Page 8 of Enchanted

Chapter Three

Rosalyn clung to her saddle, heart pounding at the rapid pace Keiran had set. The Scottish hillsides passed before her in a blur of green and gold. His haste made it evident he wanted to avoid the English soldiers. Did she want to avoid them as well? She wasn’t certain what she wanted anymore.

The morning had started with such a clear purpose. She was to be married by the end of the day, regardless of her opinion on the matter. Hugh had given her no choice. She was either to marry Lieutenant James Long after travelling to his regiment in Scotland, or she would be abandoned, ostracised by her family and society.

Without listening to her pleas about what had happened between herself and Lieutenant Long, Hugh had sent her to Scotland two days later, escorted by his finest men. And now those brave lads were all dead. Rosalyn’s chest tightened at the memory of their broken and bloody bodies. Her brother would lay their deaths at her feet, of that she was certain.

Yet she’d survived. Why? She remembered feeling the blade as it penetrated her body, and the bloody warmth that followed. She had fallen to the ground, and she remembered seeing Keiran racing towards her. As a chill had numbed her limbs, and her senses had faded, she thought she remembered being pulled into a warm embrace. Then warmth had flared and something as light as a feather had brushed against her lips. A kiss? Nay, it couldn’t be. The one she had shared with James had been rough and intense. Not a gentle caress as sweet as a summer’s breeze.

It must be only her imagination, as was the blade that had pierced her body. Her fear must have been so intense it conjured the vivid impression from thin air. And yet . . . releasing her hold on the saddle with one hand, her fingers probed the bloody hole in her dress. She frowned. If she had not been assaulted, then what had caused the damage to her gown and the blood surrounding the area? It made no sense.

Her gaze lifted to the man pulling her horse alongside his. His features were set in deep concentration as he scanned the area they raced through, searching for possible danger. Had Keiran somehow erased the damage to her body? Could such a thing be possible? Perhaps once they stopped their bone-jarring race across the landscape, she would demand that he tell her the truth. If a Scot was capable of such a thing.

There were so many questions she needed answered before she could determine her next course of action. Even though her captor had expected her to jump from her horse, she knew better. Where was she to go in a place that was as foreign to her as its barbaric people? A woman alone in the wilderness with no way to defend herself would not live very long. And if she were captured by anyone else, they might not be as tolerant as the man who had already apprehended her. The only choice she had was to cling to the saddle and trust he would lead her to safety as they passed through the rolling green valleys that skirted the sea.

One part of her rebelled at his seizing the reins of her horse. The other part understood it as part of an unspoken pact between them. He had trusted her with vital information, and she could use what he had shown her against him and his people. Yet she wouldn’t do that, would she? How had he known?

Since the death of their parents seven years ago, Rosalyn had lived by her brother’s whim and command. But only a few days ago in the park, she had ignored her better judgement and, as a result, her life was forever changed. Her defiance of society’s rules and Lieutenant Long’s ungentlemanly behaviour would haunt her for the rest of her life.

With a quick glance at Keiran, Rosalyn wondered if she could escape her present situation. Instead, she tightened her grip on the saddle. She knew what she could expect from her brother. He would blame her for today’s tragedy. And he was not a forgiving man. But the man beside her was still a mystery. She prayed to the heavens that Keiran was God’s gift rather than a curse.

Steeling herself, she turned her attention from the man beside her and to her horse instead. Petunia’s steady gait matched her own heartbeat. High overhead, a flock of gulls circled. She heard the flap of their wings, a whoosh of air, an occasional high-pitched crying call. She could smell the tangy sea air and could feel the late afternoon sun as its weak rays tried to warm all that it touched.

They rode for the next hour in silence, and as the sun started to set, they came to a rise in the hillside where Keiran brought the horses to a stop. In the distance and bathed in the light of the setting sun, Rosalyn could see a majestic fortress atop a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. “Is that Dunvegan?” Rosalyn asked.

“Aye,” Keiran replied with a sense of awe that brought her gaze to his.

His eyes were dark brown, like the earth, solid and reliable. Yet she knew no such thing about him. “If you are worried about bringing an English soldier and an Englishwoman home, you can leave us here.”

A sudden glint of humour appeared in his eyes. “You might be surprised how happy some members of my family might be to see that I brought any female home.” A Scottish brogue was evident in his speech.

What had he meant by that? Trying to disguise her uneasiness, she dropped her gaze to the bloody ruin that was her gown. “They will no doubt have questions about what has happened.”

“You think?” He laughed briefly. “Prepare yourself. Though my sisters-in-law will be thrilled to greet you, the men of the castle might be more suspicious of your presence. During a recent attack by the English, four of our men were injured. One of them can no longer walk without the aid of a cane.”

Her chest tightened at the sudden realisation that she was the enemy here, not Keiran or his family. “Perhaps you should leave me here to make my own way. I do not wish to make trouble for the MacLeods.” She shifted her gaze to his and saw not anger but sympathy written there.

“The wilds of the isle can be dangerous. They are no place for a woman alone. My sister-in-law, Isolde, is proof of that.” He leaned over and brought his hand down to cover hers where it still rested on the saddle. Warmth flared across her fingers at the contact. “Do not fear. I will make certain you are safe here. No one will throw you in the dungeon or harm you in any way. I promise.”

She met his gaze. “I have no choice but to trust you.”

He withdrew his hand and shifted his gaze to the distance as though considering her words. “We have no choice but to trust each other. If you contact your family, it could bring much danger to the MacLeods.”

Instead of glancing at Keiran, at the big broad chest displayed before her eyes, Rosalyn looked beyond him to the rolling hills. They had managed to escape the English patrols for now, but when the men who had escaped the conflict found other soldiers, would they start looking for the man who had saved her, or would they come here to finish what they had started in the woods? Rosalyn closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts and settle her emotions. Confusion mixed with gratitude in the aftermath of the attack on her life and of being caught up by unknown forces that were out of her control. “Thank you,” Rosalyn said after a time, realising that even in her confusion she could be kind.

“For what?”

“I am sorry I called you a barbarian. I want to thank you for saving my life.”

He inclined his head to acknowledge her words. “I apologise as well. You are not a shrew. That was my anger speaking.”

The moment was so unexpected that she drew in a ragged breath. In a matter of hours, they had gone from sniping at each other to a kind of kinship. But was it an accord that could last between two people who should be enemies?

They rode on in silence, and as they did, Rosalyn studied the castle built on an elevated rock that projected into the loch below. The cliffs surrounding the castle were steep and rugged, offering a wide view of the loch and the sea beyond. It was truly a breathtaking sight, but it did not pull her gaze as did the man beside her.

She could tell by his torso, broad shoulders, and well-muscled arms that he was a warrior. Her gaze moved back to his face, to the brown of his eyes—eyes that spoke of some deep pain as well as kindness and intelligence. His hair was dark and cropped short enough to keep it from curling, setting off his high cheekbones and strong nose. His was a compelling face, yet fiercely masculine. It was the kind of face a woman could not help staring at with interest and desire.

A fist tightened around her heart. Desire was the last thing she wanted in her life. Had her parents’ experiences not warned her of its dangers? They’d both died because of their desire: her mother, because she had desired a man whose family scorned her bloodline. The de Clares had claimed Rosalyn’s mother was tainted by her Scottish heritage, and after the birth of two children, they wanted no more. And although Rosalyn could never prove it, she was certain they had orchestrated the carriage accident, causing her mother’s untimely death. Her father, because of his desire for her mother, at her loss he had withered away, leaving her barely-of-age brother as her guardian.