Victoria crawled until she reached the tethered horses, then rose and approached the gelding that served as the packhorse. She eased nearer until he permitted a hand on his back. The moon ducked behind a cloud, and the animal allowed her to lead him into the forest.
Inside the murky depths, she spied a large rock and edged across the rough ground until her fingers met cold stone. Gooseflesh raced down her arms.
Reward for her freedom was sure to be a case of pneumonia. She scrambled atop the boulder, then steadied the gelding.
“It will be a shame to see those tender hands bound.”
Victoria froze, leg mid-air. She detected no movement in the darkness, but her heart leapt. He is near. She swung her leg across the horse, but before she could spur him into action strong fingers gripped her arm and yanked her into Iain MacPherson’s arms.
A chuckle, deep and warm, sounded near her ear. “We are alone, sweet, if you wish to beg my forgiveness…”
She shoved at his chest, surprised when he released her.
Silence stood between them for a moment before he spoke again, this time his tone dry. “You prefer the punishment then?”
Victoria backed away. Her heel butted up against a large branch, and she fell back with a cry. She braced for the weight of his body on top of hers.
*
When they stopped the next afternoon, Iain retrieved the dirk in his boot and cut the ropes that bound the lass’ wrists. She snatched her hands back and massaged the rope-chaffed skin as she backed away from him.
Iain stretched out against a tree and watched her through half closed lids. She paused in her inspection of the thinly wooded surroundings to examine a dog rose bush, then brushed her fingers across the dark pink flower. As if aware of his scrutiny, she looked his way, but when he didn't move she seemed satisfied he was dozing.
At the order to mount, he hoisted her onto his horse and stepped into the saddle. Arm wrapped around her, he trailed one of the dog roses he had picked from the tree along her cheek. She stiffened.
Iain leaned close and whispered in a thick Scottish brogue, “Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightsome lily of every pleasure, richest in bounty and in beauty clear, and in every virtue that is held maist dear, except only that ye are merciless.”
He placed the rose on her lap.
His captive fought drowsiness, but at last melted into his arms two hours before Iain stopped for the night. He lowered her to one of his men, then dismounted. Iain took her and caught sight of something fluttering to the ground in the bright moonlight. He squinted and his chest tightened upon recognizing the dog rose he had given her that afternoon.
The flower had been purposely crushed. He shifted his gaze to her face cradled against his chest, the words of the poem echoing in his mind, ‘except only that ye are merciless.’ Aye, only a woman as lovely and delicate as a rose could cut the most hardened warrior in two and never lift a weapon. Her eyes fluttered open. Tenderness gave way to desire, then amusement with her indignant intake of breath.
“Put me down.”
The effect of her haughty tone was undone by the breathless rise and fall of her breasts. She struggled and Iain lowered her to the ground. This time he ignored the rose, crushed beneath her feet.
She gave no outward show of noticing when, once again, a pallet was laid out for her between him and Eric. Iain envisioned her snuggling close to him in the night, her round buttocks pressed against him as it had been last night. He hardened with the picture of her lifting her skirts and nestling close—the erotic picture vanished with the appearance of the guard assigned to patrol the forest surrounding the meadow where they camped.
Their eyes met, and Iain read the message that intruders had been spotted. His men surrounded Victoria with him in the forefront. Twigs rustled beneath horses’ hooves a moment before four men emerged from the dark cover of trees.
Iain recognized the Fraser plaide and would have relaxed but for every man’s attention moving past him to his captive. “It is me you need attend to, not the lass,” he said, bringing all but one man’s eyes to him. “Is your companion stupid?”
The warrior at the head of the band twisted to look back at the offender. “Idair,” he snapped.
Idair’s gaze lingered an instant longer before shifting to Iain.
Iain focused on the leader. “What is your business on my land?”
“We are passing through on the way to Easedale.”
“How is your laird, Liam?” Iain asked. The peace Iain had negotiated with the Frasers came after a thirty-year feud waged by Iain’s father on Liam Fraser for running off with Iain’s mother before they were wed. The treaty was still too new for Iain to be certain Liam had forgotten—or forgiven—the fact that Iain’s father had forced Lily to marry him despite the fact she loved Liam.
“He is well.” The man’s voice broke through the memory. “Have you any food to spare?”
“Bread and cheese. You are welcome to it. If you choose, you may stay the night.”