To Steal a Highlander's Heart(10)

MacRae land.

The enemy’s territory. What a fool Morgann was. Her father would never let him get away with capturing her. The probable outcome of his rash actions made her stomach churn. Death would no doubt come to both sides. Mayhap even her if the MacRaes wanted.

“I suppose yer still kidnapping me too.”

“Aye.”

“Yer a fool. Just return me and I’ll no’ say a word. I swear it.”

“Yer in no state to return and as ye said I cannae step foot in Dunleith. Ye’ll come to Glencolum and recover while I make negotiations with yer father,” he told her coolly.

His tone made her shiver. Something dark and desperate lay under those words. It reminded her of what she’d seen in his eyes. As if the very devil drove him.

The ache behind her eyes grew worse and she closed them, gave into the urge to rest against his broad chest. Hard muscles prodded into her back but were somehow comforting. Aye, finding comfort in the arms of her captor was not the best of ideas but her head hurt too much for her to think straight.

“The keep is up ahead,” Morgann murmured in her ear.

Alana didn’t bother to open her eyes. She remembered the keep well from the days when the clans worked closely together. Surrounded by a jagged wall, the main keep towered over the surrounding land, propped up by a tower on each corner. Once, it had been a place she’d be happy to see. Glencolum Keep meant seeing Morgann but now it was enemy territory and who knew what was awaiting her there.

Shadows flickered behind her eyelids and she heard the clatter of a portcullis. Dragging her eyes open once more, she noted the curious expression on the villagers as they passed through the gate. Trepidation tied her stomach tight and forced the pounding in her head to increase. Alana didn’t believe Morgann truly meant her harm but no doubt the MacRaes harboured anger over the deaths of their warriors just as her own clan did. The frequent battles and skirmishes between the clans had left many scars.

But the change in Morgann sent a chill through her. She’d always known he was a capable warrior with a bit of a temper and a rash nature but he’d also been humorous and kind. She only saw the tiniest flickers of such traits in him now. Surely he would not let her come to harm? Even with whatever desperation drove him?

Shudders wracked her and his hold tightened. Ach, but she was weak. The movement of his arms displaced the chill with a great surging warmth. She glanced down at his arm, watched the way the linen pulled tight against his skin as he handled the reins. The slightest hint of a scar peeked out of his sleeve but she couldn’t see it properly without pulling back his shirt. Alana knew well how he came by it.

She swallowed and glanced up at the four-storey tower as it loomed over her. Her father’s hand had created that scar. Would there be any forgiveness to be had from Morgann or was his anger too deep?

Morgann led his horse over to the stables and dismounted before offering up a hand. Alana wished she could deny his aid but her head still swam and her eyes threatened to bust from their sockets with the thumping.

She clasped his hand, coarse skin warm against hers and risked a glance into his eyes. Pain and confusion echoed in the dark depths and something else… a kind of curiosity. His gaze skimmed over her before she slid from the saddle as he took the time to trace every part of her. Her breathing stilted as she did the same, taking in those powerful legs, wide shoulders and stubbled jawline. His lips twisted into a mocking grin.

For some reason she needed to feel those lips upon hers.

A wild recollection of being pressed against him, her body entwined with his as she revelled in the taut strength of his physique assailed her. Heat soared into her cheeks. Had it been a dream? The memory was disturbingly real. Sweet Mary, her mind really was addled.

A tug on her hand reminded her she was meant to be dismounting and she pushed herself from the saddle only for her feet to go from beneath her. Morgann moved swiftly, hooking an arm around her back and forcing her into him to keep her upright. She latched onto his neck instinctively and found herself bent slightly back, Morgann looming over her.

Which was more threatening? The keep or Morgann?

Morgann, for certain. His dark hair fell over his face, creating shadows in his features as his gaze bore into her. His lips were a scant distance from hers and she felt his breaths gliding over her skin. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Did nerves do that or was it something else? If only her captor wasn’t so ridiculously beautiful. Morgann was a Highland warrior through and through. Raw, untamed. Like the Highlands themselves.

But no other highlander sent her pulse pounding or forced heat though her body. Mayhap it was just nerves.