Page 4 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
It was a lie, of course. His hands told her he was a warrior, and the way he’d wielded his sword with ease and felled the Blackswells revealed he’d killed before and it did not give him pause to do so again. “Nay,” she said, barely resisting the urge to return his grin with one of her own. His smile was contagious. “Because ye would nae have killed the Blackswells if ye were one of them.”
“Ye dunnae think there are any Blackswell warriors who would disapprove of what those men were doing?”
“Nay,” she said, matter-of-fact. “All Blackswells are dishonorable, despicable men.”
“Ye’ve met all the Blackswell men, then?” he challenged.
“Nay.” She did not like that he seemed to be defending the Blackswells. “Who are ye?” She was suddenly fearful that this man was an ally of the Blackswells. Perhaps he’d not known when he had aided her that he was fighting Blackswell warriors. They had not been wearing plaids, after all.
“I’m Broch MacLeod,” he said.
The MacLeod were one of the most powerful clans in the Highlands, and it was well known that the laird, Iain, was a close friend of King David’s. Her breath caught on the thought, which seemed to confirm her fear that this man had been sent by the king himself. She tried to discreetly move away from Broch. “Who sent ye to find me?” she asked in an attempt to distract him with talking.
His uneasy shifting set dread in her heart, and she took another very tiny step away from him. He eyed her, as if he noted her movement, but he did not step toward her as he’d done before. Instead, he let out a long sigh. “I’m King David’s right hand.”
She glanced swiftly to his ring finger. He wore a large, gleaming gold ring that bore the king’s crest. “Nay!” she blurted, knowing full well what that meant. The king only would have bothered to send this man for her if he’d heard word that she’d disappeared. She could fairly feel the waters calling to her to try to escape. She stole a glance to her left. The edge was close enough that she could turn, dive, and flee this man.
“Hear me out,” he said, his tone exasperated.
“Did King David send ye here to force me to wed Laird Blackswell’s son?”
“Well, aye,” he admitted, and fear exploded within her. “Listen to me, lass—”
But she never heard what he said. She twisted and dove, cutting the warm water like a blade, and then began to swim as if her life depended on it. Because, devil take it, it did.
Three
“God’s teeth,” Broch swore as the far-too-lovely lass disappeared beneath the surface of the sea. He had no time to do anything but sheathe his sword and plunge in after her. Luckily, he only had on his braies, as he’d taken off his plaid earlier that morning when the heat aboard the ship’s deck had drenched him in sweat.
He passed under the surface and cut his hands through the water while kicking his legs. He could see her ahead, but just barely. Night was upon them, and he only had the light of the moon to guide him and keep a watch upon her. For a wee lass, she was quickly gaining a surprising distance from him. And just where the devil was she going?
No sooner had he asked himself the question than he had gotten his answer. She angled left toward a string of caves he could just make out.
No doubt, the little hellion knew the caves well. He could not let her reach them before he overcame her. He quickened his pace but did not close the space between them until they were nearly at the rocks. Fear of her being thrown by the waves and crashing into a rock lodged within him.
“Halt!” he yelled. She cast a glance over her shoulder, utter dismay etched on her face. She turned, and swam straight for the rocks, and when a wave came and swallowed her up, he did the only thing he could: he dove under the wave after her.
The water seemed to grip him in an iron-clad hold, and he tumbled around like a feather in the wind. His shoulder hit a rock, and the unforgiving stone cut mercilessly into his skin. Then he was yanked back from the rock, tossed head over foot, and slammed into it once more. This time his head hit, and spots peppered the blackness before him. A small hand suddenly gripped his and tugged him, as if to guide him.
He knew at once it had to be the lass, so he followed immediately. Soon, she had him at the surface, and together, they scaled the rock wall, water spraying them and waves roaring in their ears. When she scrambled into the cave without a word, he went as well. He got four steps into the cavern before she stopped, and he collided with her backside. She gave anoofand teetered. Afraid she would fall, he snaked his hand around her waist, his forearm brushing against the underside of her heavy, lush breasts. Instantly, he hardened, and she gasped, wiggling to get out of his hold.
“Release me,” she demanded, and he did so at once.
She turned, and though he couldn’t see her, he was a man accustomed to darkness, having fought in enough battles in pitch black that he’d learned quite well how to maneuver without sight and to rely only on his ears, the grounding of her heel in the stone and her breath, which had become louder and now hit him in warm puffs, made her movement clear.
“Either ye are a fool or ye’re unaccountably reckless,” she said, her tone a mixture of scolding mother and worried friend.
He found himself grinning like a loony bird as he pondered how to answer. He was most definitely not reckless nor was he a fool. Diving into the water after her had been a deliberate choice. “I’m determined,” he said. The sound of material ripping caressed his ears.
“Where are ye injured?”
“How do ye ken I’m injured?” he asked, fascinated.
“Because ye were thrown into that rock. Repeatedly, I’m certain.”
“How do ye—”
“Because,” she interrupted, her impatience obvious, “my brothers taught me how to gain this cave by forcing me to try constantly until I was successful. I was thrown against those rocks more times than I’d like to recall before I learned to swim sharply left. Now, where are ye injured?”
