Highland Heart

mid-stride. She heard her garment tear as he twisted her roughly in

  his arms.

  "I meant you no harm, lass."

  "You think me daft?" Her eyes flashed as she struggled to break

  free.

  "Once you have killed the others, you will see there are no witnesses

  to your crime."

  "I mean no harm to those who dwell here. I come in peace to ask a

  favor of the Gordons."

  "Oh, aye. And that is why you sneak around the scullery like a

  thief."

  "My mission is one of peace. But I must gain their attention before I

  can gain their ear."

  His words were soft. Soft and clever. She would not be fooled by the

  look of sincerity in those eyes.

  "Liar!"

  In their struggles his hand encountered the softness of her breast.

  Though small and slender, her figure was undeniably, womanly. He

  glanced down and saw the flush upon her cheeks. A moment later he gave

  out a yelp of pain when her teeth sank into his hand. When he jerked

  his hand away, his blood stained the front of her gown.

  "Damn you, wench. Will you not listen to reason? I swear to you..."

  The rest of his words died in his throat when he glanced down and saw

  that the lass was holding his dirk in her hand.

  She leaped forward, the knife aimed at his heart. In one quick motion

  he caught her hand and wrenched the knife free. It clattered to the

  floor at their feet.

  With a vicious oath he dragged her roughly into his arms, twisting her

  hands behind her in a painful grasp.

  "Now you will listen and heed my words," he snarled through clenched

  teeth.

  "Jamie MacDonald is a man of his word. I come here in peace."

  "Jamie MacDonald? The Heartless MacDonald?"

  He saw the fear leap into her eyes at the mention of his name. So she

  had heard of him. All the better. At least now she would offer no

  more resistance.

  "Aye. Heartless am I in battle." He lowered his head until his lips

  were inches from hers. His eyes narrowed fractionally.

  "Do not cross swords with me again, lass, or you will feel the sting of

  my anger."

  As he lifted his head he heard the sound of swords being unsheathed.

  Before he could turn he felt the sharp point of a blade against his

  back, slicing through his flesh. Pain tipped through him.

  A voice low with fury said, "Release the woman." Had this been war,

  Jamie would have pulled a dirk from his boot and held the blade to the

  female's throat until he either made good his escape or disarmed his

  enemy. It would be far easier to cross swords with a hundred

  unreasonable Highlanders than to try to reason with them. But reason

  he must, if he was to keep his promise to Brice Campbell. Jamie lifted

  his hands to show that he did not intend to draw his sword. As he

  turned, the lass fled his arms and hurried to stand with the five men

  who faced him.

  They stood in a semicircle, swords lifted menacingly. All bore a

  striking resemblance to the old man who stood in their midst.

  "I demand the tight to fight this lout by myself," the tallest one

  said.

  "Nay, Donald." A stocky, bearded lad put out his hand to delay his

  brother's progress.

  "As eldest son I claim the tight."

  "You may both fight me if you wish, after I tell you my reason for

  coming here." Jamie reached a hand to his waist and instantly another

  sword tip pierced his hand, unleashing a river of blood. Ignoring the

  pain, he unstrapped his scab hard and let it drop to the floor, as

  further proof that he did not wish to do battle.

  "I do not trust him," the youngest said.

  "Nor do I." The old man strode closer, peering at the stranger.

  "Who are you? State your name and the nature of your business before

  we relieve you of your life."

  Jamie stood silently, eyeing the old man. This had been a mistake.

  These warriors were itching for a fight. They would never give him the

  time to relate all that he had planned to tell them.

  "He is Jamie MacDonald," the lass said softly.

  "The Heartless MacDonald?" The old man paused and turned toward his

  daughter, seeing for the first time that her gown was torn and

  bloody.

  His eyes narrowed.

  "God in heaven. He has harmed you, lass. I will cut out his heart."

  With a cry of fury he whirled and aimed his sword at Jamie's heart.

  "May you burn in hell for inflicting pain upon my daughter."

  Daughter? Jamie glanced from the old man to the fiery lass. His eyes

  widened. Aye. How could he have missed it? The resemblance was there

  in the wide brow, in the finely chiseled lips. But who would' have

  thought a bloody Highlander could produce such a work of perfection?

  There would be no reasoning with the Gordons now. Jamie stood very

  still, prepared to meet his fate at the hands of this righteous old

  Highland warrior. He had made errors in judgment before, bt/t never

  one that had so surely sealed his fate.

  As the blade sang through the air, the lass's voice, low and

  commanding, broke the silence.

  "Hold, Father." She saw the blood spurt from the stranger's shoulder

  as her father's blade missed its intended mark by mere inches.

  "The MacDonald gave his word that his was a mission of peace." In

  quick strides she was be side her father, gripping his arm to stay

  another thrust. She turned to face the man whose touch had only

  moments ago filled her with terror.

  "I

  pray you let him speak. "

  Through his pain Jamie breathed a sigh of relief.

  A dangerous smile touched Lindsey's lips as she added, "And if we do

  not like what we hear, the Heartless Mac Donald will have at least

  bought enough time to prepare his wicked soul to meet his Maker."

  Chapter Two

  Through a haze of pain Jamie watched as the warriors lowered their

  swords. For a moment the room seemed to spin, and he had to struggle

  to maintain his rigid stance. Despite the bone weariness that

  enveloped him and the loss of blood from his newly inflicted wounds, it

  would not do to show any sign of weakness.

  "I am told that the Gordons are the most respected swordsmen in all of

  Scotland."

  "You have heard correctly," Murray said.

  "Have you come to challenge us?" His lips curled into a sneer.

  "Or do you only do your fighting with helpless women?"

  "Helpless?" Lindsey turned blazitig eyes on her brother. I'll have

  you know it was my clever acting that bought you enough time to draw

  your swords. Else this villain would have caught you all unawares.

  "

  Acting. So the lass had been pretending to be weak and afraid while

  she was 6almly searching for a way to save her family. Jamie felt a

  grudging respect for the woman who had so ably tricked him.

  "Now he is a villain," Neal called.

  "A moment ago you begged Father to spare his miserable life so we could

  hear what he had to say."

  "Perhaps I was mistaken." Lindsey tore her glance from the sight of

  the wounded giant who oddly tugg
ed at her heart. His blood-soaked

  clothes and ravaged face touched a chord deep inside her.

  "Perhaps I should have let him die."

  "Silence, all of you," the old man shouted. Turning to Jamie he

  commanded, "Say what you came here to say. And then I will decide

  whether or not you deserve to live."

  "I have need of a few brave men." Jamie spoke slowly, allowing his

  gaze to assess the circle of men. The youngest one revealed a trace of

  feat in his eyes. The one beside him, a handsome rebel, gave a cynical

  smile. The golden haired lad seemed puzzled. The bearded son could

  hardly contain his fury. Jamie allowed his gaze to linger on the

  lass.

  What fire there was in her. But her curiosity overcame anything else

  she might be feeling. Despite her earlier mis givings, she pursed her

  lips and waited for him to continue. Jamie tore his gaze from her and

  turned toward her father. Only the old man watched without any show of

  emotion.

  "And why would a famed warrior like Jamie MacDonald have need of our

  swords?"

  "I have need of not only your swords" -Jamie gritted his teeth against

  the pain and forced himself to speak slowly, evenly "--but of your

  ability to lead others, as well."

  "And where would we be leading others?" Murray shot him a challenging

  look.

  "To rally behind their queen."

  The old man took a menacing step closer.

  "What news do you bring us regarding our beloved queen?"

  "I have reason to believe Mary's life is in danger."

  His words brought a sudden chilling silence. It was Douglas Gordon who

  finally spoke.

  "You will tell us all you know."

  "Aye. The queen's secretary, Riccio, has been murdered at Holyrood."

  The room erupted with muffled exclamations.

  "Brice Campbell lies gravely wounded after subduing the swordsman. He

  believes the true intent of the attack was to murder the queen."

  "God in heaven." Upon hearing this, Douglas Gordon's look turned

  grim.

  "The rumors are true, then." He glanced at his sons and daughter.

  Jamie pressed his fingers to the searing heat at his shoulder and was

  surprised when his hand came away covered with blood. He stared at it

  a moment without comprehending. The front of his tunic was smeared

  with blood, as were his breeches, yet he could feel nothing but the

  heat and a strange numbness.

  His dazed expression was not lost on the old man, who had seen such

  shock on many a warrior in battle. His tone softened.

  "How long have you been without sleep, lad?"

  Jamie felt the room sway a moment, then forced himself to stiffen his

  spine.

  "I have been in the saddle two nights and three days." Or was it three

  nights and two days? He could no longer recall.

  "You will rest a while, and then we will speak more of this."

  "There is no time for rest. I must put together an army and lead them

  to their queen."

  "Aye. The need is most urgent. But now," the old man said with a

  trace of a smile in his tone, "you are bleeding all over my floor, lad.

  And my daughter, Lindsey, will have my head if I allow this abomination

  to continue." He sheathed his sword and motioned for his sons to do

  the same. To his daughter he said, "Show our guest to a sleeping

  chamber, Lindsey."

  "But..."

  "Immediately," the old man bellowed.

  "And summon a servant to see to his needs."

  "Aye, Father."

  Lindsey watched as Jamie bent and retrieved his weapons. She saw him

  lean against the wall for a moment, then straighten.

  She would not feel any remorse for this villain's suffering Had he not,

  after all, used her shamelessly to gain entry to their fortress?

  He must have been aware of the risks of invading the home of the

  Gordons.

  Lifting her skirts, she led the way up a wide staircase. Behind her

  Jamie staggered, swayed, then forced himself to follow at a slower

  pace.

  He had planned to do something bold and outrageous to gain the

  attention of the Gordons. But it had not been his intention to attack

  the beloved daughter of the leader. The wild lass's name was

  Lindsey.

  It gave him an odd sense of pleasure to have that information, despite

  the buzzing in his brain that disrupted his concentration.

  Outside the doorway to a suite of rooms the lass paused and turned to

  study the giant who walked behind her. Though his eyes showed the

  effects of the wound, she had no doubt that he could still outfight

  every man below stairs. There was such strength in him. And a sense

  of nobility that oddly stirred her.

  She stepped inside. Jamie followed.

  Several servants scurried around the rooms, preparing the bed, stoking

  the fire.

  "You will rest in here," she said, leading the way toward the sleeping

  chamber.

  "You are most kind." She heard the thread of sarcasm in his tone and

  fought to ignore it.

  "If you will lie down, I will see to your wound."

  At a word from Lindsey, a serving girl turned back the bed linens. As

  he made his way to the bed Jamie prayed he would not disgrace himself

  by falling. He eased himself toward the pallet and felt his knees

  buckle. He fell forward and managed to roll over until he was lying on

  his back.

  Jamie noted that a pitcher of water stood on the table beside his bed.

  His throat was parched, and he recalled idly that he had not eaten in

  days.

  Seeing the direction of his gaze she asked, "Do you thirst?"

  "Aye."

  Through half-closed lids he watched as Lindsey filled a goblet.

  Sitting on the edge of the pallet she lifted his head to her lap and

  offered him the liquid. He drank greedily.

  When the goblet was empty, Lindsey lowered his head and placed the

  goblet on the table Working with efficiency she removed his bloody

  tunic and shirt.

  The wound to his shoulder was deep and already beginning to fester.

  "You have lost a fair amount of blood."

  Jamie struggled to stay awake. The cozy bed linens, the warmth of the

  fire and the softness of this woman's touch were almost more than he

  could fight. Were this a dozen Highlanders surrounding him in the

  frozen forest, he could have called upon that well of strength within

  himself. But this . this was the nearest thing to heaven he had

  encountered in his many years upon this earth. He was drowning in

  comfort.

  And he had not the strength to fight it.

  He needed to cross swords with this female. That would keep him

  alert.

  "Your father's mark is not true. A better swordsman would have left me

  dead with his first thrust."

  That hit a nerve. Lindsey's temper flared.

  "Father is still a fine swordsman.

  "Tis true, his eyesight is failing some what. But had I not stopped

  him, his second thrust would have found your heart. And," she added in

  haughty tones, "you did not even lift a sword in your own defense."

  "I came not to fight but t
o persuade."

  At that she said nothing. Dipping a piece of cloth into a basin, she

  wrung it out and began mopping up the blood that stained his chest and

  arm. Her touch was deliberately rough, and it brought a smile of

  satisfaction to her lips when she saw her patient flinch.

  "Are you trying to finish the work your father started?"

  "Mayhap." She continued to sponge the blood, unaware that her touch

  had gentled. How muscled his arms. How flat the planes of his

  stomach. How narrow his waist. His waist. She saw the glint of a

  dirk tucked into his waistband and reminded herself that this was the

  man who had attacked her and whose chilling words had made her blood

  run cold.

  "This will sting," she said, pouring a liberal amount of spirits over

  the open wound.

  "Such a waste of fine whiskey."

  His sudden hiss of pain brought a smile of satisfaction to her lips.

  "Did I not warn you of the pain, my lord?"

  "Aye."

  She felt his quick intake of breath as she poured even more liquid on

  the wound.

  "Enjoying yourself, my lady?"

  "Aye. It has always given me satisfaction to minister to the

  injured."

  "Have many of them lived?"

  "A few." With quick practiced movements she began to wind clean linen

  strips around his shoulder and chest. As she bent to him her hair

  swirled forward, tickling the flesh of his naked chest.

  Jamie inhaled the soft woman fragrance of her and found himself swamped

  with feelings that had nothing to do with battle. How easy it would be

  to pull her close and bury his lips in her throat. Even in his

  weakened condition, she would be no match for his strength. He

  struggled to dismiss such dangerous thoughts. He had come here to seek

  her clan's support. The last thing he needed was to incur their wrath

  by soiling their woman. Besides, she was not nearly the kind of woman

  who appealed to him. There was nothing soft or sweet about her. So

  far she had shown him only an acid tongue and an ungentle touch.

  When Lindsey had completed dressing his wounds, she lay him back

  against the bed linens. A servant hovered nearby, awaiting her

  mistress's orders.

  "Fetch our guest some broth," Lindsey called.

  "Aye, my lady." The servant hurried from the room. Jamie lay quietly,

  his eyes closed, listening to the occasional hiss and snap of the fire.

  It seemed to him, in his pain-clouded mind, that the fire had spread to

  his body and had centered on his shoulder and chest. What had this

  damnable female done to him? She had taken hot coals and heaped them

  upon his body. And in his weakened condition he had been unable to

  stop her.

  He moaned softly. Alarmed, Lindsey perched on the edge of the bed and

  touched a hand to his forehead. He burned with fever. Wringing out a

  cloth, she began to sponge his forehead. Within a few moments he

  became still.

  Setting the damp cloth aside, she walked to the foot of the bed and

  struggled until his boots had been removed. Standing over him, she

  studied his soaked breeches. They would have to come off, as well.

  Bending over him she reached a hand to the hilt of the knife tucked

  into his waist band. Strong, work-worn fingers instantly closed over

  her own. She was stunned to find herself lifted off her feet and

  hauled roughly against a wall of muscled chest. For a moment her

  breath was knocked from her lungs, leaving her speechless.

  "So. You would rehder me helpless, lass?"

  "I..."

  She struggled to regain her breath.