Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Preview)
Chapter One
The Highlands, 1706
The wind was cold and harsh, slipping through the heavy wool of the cloak Lydia wore, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. She winced at the feel on her wind-burned cheeks, and chapped hands. She noted that some of the others in the caravan had donned gloves in varying states of repair, and felt a brief stab of envy. She already knew that none of them would offer her a pair.
A month ago, she would never have dreamed of being in this state, wearing the clothes she now wore – a homespun linen dress of indeterminate color over two thin chemises for warmth, with a shawl and a cloak of heavy wool and stout, practical shoes that were a size too big for her and battered in several places, as well as caked in mud.
A month ago, she’d never imagined having chapped hands, or blisters on her heels, or nearly continuous aches in her back, hips, feet and calves from hours of walking, riding over bumpy roads that jarred her at every turn, and sleeping on cold, uneven ground.
But then, a lot of things could change in a month.
“Oi, Lily. Lily. Wake up, lass.”
Lydia started, whipping around to face the caravan master as she realized he’d been calling to her.
Lily. It was the name she’d given him when she’d joined the caravan of traders and other folk looking for work or coin in the Highlands. She still wasn’t used to answering to it, and would have preferred to hear it as little as possible. Hearing her assumed name spoken meant someone had noticed her. And if they noticed her, then they might notice… other things.
She swallowed back the surge of fear that always accompanied being spoken to, and tried to remember to make her voice sound more… rough, unrefined. More like the voice of the servant she’d told them she was.
“Yes?”
“Get some wood fer the fire.” His dark eyes studied her critically.
Lydia did her best when given scores, but she was unused to labor of any kind, and so many of the tasks – she was afraid that attempting them and failing would draw more suspicion than not attempting them at all. What proper serving girl struggled to carry water from the river, or light a fire? What young woman with any sort of experience in household work was confused by washing dishes, or making up a bed, be it by the fire or in the wagons?
She did try, when she could work up the courage, but… she knew there were whispers. Whispers of derision, whispers of suspicion and scorn. But she was powerless to dispel them, and all she could do was bow her head and murmur. “Yes.”
“Get tae it then.” The man waved at her dismissively and turned away.
Gathering wood. It should be a simple enough task – save that she had no idea what constituted proper firewood and what did not. The only thing she knew for certain was that wood was supposed to be dry. Still, Lydia made her way out of the sheltered glen in which they’d stopped, idly picking up a branch here or there in a token effort.
Her wandering took her a small distance from the camp, but that was all right, as far as Lydia was concerned. The woods around her were quiet, with only the rustling of the wind to disturb the silence. Lydia felt content to enjoy the rare moment of peace.
A sudden drumming sound, irregular and vibrating through the earth, caught her attention. She had just enough time to recognize what it was – multiple sets of hoofbeats – before a ragged, barbaric looking group of riders crashed over the ridge to the north of their stopping place and fell upon the camp.
The rest of the caravan members were caught as unprepared as Lydia. Screams and shouts filled the air as the mounted men in their cloth masks and ragged, dirty attire rode into the glen, blades swinging, their horses kicking up dirt and embers from the cookfires alike.
Some of the men – like Josh the Farrier and Timothy the wagon guard – tried to fight. They were swiftly cut down and knocked to the side. The rest of the men and women in the group fled into the woods or huddled around the wagons. Some of them even scrambled over the ridge from which the attackers had come in their fear, heedless of the risk that there might be more brigands hiding out of sight.
The moment the first rider appeared, Lydia found herself frozen in fear. She had a small dagger attached to her belt, but no idea how to use it for anything other than cutting bread and meat for a meal. However, even if she had been skilled in the use of a blade, she was certain her little dagger would be no good against armed bandits with swords.
She was too terrified to flee, and too petrified to do anything else.
Within a minute, perhaps two, the members of the caravan had been thoroughly defeated, dispersed or cowered in place as their attackers stalked around the camp and poked their swords under carts, or prodded horses into rearing and stomping.
After a few moments, one of the men wheeled his horse about, and shouted to the others in a hoarse, gravelly voice. “Search the wagons an’ the woods, bring me any likely lass ye find.”
A few of the men grunted and turned to obey, and as they did so, Lydia caught a flash of color beneath the ragged leather and linen of one man’s clothing.
Familiar colors – the colors of Clan Cameron, belonging to the man who was her sole reason for being there in the first place. Lydia’s temporary paralysis shattered like ice in springtime, and Lydia turned and bolted for the trees.
She heard a man shout, and realized an instant too late that her actions had revealed her location, and the men were now in pursuit. Lydia sucked in a gasping, desperate breath and tried to run faster.
She heard the thud of hoofbeats following her, and dove for a patch of undergrowth, hoping the thick tangle of branches and brambles might slow her pursuer down. Instead, the brambles caught her skirt, and she’d scarcely had a chance to free them before a rough shove sent her sprawling into the dirt and tangled branches that covered the forest floor. She rolled gracelessly, bracken scratching her hands and face, and jumped to her feet, grabbing blindly for any weapon.
Her hands closed around a tree branch, just before a rough grip seized her cloak and jerked her back. Lydia choked, staggered helplessly backward, and tumbled straight into the arms of her captor. The man sneered at her. “Got ye, lass.”
“Let go!” Lydia flailed wildly at him with the tree branch, but the man only laughed, the sound rough and coarse as he wrenched the branch for her hand. Lydia winced at the sting of splinters in her palms. “What do you want with me?”
“Dinnae play dumb.” The man scoffed, his breath hot and foul in her face. “Did ye think some old clothes an’ company would hide who ye are…Lady Lydia Wycliffe?”
He spat her name, his expression turning thunderous as he seized her chin in a bruising grip. “Months we’ve been searchin’ fer ye, an’ yer uncle’s about ready tae put a bounty on yer head, he’s tha’ enraged. Didnae think ye’d be so daft as tae try an’ pretend tae be a commoner, but when we heard otherwise…”
From who?
Lydia tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. In desperation, she attempted a move she’d seen one of the scullery maids use once on a guard of her father’s castle who tried to take advantage of her. She jerked her knee upward, as hard and fast as she could.
Her knee connected. The man let out a pained yowl and let go of her to clutch his groin. Lydia staggered backward, but before she could take proper advantage of her freedom, another set of hands seized her from behind. “We’ll nae be havin’ any more o’ that now, lass.”
Lydia felt her stomach roil. She hadn’t even heard the second man arrive, and now…she tried to pull away, but she might as well have tried to break iron shackles with her bare hands.
The first man was regaining his composure, his expression filled with murderous fury, when cracking branches caught all their attention. A second later, another horse crashed into the small space, and a man rolled smoothly out of the saddle and dropped lightly to the ground on the balls of his feet. “What’s the meanin’ o’ all this?”
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short, windswept blond hair, but most importantly to Lydia, he was not wearing the colors of Clan Cameron.
He raked the three of them with intense green eyes, his jaw clenching briefly before he addressed the man holding her. “I dinnae tolerate attacks on me lands, an’ yer nae welcome here any longer. Get ye gone.”
Both men stared at the stranger and Lydia half-hoped they would release her to fight with him. However, after a moment, the first man who’d grabbed her glanced at his partner and shook his head, before turning back to the stranger.
“Aye. We’re going.” The man behind her pulled Lydia’s arm to drag her with him. Lydia fought back, digging her heels into the dirt and straining to grasp anything she could. There was nothing within her reach, but she made the effort nonetheless.
“Hold a moment.” The stranger stepped forward, watching her with his stern gaze. “Lass, dae ye ken these men?”
“No. They attacked my caravan… they’re trying to kidnap me!” Lydia punctuated her words with another tug on her trapped arm. “I…”
The man’s eyes widened, and Lydia realized a moment later that she’d spoken with an English accent – she hadn’t thought to even attempt to disguise her voice as she usually did. For a moment, her heart sank, fearing the man would turn away. Many Highlanders had no love of the English, after all.
Instead, he turned to face the first man once again. “Ye heard the lass. She daesnae ken ye, an’ from the look o’ it, she daesnae want tae go with ye.”
“’Tis nae any o’ yer concern.” The first man put a hand on the hilt of his sword.
“It wouldnae be if ye hadnae attacked her companions on me land.” The man’s hand dropped to the hilt of the blade he carried, and his voice deepened from the rough baritone he’d used to address her to a threatening, low-voiced growl. “But ye did attack her on me lands, an’ now I’m tellin’ ye – leave the lass an’ get out o’ me territory, or I’ll leave yer corpses here fer the crows tae feast on.”
The man holding Lydia abruptly shoved her, sending her crashing to the ground. Lydia choked back a cry, the breath driven from her as something hard – a half-buried rock or a large tree branch, she thought – slammed into her lower ribs.
Coughing, she tried to crawl away, or to rise and flee, but the effort sent sparks of pain radiating from her bruised hands and her injured side. All she could do, as the first clash of steel rang through the air, was roll awkwardly into the shadows of a large tree, curl herself tightly under her cloak, and pray to survive unscathed – and unnoticed.
Chapter Two
The sounds of fighting – the clang of steel on steel, the grunts and curses of the fighters, seemed to go on forever. Lydia remained curled where she was, fighting to get her breath back and assessing her condition. Her cloak was torn where the man had jerked on her collar, and the lightweight cap she’d used to confine her hair – at Elswith’s insistence – was gone. She was also covered in mud and leaves. Her hair had come loose from her braids and it spilled around her face, trailing in the mud. Her hands were near black, dirt caked under her nails – where the nails hadn’t torn away in her struggles.
All of that was vexing enough, but the real problem was her side. The bruised area on her ribs throbbed with every breath, and attempting to move made stars flash in her vision, and tears burn in her eyes. Breathing was an effort, and her whole body felt shaky and weak from the pain. She could scarcely manage to remain aware, let alone stand and try to escape.
She heard the continuing clash of blades, then a shout, a meaty ‘thwack’ and a sickly sort of moan that made her squeeze her eyes closed, even as her stomach lurched. Another brief period of screeching steel and grunting followed, then an indecipherable snarl and the thud of something heavy hitting the dirt. She waited for the sounds of battle to resume, but the forest remained silent.
Finally, she could bear the silence no longer. With an effort, she rolled over, biting her lip to hold back a cry as the movement intensified the pain in her wounded side. With great effort, she managed to push herself into a half-sitting position so she could see what had happened.
The stranger who had rescued her was crouching over one of the two men who’d tried to take her. After a moment, he grunted, his expression disgruntled, and hauled the man up by the collar. He dragged him to one side of the clearing and dumped him beside a tree. “Stay there, an’ hope yer comrades find ye afore any wolves dae.”
The man groaned, and the stranger scoffed at him, before rising again. He prodded the second man with the tip of his sword, but the figure remained motionless, and Lydia had a sinking feeling that he would never move again. With a huff, he wiped his blade on the man’s clothing, sheathed it, and stalked over to where Lydia still lay awkwardly in the foliage.
Lydia watched him approach with a feeling of trepidation. He had rescued her, true, but she had no idea how she was expected to respond – nor if he was someone she could consider friend or foe. He might have only saved her so he could have his own way with her – she had heard tales of such things happening.
The part of her mind that was still able to think beyond the confusing mingling of relief and fear noted that he was taller than she’d originally noticed, and well-muscled, his broad shoulders moving easily beneath the leather of his jerkin and the fabric of his cloak. His legs were encased in leggings for riding, but they appeared to be equally muscular.
His face below his windswept blond hair was not that old, but the lines of it were harsh, and there were shadows that darkened the green eyes and suggested that his life had not been an easy one. His jaw was square, his mouth tight and brooding, and there was a small scar on his chin, faded as if from some childhood accident.
He was handsome, in a rough, rugged, and somewhat barbaric way. He was certainly good-looking enough to make her heart skip a beat, had it not already been pounding in the aftermath of her near abduction by Clan Cameron. Handsome and mesmerizing, with his fluid, easy movements and his deep, intense gaze.
There was also a great deal of blood on his clothing. Lydia shivered at the sight, fear pushing aside some of the sense of admiration she felt. She could appreciate that he had protected her, but the evidence of the violence involved made her already uneasy stomach clench.
It also brought her attention to the iron-sweet stench of death that now filled the small clearing. Lydia swallowed hard, wondering how she hadn’t noticed the smell before. There was little for her stomach to bring up, should it choose to rebel, but she had no desire to experience vomiting along with her aching side.
The man stopped a few feet from Lydia and looked down at her, his stare so intense it was as if he could see straight into her heart with his eyes alone. When he did speak, his voice was low and sharp. “Ye’re alive. Well enough. Are ye hurt?”
Lydia nodded, resting one hand on her side in demonstration. When that got no response or reaction, she gathered her courage and spoke. “My ribs. There was a rock…”
“There often are, in the woods.” He brushed the rest of her words away with an impatient gesture, his gaze flicking around the clearing, watchful and wary. “Rocks an’ bandits alike. Or raiders.”
He held out a hand, and Lydia took it cautiously. With one swift, smooth movement, the man pulled her to her feet and steadied her. Lydia staggered at the shockwave of pain from her injured side, gasping as she tried to hold back tears. There was little sympathy in his eyes, but no cruelty either, only a sort of grim practicality. “Can ye walk? Dae ye need me tae carry ye?”
Lydia swallowed her pain, and set one food in front of the other. To her utter mortification, her steps were weak and wavering, and her knees threatened to give out. “I…I am not sure…”
“Come on then. We cannae linger – there’s bound tae be more o’ them an’ I dinnae want tae be here when they come.” The man huffed, and one large hand folded around her upper arm in a firm, demanding grip and pulled her forward, steadying her even as he guided her away from the scene of the battle.
Lydia staggered along, aware that her rescuer was keeping his steps measured to match what she could manage. He wasn’t cruel or unfeeling, it seemed, only impatient and determined to deal with everything as quickly as possible.
Together, the two of them made their way along the narrow track that had been created by her flight and the pursuit of the Cameron soldiers, and back toward the glen where the caravan had been camping. Lydia’s heart felt heavy, wondering how she would explain having run off on her own without a thought for any of the other caravan members.
They arrived at the copse, and Lydia stumbled to a halt, staring at the open space in shocked disbelief.
There was no one there. No wagons. No people. The only signs that the area had ever been occupied were churned earth and the remains of the fire pits that had been roughly extinguished by the hooves of their assailants.
They had left her behind, deserted her there in the Highlands without a second thought. Lydia stared numbly at the empty space, wondering if anyone had even noticed or cared that she wasn’t with them.
They most probably did not, or else they were relieved to see me disappear.
The thought made her feel somewhat ill.
The man who’d rescued her looked around for a few moments. “Appears tae have been quite a number o’ people here at one point, but it seems they’ve left without ye.” His expression tightened in what she thought might be dislike, or perhaps simple irritation at being saddled with her. “What sort o’ folk were ye traveling with?”
“Traders and laborers.” Lydia swallowed hard, fighting back tears of unexpected hurt. She’d not been close to anyone in the caravan, but she had traveled with them for weeks, and the abandonment still stung. “We were…”
The man cut her off with a curt gesture. “I can guess. Me steward was expectin’ a caravan o’ laborers an’ servants tae arrive at me keep taeday or taemorrow. Yer party was heading tae Ranald Castle , aye?”
Dazed and distressed as she was, Lydia still had enough of her wits about her to seize the opportunity before her. “Yes. I was part of a caravan making our way to the service of a lo-laird – the caravan master did not tell me the name. I… did not realize we were so close to the destination.” She hesitated. “You…you are the Lord – forgive me, Laird Ranald?”
“Och, I am. An’ never ye mind about what ye call me. There’s nay disguising tha’ ye’re English bred, so dinnae bother. I dinnae care so much as all that.”
Laird Ranald studied the empty glen once more, and made a noise of exasperation. “I suppose yer comrades fled when they were attacked. There will be nay finding them until they’re certain they’re safe – always assuming they didnae run all the way tae the next laird’s territory.”
Lydia eyed the now-desolate looking glen. “Do you think they will return here?”
“They might. Or they might nae.” Laird Ranald shrugged his broad shoulders. “Even so, ye’ll need tae come with me.”
“Come with you?” Lydia blinked up at him in disbelief. “I…”
Laird Ranald was already turning away. “Och, ye dinnae have tae, but ye’ll be lucky tae get anywhere on foot afore night falls. Tae say naething o’ more o’ those men arriving, which is as likely tae happen as nae. Dae ye want tae tak’ yer chances alone on the road?”
When he put it like that, the choice was an easy one. Lydia wrapped her cloak close about her and hurried after the laird as he returned to his horse.
The horse was still where the laird had left it, though the animal was stamping and shifting uneasily. The laird moved forward with quick, confident steps and laid a hand on the restive animal’s nose. “Och, calm yerself, lad. Ye’re nae hurt, an’ we’ll soon be leaving this place.”
He moved quickly to check the horse for injuries, and as he did, Lydia saw a rent in his clothing. The edges of the torn cloth were dyed red, the stain wet and slowly spreading. Lydia stared at the spot in consternation. “You… you are hurt…”
“Naething more than a scratch.” The laird pressed a hand to his wound for a moment, then removed it, studied his red-stained palm and fingers, and shook his head in an uncaring gesture, his hand flicking some of the blood away. “I’ve had worse in training.”
“But… it is still bleeding…” Lydia didn’t know much of healing, but she knew a few things, and she had always been interested in herb lore. “I could…”
“’Twill keep until I’ve returned home an’ been seen tae by the healer o’ me clan.” The man shook his head once more, brushing aside her offer, and pulled his cloak over the injury. He patted the horse once more, then heaved himself into the saddle with a grunt of effort.
Once he was securely settled into his saddle, he nudged the horse toward Lydia and offered her his hand. Lydia stared at the bloodstained fingers and red-splattered clothing, torn between the safety he offered and her uncertainty about the circumstances she might face if she traveled with him.
The man raised a questioning eyebrow as he looked down at her, as if surprised by her hesitation. “Well, lass, are ye comin’ or nae?”
“I… I was just wondering if I might know the name of my rescuer.” Lydia took a deep breath. “I am Lydia.”
Damn it! I forgot to say my false name!
“Donall Ranald o’ Clan Ranald. I’ll be yer new employer.” His voice was gruff, but his hand was steady and he hadn’t ridden away from her yet.
“I am in your service, my lo-laird.” Lydia took his hand and placed her foot in the stirrup he’d left empty for her. Her side pulsed with a renewed throb of pain, but she bit her lip and gripped Laird Ranald’s hand hard, then hoisted herself awkwardly into the saddle behind him.
The movement hurt, and Lydia knew she must have jostled the man’s injured side, but he said nothing as she got settled. Lydia gripped his shirt to signal her readiness and the laird turned his horse and started back toward the road without another word. Lydia, for her part, did her best to keep her grip light and her arms away from his injured side.
It wasn’t easy. The man’s broad back and shoulders, coupled with the movement of the horse as it cantered along the path, made it difficult to keep her arms from slipping to his belt, and her wounded side only made it harder. Even so, Lydia did what she could to minimize her rescuer’s likely discomfort.
Despite her best efforts, however, she was uncomfortably aware of the warm liquid that slowly seeped through both their clothing as his wound continued to bleed. Lydia took a deep breath and prayed that she was not falling from the frying pan into the fire, and that her rescuer was as strong and sturdy as he seemed to believe he was.
***
Ewan is goin’ tae kill me. An’ Corvin may well bring the castle down around all our ears when I tell him his workers were waylaid an’ scattered by bandits on the road.
All I wanted was a quiet ride tae think an’ relax, an’ instead I find meself wounded an’ with a strange lass ridin’ behind me!
Donall Ranald sighed to himself, then cursed in his head as his side twinged. He could feel the blood seeping through the cloth of his tunic, and likely into the girl’s clothing as well. He should have stopped to make a bandage for it – or let the girl tend to it when she’d offered – but he hadn’t wanted to risk that any remnants of the raiding party might return with more men, especially since he’d ridden out without guards beside him.
Yes, Ewan was going to be furious when he found out – assuming he hadn’t already. Alexander would probably wait until his wound was bandaged, and then likely give him a good bruise on the jaw to go with the rest of his battle wounds. But it had been quiet for a while, and Donall had assumed he’d be fine going for a short ride on his own. Besides, he’d wanted to see if he could meet Corvin’s new hirelings on the road and get a sense of their characters before they arrived at his keep.
Corvin might have a point that Ranald Keep needed new servants and new laborers to help with repairing some of the walls and tending some of the fields, but Donall was of no mind to let just any man or woman into his home. If he was going to hire outsiders – and people from the English borderlands at that – then he wanted to know what kind of people they were.
Apparently, they’re the sort that would leave a defenseless lass alone on the road. Though I suppose, bein’ traders and working men, they’re nae the sort who would fight when attacked by armed men. Even so, I would have thought one o’ them would have at least tried tae follow after the lass.
There was a chance none of them had realized she’d been separated from the group, or perhaps they’d thought she’d been kidnapped and felt unable or unwilling to mount a rescue. Such things were known to happen. Even so, the idea of leaving a helpless lass alone made his gut sour, and that was why Donall had offered to bring the lass to his keep.
Lydia. She hadn’t offered him a last name. And she’d seemed unusually terrified of the men. More to the point – two of them had specifically pursued her, when he’d seen no evidence that any of the other members of the caravan had been targeted. It was an interesting puzzle, and it had caught his interest as very few things did these days.
Then there was the lass herself. English, by her accent, and better spoken than he would have expected – perhaps she’d been a servant in a noble household? But then why leave her situation and undertake such a risky journey to seek work in the Highlands, in the home of a laird she knew nothing about?
Perhaps she’d run into some trouble. She was pretty enough for it – soft, light brown hair like silk and cinnamon, even disordered as it was, and those sky-blue eyes. Pale skinned too – she was delicate-looking enough that a man might mistake her for a lady, rather than a serving lass. If she’d been a lady’s maid whose master, or a guest, had attempted to take too many liberties with… well, there were many ways a lass in such a situation might find herself either out of work, or fleeing from trouble that no serving maid could handle.
Thinking of that, unfortunately, made him all too aware of the lass’s bosom pressed against his back, the slim legs tucked close in behind his knees, and the way her hips pressed against his in the close confines of the saddle. The heat of her breath ghosted along the back of his neck, teasing the fine hair there and sending an uncomfortable tingling sensation through his gut and down to his groin.
Just as well she was riding behind him, or he’d be thinking of the slender curve of her waist, his arm around her midsection and likely brushing the underside of her bosom, her buttocks pressed close against his groin… there’d be no hiding his reaction from her then.
Donall scowled and forced the thoughts away. ‘Tis been too long since I was with a woman.
Idle and wayward imaginings aside, there was something about the lass that intrigued Donall, and very little had intrigued him in a long time. That made rescuing her and giving her employment in his service worth the trouble, to assuage his curiosity, if nothing else.
The horse shifted its weight, and the girl’s arm thumped into the cut on his side once more. Donall winced.
He was losing more blood than he’d expected – the wound must have been deeper than he’d first expected. He grimaced and added his healer Evelyn to the list of people who were likely to lecture him when he returned to Ranald Keep.
Lydia the serving lass. He couldn’t help wondering which she was going to bring more of into his life – surprises… or trouble.
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