Ravished By The Iron Highlander (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Read online

  “I’m leaving tonight?”

  “Yes,” Ralf’s eyes flicked up to her then down back to his papers dismissively. “I remember when you were younger you would sneak to the attic and no one would find you for hours. You tend to trick people, Sister dear. I am not going to let you jeopardize my dealing with the Baron, by conveniently disappearing on me.”

  Her hand clenched by her side so hard that her nails nearly cut into her palms. “So, my happiness is of no importance to you, is it? Not if you can lobby gold into your coffers, find more buyers and monopolize the countryside. All you care about is making your name known from here to London. I am nothing more to you than a pawn.”

  “And the hundreds of soldiers he will give me to guard our shared holdings, don’t ever forget that,” Ralf said easily. “Finish packing, you’ll need to be off before supper if you have the fleeting chance to get there before dawn or midnight when the wolves come out.”

  “I’ll throw myself at them to escape you,” Isabella said through gritted teeth.

  He looked up, met her gaze and steepled his hand under his chin. “You will do no such thing and being mauled by a wolf is a horrible way to die. Even if the men I send with you did fall under their attack, I know you wouldn’t. Do you think that I don’t know about your secret sword and archery lessons, sister? Do you presume me to be daft? I know you can shoot an arrow straighter than most men and handle a sword as if it was a quill,” his laugh was scornful. “Even more reason to sell you to a warlord, mayhap you can teach his men a thing or two. Now, get out of my sight and get ready to leave. You have…” he looked out the window, “a very short window of time till sundown.”

  Her jaw was so stiff that her face went numb. She huffed through her nose and spun, going back to her room. Inside, she went to her fireplace and tugged out a brick.

  Kneeling, she tugged out a pair of daggers she had paid a village smithy to secretly make and strapped one to her thigh. The other, she slipped into her satchel. Then she took out a pouch of gold coins that she had saved over the years and slipped that into her inner pocket. With her trunk filled and ready, she slipped her traveling coat over her head and flicked the hood up.

  Downstairs she passed by Ralf without a look and right into the waiting carriage. He slammed the door shut then spoke to the driver and the guard, who sat beside him, “Shoot to kill anything or anyone that poses a threat to her. Get her to my aunt’s house without a scratch, understood?” Ralf then looked at her and Isabella dared to believe that he actually cared for her before he ended, “She has much worth to me alive, than all of you, she is going to be a bride to a powerful man after all.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” the driver said and the guard added his own affirmation.

  Facing ahead, Isabella did not look at her traitorous brother. “Take care of Bandit,” was all she said. If Ralf thought she was going to come back to him as a subservient woman, he was fooling himself.

  “I’d die than come back to a life of servitude,” Isabella said. “And if that is what it takes—”

  2

  Gretna, Scotland

  His feet were about to fail him but even when he tottered, tripped and fell, Duncan just kept walking. Guided by the meager light coming from the thin sickle of the moon, he kept going, pushing farther south, as far from the war-torn, blood-coated battlefield as he could get. His dark blue eyes kept flicking up to the moon then back to the ground. The battle on the waters of the Sark River had been won, many had died but the battle had been won.

  About a mile ago—or probably five—he had dropped his sword, as his wounded arm was getting numb. The tight band he had wrapped around his injured thigh was making him hurt, as the more he moved the more his skin was abraded and spots of fresh blood began to dot the cloth. Dirt coated his skin from his many falls, his blood and those of the others he had slain covered him with grime, and the English trousers he had on were rubbing him wrong.

  The smell of the salt marshes was constantly in his nose as he used the rivers to guide his way. He had probably crossed into England territory already but he did not know, nor did he care. He just had to get away for a while and heal.

  I must find shelter, I must heal—

  Those words were his mantra as he walked, holding his injured arm to his chest. He could hardly concentrate on the rocky road before him as his mind was back on the ten-hour battle he had just miraculously survived. The English bastards had swarmed them, thousands upon thousands and he and his fellow Scots, decidedly of a lesser number than the English, had marched against them.

  The Scottish generals, knowing the location as easily as they knew the back of their hands, had used the wet marshland to their advantage, resulting in their resounding victory. He could still remember seeing the English flee east and west, some trying to swim to safety but only drowning themselves or making their bodies targets for slaughter in the process.

  He tripped on a root but managed to catch himself. Bracing his hand to his chest, he gulped in deep ragged breaths of salty air. He felt as if he had been walking the full length and breadth of the earth twice over. His feet were aching, his body was past exhausted but his mind would not let him rest until he found shelter.

  As he breathed, he remembered the moment he had nearly lost it all. While the battle had been raging, he and his fellow Scots had gotten an upper hand on the English. They did not know the terrain; they did not know how to walk in marshy land and certainly not how to fight in it. When they had fled, he had been a part of the band to chase after them and cut them down. It had gone well…until the tide had turned.

  The English began to rebound with a fierceness he knew came from that innate need to preserve one’s life. He had become overpowered but he had not given in. His enemies had cut him off from his people but he was not going to be taken prisoner, and kept fighting.

  Suddenly, a large band from the Scottish forces had overpowered the Englishmen from behind. Knowing their lives were in peril, they had abandoned trying to capture him and ran. While he, wounded in his arm and leg, and knowing that staying in the melee would guarantee him death, had done the same.

  He was not proud of it but in pure survival mode he had found a dead English soldier a way out of the battlefield, stripped him of his uniform and put it on. Then found a copse of trees to rest and wait. If the English found him, his uniform would save him, and if he ran into Scots, he could easily explain his position and that would save him. It was a flimsy plan but he was going to use it until he found something better.

  The battle had simmered down but his body felt leaden and unable to move. He stayed put until dusk fell and only then did he manage to get up and walk. As he did, he realized that he had strayed from the river course but he did not care. Up ahead of him was a building and as he neared it, he could hear the lowing of a cow and the nickering of a horse inside.

  Another building, not too far off had light in the window and he realized he had stumbled onto someone’s homestead. He looked back to the barn and though he did not dare go inside, he allowed himself to drink from the outside trough.

  The cool water burned his parched throat even worse than the gritty dryness that had lodged there before. He kept drinking though and when his stomach was filled, he pressed his back to the wall and sank down under the hanging eave. His eyes fluttered and he got glimpses of the stars before his eyes closed. His head, covered with dark hair that was matted with sweat and dried blood, rested on the rough wood behind him.

  I’ll just rest for a moment…just a few moments…

  But his total exhaustion, throbbing feet, dull pain, and wounds forced him into a deep fatigued-laden sleep. His head dropped to his chest even while his good hand braced his injured arm to his chest. A knee was pulled up while his injured one lay flat and soon he was dead to the world.

  * * *

  A tinny scream had him launching out of his sleep but the scream was gone. His head began to flash, looking around widely for the source but his eyes wer
e still unfocused. He did take a moment to close his eyes and forced them to focus. When he opened them, he saw a lass, standing about ten feet away from him, her face white with fright and her hand covering her mouth.

  He did not move, in case she thought he would be a threat. She came near and he could see long locks of her hair falling over her shoulder and then a curtain swishing behind her back. He got a glimpse of golden eyes before she came two steps closer, then turned and ran.

  Duncan tried to get up but his injured leg felt dead, his head was pounding and even as he braced his elbow on the wall to give him some leverage, he felt his head spinning and had to sink back down. He pressed the heels of his good hand to his eyes and breathed in deeply.

  His whole body was throbbing in dull pain and his leg was numb. He briefly feared that he might have caught an infection and his leg might be cut off. His chest was laboring with each breath, his head felt like it was lifted off and was somewhere on the moon. Every part of him felt weak and he had no strength.

  The lass came back with three more people, two men and another woman, and he heard her say. “…saw he was English…he must have escaped from the battle…he needs help…can we—”

  His vision went black and his body went cold, he was hovering in the gray area between consciousness and unconsciousness and was bouncing between them. He could not see but he heard their voices. He then felt two sets of hands taking him and lifting him up. His vision came back and he saw trees passing by…a water well…another shed. That was until he was carried under a threshold and then into a warm home.

  His vision blacked out again and stayed that way until he was rested on a soft bed. He felt his back being braced while the top of his tattered English uniform was taken off his back. He felt his trousers being pulled off and hoped the lass or the other woman was not in the room as the only thing underneath them was his sporran.

  He did not know if the English had undergarments like his but he had just a mere moment to fear they would notice it before he went fully unconscious. Blessed blackness enveloped his body and his sleep was deep.

  * * *

  It was the sound of voices, whispers actually, that brought him back to the land of the living. He did not move his head and forced his eyelids to keep still. Little by little the most recent memories came back to him. The images from the battle, his almost abduction by the English, his long trek away from the battleground and now…he knew he was in an English house.

  I dinnae ken it safe to speak. If I do, they will ken I’m a Scot, they might hold a deep hatred for me people. Until I ken who and what I am, I ken it's best to keep silent.

  “We know that our people lost,” a woman’s voice said and her tone was tight. “He must have run for his life, Isabella.”

  “I know,” another female said, perhaps this was Isabella. Her voice was soft and melodic, “And he is heavily injured. Have we sent for the physician already, Aunt?”

  Isabella…what a lovely name, a Queenly name. With a name like that, beauty must come by default.

  “We have but this far into the woods, Mr. Portman will have a warm time coming in,” the aunt replied. Again, Duncan sensed a harshness in the woman but why? “He is coming from Longtown so it will take a while.”

  Duncan felt a hand tug the sheet over his chest a little higher. “Anywhere nearer?”

  “The only other place is in Gretna,” the aunt replied. “And that is foolish to even think about. Why would I invite a Scot into my home when they just killed thousands of our men? He needs better care than what we have given him. Homemade salves are better than nothing but we need true medical help, Isabella.”

  How she said the word Scot…she hates me people…

  As they continued to speak, he heard no mention of a male presence in the house. That was a bit strange. Was the aunt a widow and her niece unattached? He kept pretending to sleep when he heard the niece say, “He’s very handsome, Aunt. He probably has a wife and children waiting for him at home. I can see that as the reason to run for one’s life.”

  Duncan held in a snort. Wife waiting for me at home…I wish.

  “Should he be sleeping for so long?” the niece, Isabella asked, this time he felt her hand smooth his hair from his forehead. A soft scent of rosewater filled his nose as she came near. He even felt the heat from her body, “I know he is injured but…is that normal?”

  “I can’t tell,” her aunt replied, her tone grave. “Perhaps there is some internal injury we did not see. But Isabella,” and here, her voice changed to admonishing, “why were you out so early? I had expected to find you in your bed, not coming from the backyard with grass stains on your coat. You just arrived last night.”

  “I apologize Aunt but it is not in me to sleep past dawn,” Isabella softly explained, “I was still upset about Ralf’s deceitful actions so I decided to walk it out. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  “You better not. If this soldier could make it here, what’s to say others wouldn’t? And some of them might have…evil intentions, they could easily take you away,” the aunt said in one strict, admonishing breath. “But what is done is done, stay here, Isabella, I’ll go make us some nettle tea. If he wakes up, call me immediately.”

  He heard the scrape of the chair and the soft padding of feet out the door. With the aunt gone, Duncan decided it was time to wake up. He shifted his head to the side once and twice, then opened his eyes. His lids were heavier than he had expected them to be but the moment his gaze met the lass’ golden ones—a hue that literally stole his breath away—Duncan felt his heart grip. Instantly, he knew he was in trouble.

  The lass did not move but her eyes widened. The world seemed to narrow in on them, excluding all who existed, leaving just the two of them.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  Duncan thought of what to say. This was an English house, a home where the people that hated his kin lived. He needed an ally in this house until he was strong enough to leave and this lass was his best option. If he was proven wrong and this English lass, like the rest of her kin and country, hated him and his people, he could count it as that he had signed his death warrant.

  “I’m nay who ye ken I am, lass,” he whispered. “I’m nae English, but I am nay yer enemy either.”

  At the sound of his voice—not his voice, but his accent— her mouth slipped open and she yanked herself away from him, making him drop his hand. Then, they both heard footsteps coming toward them. The aunt came in, bearing two cups of tea and when she saw him awake, she tripped over her feet. Isabella rushed to help her over to a chair and she moved, Duncan saw the lovely curtain of hair flow with her.

  “He’s awake!”

  Isabella looked at him and then at her aunt. “Yes, Aunt Matilda, I was shocked too but he…” she looked at him again before swallowing, “he cannot speak, Aunt. I saw him try but he couldn't. Do you think that perhaps an injury to his head could have caused it?”

  “It’s possible,” Aunt Matilda said as she sat. Her skin was tanned perhaps because she was so close to the lowlands of Scotland, with dark hair like her niece, but her eyes were pale green-blue that had a hint of coldness to them. Her face also had soft lines of age and deep tiredness embedded in it. Clad in a dark, somber dress she sat with her hands cupping her tea. “The physician should be here soon. Isabella, you have not had any rest coming from Sunderland, you should go try to sleep.”

  Isabella turned those spellbinding eyes on him. “But Aunt—”

  “No, Isabella,” Aunt Matilda ordered in a no-nonsense tone, her face going hard with her authority. “You have had less than three hours rest. You came here past midnight and woke up before dawn, when you found him. It is past midday now, and you need to go and rest.”

  Looking between them again, Isabella sighed and stood to kiss her aunt on her cheek. “I understand, Aunt. I’ll help you with supper when I wake.”

  She left but lingered at the doorway to look over her shoulder at him. He felt his hear
t throb extra hard when she finally slipped away. He closed his eyes but he could feel the aunt’s eyes on him.

  Isabella…what have ye done to me?

  3

  Her footsteps were slow as Isabella walked away from the room. She had not wanted to go but her aunt had ordered her to and it made sense. She had risen early that morning as her body did not allow her to sleep past dawn and had gone to take a walk in the early day. It was not safe as she did not know the place but she had to do something to get the lingering stains of anger in her body out.

  She still had not come to the reality that Ralf had sent her away like an unwanted child being shuffled between distant relatives. The cold English—or was it Scottish—air was making it clear to her when she had seen the man, bloodied from head to toe, lying against the barn’s wall.