Highlander Enchanted Page 2

  Cade had not heard talk of the scarred knight, known as Saxony, surviving the ordeal. He had been too mad to know his own name when Cade last saw him let alone tell anyone where to find Cade. If Saxony had not perished, why did he send this woman to find Cade with a tale this outlandish?

  “How did ye come t’be Black Cade’s wife?” Cade asked. “Are ye no English?”

  “The King of England decreed it.”

  “The English king has no power here, lass,” Cade said, unable to stop the chuckle that escaped. He had a wife, as ordered by the English king? It was better than any war tale he had heard regaled around the evening bonfire.

  “Then the King of Scotland decreed it,” she said, gaze sliding away from his briefly.

  “We doona listen to our king either,” Niall said.

  The lass is hiding much, Cade assessed.

  “Does Black Cade ken?” Brian asked.

  “Of course he does. You cannot become betrothed without both parties knowing,” she replied.

  Brian turned away, his laughter loud enough to draw the attention of the noblewoman. Her cold look was unamused.

  Cade cleared his throat. “Ye have a name, Lady Cade?”

  “Lady Isabel de Clare, daughter of Baron William. I have the writ sealed by His Grace’s hand announcing our betrothal.”

  Cade’s interest increased. She spoke like a polished noblewoman yet wore the clothing of a young man: tunic, trews, overtunic and boots. An old bruise had not quite disappeared from one cheek, and the skin around her eyes and lips was tight. The daughter of a baron certainly never knew hardship and had no reason to dress in man’s clothing.

  “Then ye are betrothed, not wed,” Cade clarified.

  “There is no distinction between the two. Either way, ‘tis a fate worse than death for a woman.”

  “Lass, the difference between betrothed and wed is the difference between a nun and a woman with four children at her feet.” Cade approached and circled her, imagining the feminine shape beneath the manly clothing. Her hands were delicate without any sign of callouses and her nails clean. Her hair smelled faintly of lavender. Her fur-lined cloak would fetch more than her horse. She bore some indications of wealth and others of poverty.

  “As you please,” she said with effort. “Do you consider yourself to be a man of honor, m’lord?”

  He paused before her. “Yea.”

  The noblewoman leaned her head back to meet his gaze once more. He saw it then, something more concerning than an Englishwoman claiming to be his wife. Familiar shadows haunted her gaze. He innately recognized the suffering of another after his quest to the Holy Land. It was not solely what remained of his healing magic whispering to him. He had also spent nigh a year imprisoned at the hands of the Saracens and learnt what suffering was.

  What did a woman of her rank know of great pain?

  Pink rose to her cheeks under his steady stare. “Then I command …”

  He bristled, not about to be told what to do by an English king or a woman.

  “… request, m’lord,” she softened her tone, “that you treat me with honor. A noblewoman requires a level of consideration you may not be familiar with but which I will impart, if desired.”

  “Praytell.” Cade took her jaw in one large hand and tilted her head to the side.

  She winced without resisting. Her hands trembled, and she clenched them. “Wine, if you have it. Shelter from the cold, a pallet free of disease, and your protection.”

  “’Ye seek much for a hostage.” Cade was uncertain when he last experienced interest this strong. The woman was vexing. She was tough yet vulnerable, scared and determined. Men ran or soiled themselves when they saw him on the battlefield or during his raids. The petite damsel afore him stood braver than almost every man he had ever faced.

  “We can behave in a civilized manner,” she whispered, fear sliding into her tone for the first time.

  In the brightening light of the forest, he was able to see there was more than one bruise marring her face. They were faded, and he began to piece together what was before him. “Ye are no’ accustomed to civilized,” he observed. “Ye have no purse, no trappings befitting a noblewoman, nothing to slow you down. Yer either fleeing someone, Lady Cade, or yer an imposter with a bard’s tongue.”

  She flushed. Anger glittered in her eyes, and she lifted her chin from his grip. “I am not an imposter!”

  “Then who sent ye t’find Black Cade?”

  “No one sent me! I came to find him, as is my right, according to royal decree. This is all that concerns you,” she said firmly.

  If ye had land, I’d wed ye before that MacDonald lass I’m all but betrothed to, Cade thought, looking her over again. She was spirited beneath the veneer of cold control she struggled to maintain. What was a woman with all the marks of rank and birth fleeing? And, more pressing, why did she think she was betrothed to him?

  “So ye come t’wed Black Cade, the fiercest warrior in the lands,” he mused, eyes on her pillowy lips. “What makes ye think he will take ye as his bride, if he doesna listen to your king?”

  “I did not come to wed him,” she replied. “I came to take his life.”

  Chapter Three

  You are an English noble. Behave as such. Isabel chanted silently.

  It took every part of her resolve not to back down from the imposing warrior before her. His face, and those of the others, were painted, some in blue, others red and one white. Unable to make out his red-coated features well, she was pinned in place by his piercing blue-grey eyes and the intensity hanging in the air around him. She had met many great lords during her time at court, but none of them were capable of ensnaring her entire being with a combination of size and presence the way this man did. The laird of the ruffians was a head and a half taller than her, wide of shoulder and chest and broadly muscled. He smelled of leathers, man and forest and radiated heat. The worn material of his tunic strained to cover the bulge of his arms and shoulders while the trews he wore beneath his tartan displayed the thick shapeliness of his lean legs.

  Many men had made her heart skip a beat when she met them at court, but none of them made it race the way this fierce warrior did. She did not feel the pain of her injured leg when his eyes were on her, and his touch had sent fire through her.

  Ailsa had told Isabel horrific tales of how barbarians raped and murdered the women of their enemies. She did not want to know what they did to Englishwomen, for Ailsa had assured her it was far worse. Isabel prayed that the name of Black Cade was enough to scare the heathens into not accosting her.

  “Ye think ye can kill the greatest warrior in the land?” Amusement flickered through the barbarian’s gaze.

  She hesitated, aware of how large he was. Her plan had been poor before she ran across this laird and seemed outright childish after she met one of the Highland warriors Ailsa had spoken so much about. If Black Cade was larger than this warrior, he was surely a giant. “I will … try.”

  The men behind him were laughing, every one of them. The laird did not. His half-smile was naturally crooked from a scar running across his cheek and lips, but he seemed too hard to know what laughter was. His features were chiseled and planed beneath the face paint, his soulful eyes making him appear much older than she would have guessed by his body and speech.

  “Then I will take ye t’him.” His voice was gravelly and low, the kind that made a woman’s thighs – and will – weak.

  “You are an enemy?” she asked, releasing a breath. Ailsa had also gone on for a solid day about how the barbarians would do anything to exact revenge on their enemies. “You wish to see him die?”

  “Nay, lass. I wish to see ye try t’kill him.”

  “M’lady.” She corrected him out of habit.

  “Eh?”

  “You do not refer to an English noble as lass,” she replied. “M’lady or Lady Isabel.”

  One of his eyebrows shot up, and he tensed, a warning she knew she had better heed. He took
her face in one rough hand again, his thumb on one cheek and his fingers on the other while his calloused palm lifted her chin. He was gentler than she expected and held her in place without harming her. He lowered his face to hers and held her still, his large frame making her feel like she was a flower next to a mighty oak.

  She waited to hear what he planned to do with her.

  “I’ll refer t’ye as I see fit, lass,” he said in a tone that made her shiver. “B’have, and ye’ll be treated as a lady. B’tray my trust, and I can no’ guarantee yer life.”

  Her breath caught, as much from the moon-hued eyes as her fear.

  “Ye doona wanna ken what happens then,” he finished. “D’ye understand?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Verra well,” he said. Releasing her, he spun away.

  Isabel had never been closer to fainting. Her breathing and thoughts were rattled. She resisted the urge to lean against the tree nearest her, instead steeling herself. She was likely the first English noblewoman the barbarians had ever seen. She was not about to shame her caste by displaying cowardly behavior. Her heart beat fast and hard, and her chest ached with tightness. There were two other men close to the size of their laird, another three barely taller than her and an ancient priest in brown robes supported by a cane. All watched her, some of them continuing to laugh.

  Anger replaced her fear. A learned woman, even if noble, was often ridiculed for her manly pursuit of wisdom. Her father had not approved either. She felt it then, the sense that the men of the Highlands were already judging her the way her father and his peers had.

  Comely and dizzy, they had called her for reading scrolls and ancient texts alongside her tutor and mentor, Father Henry, and her sweet, honorable brother, John.

  “Come, Lady Cade,” their laird called as he strode to his horse then belted out to the men around him, “Mount!”

  “I beg your pardon, m’lord, but I cannot move,” she replied.

  “If ye wish me to remain civilized, Lady Cade, ye will obey.”

  “You misunderstand,” she said quickly at the dangerous note in his tone. “I am wounded. I fell from the horse when one of your men startled it.”

  He paused at his horse, grey gaze settling on her once more. “If ye seek t’deceive me, m’lady, I will show no mercy.”

  “Deceive you?” she repeated. “What need do I have to do so? I cannot run, and where would I go if I could? There is nothing for me elsewhere.” The tremor in her too true declaration made her face hot.

  The laird was studying her. She had the impression that he was reading her mind and lowered her eyes, fearful of revealing any of her secrets.

  His men mounted and began moving down the trail.

  “Ye wish me t’stay?” a scarred man with dark hair called.

  “Nay, Niall. Scout the way she came.”

  The man named Niall was smiling when he rode away.

  Their laird approached her once more, and she wished she had tried to walk instead of facing him again. “What ails ye?” he demanded.

  “My leg.” She had already shifted her weight off it and pointed.

  The gruff laird’s gaze went over her in a way that made her uncomfortably aware that she wore a boy’s thin clothing and not the bulky layers of dress that normally hid her shape. To her surprise, he bent on one knee and touched her leg.

  She jerked, not expecting his boldness or the intimacy of the act to affect her.

  “Easy, lass,” he said, focus on her leg. The heat of his large hands bled through the thin cloth, somehow banishing the chill of early morning. “Ye’ve a bump. Might be broke.” He touched the tender spot at the center of her shin.

  Pain shot through her, and she hissed. Darkness crept from the edges of her mind and clouded her vision. She had the sense of falling before she was caught by something strong, firm and warm.

  Isabel blinked fast and clutched at the material of his tunic, willing away the spell. His scent surrounded her, while his heated solidness steadied her. She breathed him in, unable to recall when she had found the natural smell of a man comforting, if not appealing. His arm held her against his warrior body. She found herself interested in permitting her body to linger, to experience the rugged strength of a barbarian who would fight for his woman with the fidelity he did for his clan. Highlanders were known at court as troublesome neighbors, ignorant warriors and fierce lovers. She had never desired to know more about them before now.

  “Ye canna kill a man if yer barely on yer feet.” Warm mirth was in his tone. The laird lifted her chin and met her gaze. Overwhelmed by the physical sensations of their bodies meeting, she found herself speechless at his direct look. “Though yer the bravest lass I ever come across. Braver than most men.”

  Satisfaction, tinged with awe, bloomed within her. She should not care for one barbarian’s opinion but the idea he was earnest, that he saw her strength when she felt naught but fear and fatigue, made her hope flicker to life again. “Thank you,” she managed.

  Aware of the scandalous intimacy of her position in his arms, she pushed at him.

  “Ye canna walk, lass.” With no concern for her noble birth, the laird scooped her off the ground with ease and carried her to his horse. He rested her on its back.

  Isabel hastily pulled away and made a show of righting herself to hide the trembling of her hands. Her thoughts were unfocused, leaves in the wind, and she was oddly fevered from the brief contact with him.

  “Cousin!” The cry was a welcome distraction.

  He turned, and she fanned her face.

  Niall was tearing through the forest atop his steed, his features grim. Before he spoke, Isabel knew what he had found.

  Fear and dread flooded her. She had been discovered. The man chasing her was much closer than she thought. Without Ailsa, though, she could escape faster, and the tan gelding on whose saddle she perched was one of destrier stock, bred for agility as well as power.

  She shifted forward and took the reins of the laird’s horse. She turned the toes of her hurt leg out farther than usual in an effort to stem the pain.

  “I doona ken who they are, but they’re English,” Niall said, pulling his horse to a halt beside them.

  “English, this far north?” the laird’s features lost any of the warmth he had shown her. His eyes grew cold and hard. “A raid?”

  With her pursuers confirmed, Isabel crossed herself and offered a quick prayer. She sneaked a look at the Highland laird. He was a mighty warrior who claimed to be honorable, one who probably was not going to take her actions well. But between his anger and that of he who followed, she did not think there was anywhere safe to be, except perhaps in the keep of Black Cade, who would think her his intended bride and protect her long enough for her to kill him.

  “’Tis a small party for a raid. Ten knights, two noblemen, five servants. No wagons.” Niall was frowning.

  “They value speed over comfort.”

  “Yea, seems so. They keep to the main road, but they are close.”

  “If not a raid then why –”

  Isabel did not wait for the laird to finish. Even a barbarian was able to understand what it meant to find her and shortly after, to stumble upon the search party pursuing her. Whether the warrior-laird turned her over or killed her for leading the English this far into the Highlands, her fate was sealed the moment Niall spotted them.

  She kicked the horse’s sides and hunched over its withers.

  The beast bolted, and Isabel held on for her life.

  Chapter Four

  “Methinks yer wife is escaping,” Niall observed.

  “Were that I had a wife.” Cade resisted the urge to unsheathe his sword and hack the young tree nearest him to pieces. It had taken him too long to learn to live among his kin after the Crusades, and to do so, he had to suppress the beastly nature and sorcery that had become necessary to survive in the Holy Lands. Something about this woman cracked open the gate he worked hard to build between the warrior’s
instinct for reaction and the chieftain’s need to plan.

  Instead of attacking the nearest tree, he rested a palm against it. The spirit of the forest spoke to the seillie side of him, calming and easing his anger. In the sands of the Crusades, he had had no forest to comfort him. He did not understand what the Englishmen wanted, but he was grateful they were in his homeland rather than in a strange country where he had no right to defend.

  His arm dropped from the tree, his darkness contained.

  The English noblewoman claiming to be his betrothed – a woman chased by knights and the stealer of horses – should not beguile him this way. He had taken pity on her out of admiration for her courage and wonderment of her beauty. His hand twitched from where he had touched her. The memory of her form was branded on his chest, warm, tingling, as if she possessed seillie magic and cast an enchantment that left his blood boiling and his mind in tatters.

  She is coming, the forest had told him. It was not chance that brought her to his home.

  “Damned English,” Cade growled at last. “I doona need a wife. I doona want the English near my lands, and I doona intend t’let an English imposter steal my horse!”

  “Yea,” Niall agreed.

  Cade’s gaze fell to the horse Isabel had left. The old mare had a sagging back and head. She was nibbling on a bush. “I canna ride that!”

  “She followed the path leading to the main road. Perhaps they will turn south once they ‘ave ‘er. Let the English handle the English,” Niall advised.

  “Since when have the English been content with the English?” Cade grumbled. “Ye trust ‘em on our lands?”

  “Nay.”

  “And I wanna ken why I have a wife.”

  “If she’s wealthy, ye don’t need to marry the MacDonald lass,” Niall said.

  Cade privately doubted a woman of wealth would show up in his forest in this state. He kept the thought quiet, unable to pinpoint why he wanted to pursue the woman with a face of an angel and the secrets of an ungodly spirit.

  For my horse. It was as good a reason as any, and if there really were two noblemen among those strangers in his forest, there was a chance there was gold as well.