse, the way she swayed and rocked in the saddle, her body unintentionally grinding against his as they rode had made it next to impossible not to be aware of the soft curves of her body.

He tried to ignore them. Tried to push them out of his mind, but with every movement, she made it all the more difficult.

The scent of woodsmoke, roasting meats, and the sound of voices filled the woods around them.

Struan tensed and so did Isolde. Their bodies taut, they silently crept along the wooded trail.

Struan stopped the horse and slipped off the back of the horse, then turned and lifted Isolde out of the saddle as well.

Together, they moved to the screen of bushes that separated the path they were on from the source of the hints of life.

“Looks like a small village,” she said.

“Aye.”

“Perhaps we can shelter here for the night? A real bed might be nice.”

Her tone was hopeful, and it made him chuckle to himself. For all her spunk and feistiness, Isolde was not a woman cut out for sleeping rough out in the wild. Struan was certain she was well used to feather beds and creature comforts.

Dark shadows ringed her eyes and her face was pale.

She looked spent. No doubt, the fact that she had stayed up most of the night caring for him was part of the reason she was exhausted.

He fingered the small purse he’d lifted off the soldiers he’d fought.

There was enough coin for them to get a decent night’s sleep and a hot meal.

It seemed to be the very least he could do to return the kindness she’d shown him.

“All right,” he said. “But we cannae go in as ourselves.”

“What dae ye mean?”

“If ye’re faither is out lookin’ fer ye, and I’m sure he has tae be, any innkeeper between here and Achnacarry will have our names,” he said. “We have tae use a different name.”

“All right. That makes sense,” she said as she nodded. “So, what names should we use then?”

“We could pose as a braither and sister just out on a travel?”

She looked down at herself then at him pointedly, her lips curling wryly. “And who’s goin’ tae believe we’re siblings, then, eh? We look naethin’ alike.”

He frowned. She had a point. “All right, what dae ye suggest then?”

“Posin’ as a husband and wife makes the most sense.”

A cheeky smirk crossed her face. “Daes it now?”

“Aye. It daes.”

“If ye wanted tae be me wife, there’s better ways tae ask. I mean, ‘tis all so sudden, but?—”

She yelped and grabbed a small pebble from the ground and launched it at him. It sailed over his head, making him laugh.

“I’d rather be the horse’s wife,” she growled.

“I can arrange that. I’m sure there’s somebody in the village who can wed ye two.”

She scowled at him and grabbed another pebble from the trail. She missed again but Struan caught her by the wrist and in one fluid movement, spun her around and pinned her to the trunk of a large tree behind her.

He pressed close to her and was keenly aware of her soft body and the way her full, round breasts pressed against his chest. Those embers of arousal within him sprang to life, spreading their insidious heat through his veins.

The tips of their noses were scant inches apart and her breath, warm and sweet, washed over his cheeks and neck.

Her eyes glittered with uncertainty and a touch of fear.

There was something else though. Something deeper.

He couldn’t put a name to it, but it wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t uncertainty. To Struan, it almost seemed like… desire.

“Let go of me, ye brute,” she breathed.

“Ye’ll need tae keep from provokin’ me, lass. I’ve tried tae make this journey we’re on as pleasant as I can, but I can make it more difficult if ye’d prefer… dear wife .”

Isolde swallowed hard, pinned to the tree by his gaze as much as by his body. She licked her lips and raised her chin, narrowing her eyes and glaring at him with defiance.

“Take yer hands off me,” she said coldly. “I’m nae yer prisoner. I’m yer partner. Dinnae forget that I’m the only one of us who kens where yer braither is.”

Struan ground his teeth together as a low growl rumbled out of his throat.

But she had a point. And it galled him to admit that she did.

What galled him the most though, was that with that one sentence, she had stripped away his illusion of control.

She held all the power… and she knew it.

He needed her as much, if not more, than she needed him.

He let go of her wrist and took a step back, silently seething. Isolde straightened and smoothed her skirts, a smug smirk on her face.

“We will pose as Sturm and Isse MacTavish,” she said.

“Who are they?”

“Two people I just made up,” she said. “They’re who we’re goin’ tae be when we go intae that inn.”

Despite his frustration, he had to admit that there was something about Isolde taking charge of the situation that intrigued him. More than that, he found it appealing. Those flames simmering low inside of him burned brighter. And he was having trouble keeping them under control.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Before he could give himself away, he took the horse’s reins and together, they walked off the forest path and into the village.

His body taut and his free hand hovering near the hilt of the sword he’d stolen, Struan’s eyes darted left and right, searching for signs of Mackintosh’s soldiers or any other threats lurking about. He did not see any.

“I think we’re all right,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Yer faither’s men are nae here.”

“Yet,” she murmured.

He led them to the inn where he handed the reins of the horse to the stable boy who appeared. Struan handed a coin to the lad and instructed him to give the big mare a good brushing and some good food to eat. The boy agreed happily and led the horse away.

“Are ye ready, Mrs. MacTavish?” he said lightly, trying to break the wall of ice that had formed between them.

“Aye. Let’s get this over with,” she replied.

Her tone was hard, but he could tell the chill was thawing slightly.

They did not speak as they made their way to the inn.

A large hand painted sign hung above the door announcing it was the Crown and Boar Inn and Tavern.

Smoke drifted lazily from a chimney in the back of the establishment, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of their fare.

His stomach rumbled and he was suddenly glad for her suggestion to stop for the night.

He could do with a good meal. It seemed as if it had been months since he had last eaten.

Struan held the door open and allowed her to go in ahead of him.

To their right was the common room. At that hour, it was sparsely populated, with naught but half a dozen hard looking men bent low over their cups.

A fire burned in the hearth and the low buzz of murmured conversations filled the air.

An older man, short and portly, with a thick shock of bone white hair approached them.

“Good day, folks,” he said. “What can I dae fer ye today?”

“We need a room fer the night,” Struan said.

“Very good,” he replied. “And what would yer name be?”

There was something in his tone and the way he took them both in, as if trying to memorize their faces as well as their words that sent a warning bell ringing in Struan’s head. He was suddenly very glad that they had thought ahead enough to give themselves false names.

“Me name is Sturm MacTavish,” Struan replied. “And this is me wife Isse.”

“Very good,” the innkeeper said as he rubbed his hands together. “And what brings ye through our fair village this fine day?”

“Just daein’ a bit of travelin’,” Isolde said.

“Aye? And where da yer travels take ye?”

“Tis our business,” Struan said, his tone hard.

The man held his hands up to his chest, palms out. “Beggin’ forgiveness. I meant nay offense.”

Isolde laughed playfully and slapped Struan’s arm lightly. “We need tae be beggin’ yer forgiveness, maister innkeeper,” she said. “Me husband is just overly protective that way sometimes. He daesnae mean tae be rude.”

“Aye. A man cannae be too careful these days, what with all the rogues and brigands roamin’ the lands,” the innkeeper said lightly.

“As fer yer question, me husband is takin’ me tae see the coast. I’ve never seen the ocean before and… ‘tis one thing I’ve always wanted tae see,” Isolde said.

She lied so quickly and easily, it was hard for Struan not to be impressed.

Not only was she fierce, she was also very quick and agile on her feet.

Her mind was limber and allowed her to spin fictions at a moment’s notice.

It was as impressive as it was disturbing.

He did not approve of lying, but he could not fault her for using her mind and words the way she did.

Perhaps, it had been a method of survival for her.

The innkeeper called one of his serving girls to lead them up to their room.

As they ascended the staircase, Struan put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her upstairs affectionately, as if trying to sell the lie she had spun.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

He flashed her a grin and tipped her a wink. Her cheeks flushed and she turned away.

They made it up to their room and the serving girl opened the door for them.

It was not overly large, but it would do.

It was only going to be for one night. Once the serving girl had left, closing the door behind her, Isolde crossed her arms over her chest and shifted on her feet.

She gnawed on her bottom lip as she stared at the single bed in the room.

It was large, but he already knew it wasn’t big enough for the both of them.

“There’s only one bed,” Isolde noted. “I suggest we sleep in shifts and take turns?—”

“Ye can sleep on the bed. Nay need tae take turns.”

She shifted on her feet again and would not meet his eyes. “’Tis only fair.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine on the floor,” he said and pointed at the bed. “Ye can have the bed.”

“Are ye certain?”

“Aye. I’m certain.”

She gave him a smile that was filled with gratitude.

She lay down and was asleep almost instantly.

Struan sat at the small desk in the corner.

Inside, he found some parchment and a quill and inkpot.

Taking it all out, he set it down and sat back in the chair for a moment, carefully considering the words he would put to paper.

Just in case the letter he was writing to Ewan, his second in command and lifelong friend, was intercepted by Mackintosh men, he did not want to say too much.

Especially not about Isolde being in his company.

As the thought of her passed through his mind, Struan’s gaze was pulled to her as if the woman possessed a gravity all her own.

Her breath was slow and even. She was deep in sleep.

He admired the way the sunlight slanting in through the window cast a golden glow upon her fair skin, making her look almost warm and rosy.

His gaze traveled up and down her body, drinking in her soft, feminine curves, sliding up the graceful curve of her neck, then down her jaw.

Struan shook his head and forced his eyes away from her.

Those kinds of thoughts and feelings were dangerous.

Worse, they were foolish. Even if his feelings were reciprocated, which he was sure they were not, there could never be something between them.

He was a Cameron and she was a Mackintosh.

The bad blood and feuding between their clans stretched back many long years.

Fate and happenstance had forced them together for the moment. They were mutually beneficial to each other. But it was only a matter of time before reality set in for both of them.

Struan stretched out on the floor for a bit. He thought a couple of hours of sleep would do him some good.