Highlander Enchanted Page 3

  “Ye ‘ave that berserker look upon your face,” Niall said, chuckling. “Ye want to go after her.”

  “After them and their gold,” Cade replied.

  “And Isabel?”

  Cade glanced at him without speaking. His trust had been violated and his property stolen. One instance was all he needed to put a sword through a man. Two?

  He had never considered the possibility that anyone would cross him twice and bring English knights to his quiet forest. By all rights and customs, her death was called for.

  Except … the forest had been awaiting her arrival, and her single look stirred the seillie magic deep in his blood while her touch calmed it.

  “I havena yet decided,” he said.

  “Verra well. Take my horse and go after her. I will fetch Brian on the nag.” Niall dismounted and passed Cade the reins. “She canna go far. The bridge is out.”

  “Ah, ‘tis rare when I am pleased by that.” Cade mounted, content to know the woman would not escape him, and he would soon be unleashing his anger upon English knights. “Come quick, cousin, lest Black Cade emerge.” He did not wait for a response but dug his heels into the horse and loosened its reins so it could run.

  He gave chase, unable to recall when he had been thus affected by the urge to hunt down his prey since tracking Saracens in the Holy Lands. His stomach turned and his blood bolted faster than the destrier. The cunning he was forced to shunt in the Highlands mixed with his anger.

  He had almost forgotten the thrill of pursuit and incensed battle. Skirmishing over land was constant in the Highlands. The sole reason his people had a home was because a laird named Duncan MacGomery decided to invade and steal the lands of his neighbors, then lease the keeps he did not need to poor lairds like Cade.

  Even so, Cade’s seillie kin were not warriors. He was no longer able to release the depths of his fury as he had grown accustomed to in the Holy Lands. The unseillie fire burning within him had been caged for too long. As brutal as the battles between clans often became, he had forced restraint upon himself when he sold his sword for the silver and grain to feed his kin, forbidding himself from harming the old, young and women and taking only what his clan needed to survive on raids.

  This day, he had a chance to release his pent up frustration, and he relished the brief freedom he had sorely missed.

  Chapter Five

  Isabel let the horse guide her through the forest. With no sense of where she was, her goal was to escape the men pursuing first and then find her way to the keep where Black Cade was said to reside. The beast appeared to know the path, and she bent over its neck to avoid the slap of low hanging branches. Its muscles bunched and released smoothly between her legs, its gait steady and appearance one of great beauty for an animal. As an avid horsewoman, she understood the price of such an animal was such that the man she took it from was likely to do what he must to recover the destrier.

  Despite all she had been through, she had paid her way fairly, selling off her possessions one by one until all but the medallion was gone. She hoped that God would forgive her for the sin of theft and doubted she would live long enough to confess, if she were caught by either of her pursuers.

  She focused on the dirt trail through the woods. The sun had peeked from the clouds shortly after rising and had since disappeared behind billowing storm clouds visible through the brown branches and green leaves of the forest canopy overhead. Breaking from the forest onto a wider road, Isabel twisted to look over her shoulder and ensure the path was clear. She saw no one and faced forward, trusting the horse to take her somewhere far away.

  The horse slowed as it rounded a bend, and she nudged it to continue the quick pace before looking up to see what made it hesitate.

  If there had been a bridge across the swollen creek, there was no piece of it left. Isabel drew the destrier to a walk and approached the bank. It was nowhere near as wide as the Thames, but it was impossible to guess how deep the creek was. Debris from upstream whipped by her, and she gauged the speed of the waters, her sense of urgency and doubt growing at her conclusion.

  “We cannot cross here,” she whispered as much to the horse as to herself. She scoured the banks in each direction.

  The frequent rains of early autumn had helped trap her.

  The destrier shifted feet, nickering quietly.

  Isabel twisted once more, and her heart felt as if it stopped.

  A party of men, one of whom she knew from the distance by the brilliance of his banner, appeared down the road. If they saw her, they did not yet realize who she was, for their pace was a slow walk.

  Isabel dismounted and leaned against the horse. Hot pain spiked through her injured leg. Gritting her teeth against it, she approached the stream at a hobble. No part of her considered crossing the fast moving water to be a good idea, but an even worse plan was being caught by the man she had fled across England to the Highlands. She patted the satchel across her chest and stepped away, returning to the horse. A quick search through the saddlebags yielded what she sought: an oiled cloak, resistant to the constant rain of the Highlands. Wrapping her precious cargo in it securely, she replaced it in the saddlebag and took the horse’s reins.

  It nudged her with its long face, as if to second her instinct about this being a bad choice.

  “My life is full of thus lately, horse,” she responded to it aloud. “You will fare better than I.” She slung one arm over its neck to balance her and limped towards the stream.

  Trained to trust its warrior over its nature, the horse went with her.

  Isabel walked into the thick muck beside the stream. She waited for the horse to do the same before she stepped into the swirling waters. Her foot sank two feet into the shallowest part of the small river, and she hesitated, eyes following a tree being swept swiftly downstream. Cold dampness sank into her clothing and chilled her to the bone.

  “Lass! Ye canna think to cross here!”

  The sharp voice of the warrior-laird made her jump. Isabel glimpsed him flinging his large frame off another destrier and striding towards her. His silver-blue eyes blazed with anger, and he was tense enough to warn her he did not intend to show her the mercy he had earlier.

  Isabel tugged the horse with her and walked into the waters. Droplets splattered her face while the current yanked at her cloak. She was four steps into the stream, the water at her armpits, when she heard the splash behind her.

  “Beware the –”

  She saw the tree trunk headed towards her a moment before his warning. Isabel started to backpedal. Jarring pain, accompanied by the weight of her wet clothing, slowed her.

  The tree smacked into her, driving her under the surface, her footing lost and cold fingers releasing the horse’s reins. The tide grabbed her and swept her into the center of the racing stream.

  Gasping, she reached the surface and coughed up a mouthful of water, struggling to see through the water drops clinging to her eyelashes. Bobbing in the current, she was unable to see the horse or its master, nothing but the waves around her and the occasional floating branch or brush that whipped by her.

  Isabel fought the pull and struggled to swim towards shore. The current yanked her under and tossed her back towards the center. Starting to panic, she tried again and found herself once more submerged. Her hands and feet were so cold, they hurt, her fingers and toes numb. It was a matter of time before she ended up too cold to move and drowned.

  She hit something solid and started to get sucked beneath. Isabel clawed at the downed tree, still rooted to the bank and stretched across the water. With her arms wrapped around a branch the size of her leg, she rested for a moment to catch her breath and assess where she was.

  The horse was nowhere in sight, and she wanted to cry at the thought of hurting it. Just as a tug of the current forced her attention to her situation, she saw something else in the waters headed towards her, a flash of red in the blues and greys of the stream.

  The warrior-laird. He was caught in
the same current that had swept her away but too far from the tree to find safety in its branches. Isabel was torn for a moment between helping him or letting the stream rid her of one of the two men threatening her life.

  How very un-Christian of me. Banishing the evil thought that made her want to let someone else suffer, she pushed herself down the branch towards the center of the stream once more. She balanced the pull of the tide with her grip on the wood. When she was as far as she dared go, she released the tree with one hand and stretched. One foot more …

  Unable to reach that far to grab his arm, she waited for him to move close enough and then desperately snatched at whatever she could grip. Her fist closed around the edge of his tunic, and she gasped as the stream yanked her arm in an attempt to pull him away.

  “M’lord!” she cried, grimacing in pain. “I cannot … hold you long!” Already the tunic was slipping from her numb fingers.

  He shook his head, as if dazed, and twisted in the water. His large hand clasped her forearm. She released his tunic, her grip on the branch starting to slide. Hanging on with sheer will, Isabel closed her eyes to focus on not letting go while the heavy warrior pulled himself out of the current. At last, he released her and gripped the branch, hand beside hers, his warm body pinning her against the tree.

  Isabel gasped and relaxed for a moment, shaking from cold and strain. His other arm went around her securely, and she had the sense of being a helpless leaf trapped between two trees.

  “Yer … foolish and brave … Lady Cade,” he said. He was breathing hard, and blood trickled from a gash in his temple down the side of his face. His paint had streaked, his eyes the color of the waters rushing by them. “Ye steal m’horse and save m’life. Are ye mad?” He pinned her with a hard look, his broad, rugged features inches from hers. Pressed to him, she experienced once more his immense strength and heat. The unfamiliar sensations spiraling through her left her addled. With some embarrassment, she realized he was waiting for her to answer.

  “I would think your life might make you forgive the theft of your horse,” she responded.

  “A lie to one who takes mercy on ye is the worst sin, lass, worthy of death.”

  “I can let go and drag us both into the waters!”

  “Ye willna.” His piercing gaze was reading her thoughts again, his knowing look hard enough to tell her he was not capable of mercy for someone who betrayed him. If she were superstitious enough to believe in the tales of seillie that Ailsa told her, she might think he was touched by sorcery by how he saw through her words to her heart.

  She said nothing, the lump in her throat too large for her to speak. Quiet settled between them, one that made her realize she had run into a man who was molded and tempered into steel as unforgiving as his sword. She had never met such a man. The intimacy of the moment confused her. She was almost able to believe that there was no one else in the kingdom but her and the warrior, and the strength of his arms was a guarantee of protection rather than the threat she knew it was. How did she grow fevered when she was near freezing in a river?

  “Ye trespass on m’lands and stole m’horse. Why are ye no begging fer mercy?” he growled.

  “I do not beg,” she replied. “Ever.”

  “Ye know I’ll kill ye.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Did ye beg the Englishmen ye flee when they did this t’ye?” He released the arm around her and gripped her jaw once more, tilting her head to peer at the old bruises.

  “Not once.” Hot tears filled her eyes and trickled down her frozen cheeks, the first she had dared shed in months. She tried to duck her head, but his grip was tight. Instead, she grappled with emotions, exposed and vulnerable, while he watched. She loathed the idea of the savage who saw her weakness.

  “I’ll kill ye quick, Lady Cade.” The edge remained, though he spoke gently. Releasing her chin, he returned the arm around her. She sighed. His deft strength bolstered her waning will not to be tugged beneath the trunk and stolen by the current. “Hold me tight, lass. We have a journey t’make.” Shifting away from her, he moved between her and the bank and began to haul them towards it.

  Isabel hesitated to touch him. The current snagged her cloak and pulled her under. She frantically clung to him, wrapping her arms the best she could around his torso while he used pure strength to plough through the waters towards the bank.

  The moment her feet were planted on the rock and silt, she released him and all but collapsed, fatigued and cold.

  “At least … my horse lives.” The laird dropped to his knees on the muddy bank, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. He was gazing in the direction of his thoroughly drenched mount a short distance away. Brambles were caught in its reins, and the saddlebags containing her hidden satchel lopsided but present.

  The warrior-laird’s tunic clung to his muscular shape, and Isabel found herself staring, her jaw slack at the broad shoulders, chiseled back and lean torso perfectly outlined by his wet clothing. Her eyes drifted lower than his back, and she crossed herself quickly before turning away.

  She had already committed one sin today by stealing his horse. Lust was an even greater one, according to Father Henry, one that had never tempted her before this savage.

  Flinging off her soaked cloak, she crawled so as not to hurt her shin and climbed onto the grassy bank. “Can you … kill me with mercy without a sword?” she asked, trembling from more than the cold.

  “Yea.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, too weak to run or resist. “’Tis a kinder death than I deserve.” Though sooner than she would have liked. To have made it this far and failed at the door of the man she sought was a testament of how foolish her journey was.

  “Sir, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my betrothed.” The haughty statement made her breath catch.

  Any hope she had that this day would end without her death vanished at the familiar voice. Isabel did not weep, but she bowed her head in defeat and began to pray in silence.

  Chapter Six

  Cade climbed to his feet, at once alarmed and angry with the Englishmen who stood on his land.

  The man who addressed him was a nobleman in finery not often seen in the clannish Highlands and bearing a coat of arms Cade did not recognize from his service with the English in the Holy Lands. The well-dressed man was slender with dark hair, pale skin and a condescending glint in his light eyes that Cade instantly despised. It was a reminder of how the few nobles Cade met at battle had treated him, until they saw what he was able to do.

  The rest of the men stayed back with the horses near the narrow road that paralleled the stream.

  “Yer betrothed,” Cade repeated, casting a quick look towards the woman who claimed to be promised to him. Was this her scheme? To lure in men with wealth or land by lying? If so, did she not know he had no land or gold?

  Isabel stared at the ground before her. Too well disciplined to fidget, she had clasped her hands in her lap. There were no more tears on her face. She had gone completely still, an animal braced for a beating. Something about her defeated stance, combined with the flicker of fire he had seen in her eyes when she claimed never to beg for mercy, disturbed him more than he wanted it to.

  “Lady Isabel is my betrothed, yes,” was the response. “I am Lord Richard of Saxony. I have been chasing my beloved for weeks now. I fear she did not take well to the thought of marriage.” His smile held tightness and coldness was in his eyes.

  Saxony. Cade’s jaw clenched, and the coiled wariness returned to his stomach. One coincidence he was able to dismiss. Two?

  “Ye both trespass on my land,” Cade stated.

  “For which I seek your pardon, m’lord. You are the laird of … this?” Lord Richard appeared to be trying to be polite.

  “Yea.” Cade did not fall for the act. If anything, it made him more suspicious. For what reason did a wealthy English lord bother seeking forgiveness from a Highland savage when he was in his right to claim his property
, the woman promised to him?

  Many years before, Cade had not known the depths of evil that ran in men’s hearts. The Crusades changed that, showed him that he, too, was a tarnished soul unable to resist the temptation of evil. He acknowledged his own weakness while becoming grateful for his ability to recognize it in others. Lying, cheating, lust, theft, murder. They became a way of life before his return to his home. There was not one great sin he had not committed countless times.

  Isabel’s face and words held no such evil, even when she lied to him. He saw only great sadness and despair. She believed what she said was true and had admitted her real reason for being there, to kill him. She was a good woman, if ill guided.

  Lord Richard, however, was not a good man.

  Isna my battle, Cade told himself. “Yer betrothed stole my horse,” he said.

  “My apologies, Laird …”

  “Caderyn MacLachlainn.”

  Surprise crossed the Englishman’s face. He suppressed it fast. “Cade … Black Cade?”

  “Yea.”

  “You are a legend. I have heard tales of your deeds, of the great many Saracens you slaughtered in their sleep.”

  Lord Richard’s praise left him unsettled, and he had an inkling it was because of the soaked noblewoman nearby.

  “I would be delighted to hear such tales when told by the legend. Perhaps you would join us this day when we break our fast? I would be honored for the chance to recompense you for the wench’s theft of your horse.” As he spoke, the nobleman went to the woman he claimed as his and gripped her arm, pulling her up.

  She winced. Her gaze was on Cade. The fire burning in the depths of her eyes was present once more, this time aimed at the man she claimed first to be betrothed to and then to want to kill. It was rare when he was unable to decipher a man’s motivation or understand a situation, for his survival in the Crusades had depended upon his shrewd judgment. He did not like the feeling of not knowing what great evil he had brought to his land in the form of a noblewoman he had never before met and the English knights pursuing her. That the noble claimed to be of Saxony caused his gut to twist. Instinct told him to send them all away, swiftly, before they brought unwanted attention to his clan.