Chapter Eight

They headed out early the next morning, with Abigail MacGregor taking her usual place between Hubert and Andrews, with Ashley just behind. She had them wrapped around her delicate little finger, Daniel decided, listening to her voice behind him while they crossed bridges and rode across heather-lined glens. He was as bad as the rest, perhaps worse. Sometime during the night he’d promised to train her to fight better and to see her safely back to her home on Skye when her service to the queen was over. What if the queen didn’t want her to go home? He shouldn’t have promised her father that he would protect her. But even as he thought about it, he knew he would have protected her even if no vow had been made. Why? He hated Jacobites. She was no different from, no better than, any other treasonous outlaw. But he’d saved her.

Hell. He would never forget finding her bound by the men surrounding her, ready to hurt her. The fury that welled over him surprised him afterward. He’d leaped toward the bastard who was pointing the barrel of his pistol at her. Daniel couldn’t kill him fast enough. He didn’t remember his men killing the others. His only thought had been to get to her.

Finding her alive was such a great relief to him, he’d felt drunk with it. Drunk enough to say things to her he likely should not have said. Something about his going mad if he hadn’t found her?

He wasn’t even supposed to like her. But he did like her. He liked her courage to stand up to him and to fight off her attackers, despite her guaranteed defeat. Spending an entire night talking with her was the most pleasant thing he’d done in more years than he could remember. He liked how her voice sounded to his ears when she spoke of her family, and worst of all, he liked how she felt pressed close to him. He needed to get her to England before she stirred anything else in him.

When about an hour had passed, he noticed the pauses in her responses were growing longer. He turned in his saddle to look at her just as she began to slip from her horse. She’d fallen asleep! He whirled his horse around and reached her before anyone else did, though they were closer to her, and caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. She woke with a jolt and clung to him while he pulled her into his saddle and onto his lap, a place he’d sworn he wouldn’t put her.

“Ye didna’ have to do that, my lord,” she protested, her eyes bloodshot in the sunlight.

“Shh,” he muttered gruffly. “Don’t argue.”

He was glad she didn’t. He wasn’t sure how he felt when he heard her snore a little while later. How did she manage to snuggle so comfortably against him that he almost smiled like a fool? It had been years since he’d held a woman while she slept. He didn’t remember how many years. As a soldier, he never lingered in brothels, even though sometimes he was so damned tired he ached to stay in bed, but his damsel for the night had other suitors waiting for her.

After he returned home he didn’t share his nights often. When he did, he made certain that his guests left while it was still dark, so there was less chance for the duchess or her cohorts to find out about his dalliances. He’d certainly never stayed up all night talking with any of them.

Being his friend could be a dangerous thing for Abigail.

He wasn’t wrong about Charlotte’s obsession with him. He knew firsthand what she was capable of. It was no coincidence that Lady Margaret Byron went missing the night after she slept with him. She was found a few days later in an alley behind a brothel, naked and beaten. There was also Lady Victoria Everly’s demise to consider. After a very brief courtship with Daniel, her family name was ruined by rumors of her father’s gambling debts. The Everlys left England in shame. He believed both of these incidents were messages from the duchess. Anne wanted proof. He didn’t have any, so he kept his bed empty and his eyes and ears open for proof against her. He’d warned Charlotte that if she ever hurt another woman because of him, he would personally see her hanged for her crime. She’d only laughed and denied his charges.

He looked down at the top of Abigail’s hooded head. It wasn’t just because of Charlotte that he wanted nothing to do with his charge. He’d fought his whole life against people like her and her family. Enemies of the throne. How could he ever reconcile loving a Jacobite? He wasn’t sure it was possible. There was also the question of why was she truly being brought to England.

He dipped his nose to her head. She smelled like clean misty air with a hint of a flowery scent he couldn’t place.

Why had he let her stay awake with him? He felt closer to her, drawn by more than her beauty, and despite the power of her beliefs. He envisioned her father sick with worry over his wife. He imagined he would have felt the same way. He couldn’t help but smile when he remembered her declaration about being the next clan chief, a high aspiration and one that required dedication and duty. Was she simply the overindulged only daughter of a powerful chief? He had a difficult time imagining why she would want to take on such an enormous role as leader.

If he had to take a guess about her now, he would say she could do it. She could be a leader if she could fight a little better.

There it was again, his foolishness taking over, letting himself forget, even for a moment, that he could get her killed, or she could get the queen killed, if he wasn’t careful. He shouldn’t let her sleep on him like he was her favored pillow. It tempted him to lose himself in the intimacy of it.

She moved and he closed his arm around her—to keep her from falling. That’s what he told himself and what he told Ashley when his lieutenant rode at his side.

“You know—”

“I know, Lieutenant.”

“I just meant to say—”

“You don’t have to.”

He watched Ashley leave without another word. He didn’t need his men telling him not to get attached to Miss MacGregor. He was still reeling from the betrayal of his queen and closest friend. He didn’t want to believe his heart could betray him, as well.

When they reached the Great Glen, he scouted out a suitable campsite, eager to separate from her. She shouldn’t be sleeping on him all soft and nestled close. What kind of general held his enemy so tenderly in the crook of his arm?

He shook her gently awake as they stopped. “Wake up, Miss Campbell. We are stopping to eat.”

She roused herself and stretched her arms over her head, hitting him in the eye. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” She covered her mouth with her hands and gaped at him for a moment. “I wasna’ expecting to wake in yer… yer… ehm… arms.”

“You almost slipped from your horse. I had no choice but to catch you.”

“In that case, ye have my thanks yet again.” She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

He nodded, then leaped from his saddle. Just another moment he told himself. He held his arms up to her and she fell into them.

He looked into her eyes while he transferred her from the saddle to her feet. In the early mist, they appeared cool, like the color of a November sky over snow-capped peaks. And yet they contained the warmth of a passionate woman. Recklessly, he allowed his gaze to survey the rest of her countenance, her soft contours and strong curves. He pulled back, forbidding himself to wonder what things she was passionate about. Why did he have to be curious about her in particular? Damn it! He was torn between wanting to shake her out of his arms and pulling her closer into them.

What the hell was he thinking last night, smiling at her like a smitten stable hand? He needed to stop doing that.

But according to her, he already had.

Putting her down, he smoothed his coat, stepped away, and turned to his men. “Hubert, see to the horses. I’m going to take a rinse. Miss Campbell, come with me.”

She resisted and gave a little laugh. “Ye’re going fer a rinse, my lord. I’ll be safe here with Hubert and—”

He gave her hand a tug and pulled her along.

“General Marlow!” She resisted again. “I willna’ be—”

He glanced down at his fingers clamped around her wrist. “Forgive me.” He loosened his hold. “My men can protect themselves. I can protect you and myself. You’ll stay in my care.”

She nodded. “Still, ye dinna’ need to be a brute aboot it.”

He lifted his gaze to hers and knew right away that it was a poor judgment. She didn’t say anything and still he had the urge to smile. What in blazes was happening to him? Every ounce of logic in him demanded that he turn away from her, consider her nothing but his Jacobite ward. But he didn’t want to turn away.

“Every knight battles a darker brute within,” he told her, turning her wrist over in his fingers and bringing it to his lips. “I’ll keep him away. You have my word. You’ve nothing to fear from me, my lady.” He smiled again. Very slightly. Damn it!

Moving along, he looked around, remembering the path.

He chose this place because it was close to the River Garry, which flowed into a clear, secluded loch surrounded on almost every side by lush foliage, wet rock, and sunshine. He remembered it for its raw beauty and he thought about it on balmy summer days in England.

He would take his rinse and then teach her some defense. Until then, he would speak to her as little as possible and think of her even less. And tonight he would insist she sleep away from him.

He followed the path he remembered, eager to wash away the past few days of grime.

“ ’Tis verra’ bonny, here,” she said, keeping up with him.

“Give me your hand.”

After a quick scowl at him, she ducked with him beneath an array of low branches, stepped over hundreds of thick roots growing about the dirt, and climbed small boulders.

When they reached their destination, he smiled over the sun-splashed surface of the stream and threw off his coat.

“Wait right here. I will not be long.” He unclasped the belts at his waist and tossed them, along with his sword and hers, to the grass. He pulled his shirt over his head, then yanked off his boots. When he unbuttoned his pants and began to lower them over his hips, she stopped him.

“General! Ye dinna’ intend to—”

“You’re free to turn your head, Miss Campbell.” He turned away from her and stepped out of the remainder of his garments. His back was to her but he didn’t need to see her to know she hadn’t taken his suggestion. He could feel her eyes burning into him. He wanted to turn and look at her.

He dove, headfirst and naked, into the water instead, barely creating a splash.

It was just as he remembered, warmed by the sun and gloriously refreshing. He kept his eyes on his charge while he scrubbed with leaves and thin twigs. She sat on the grass, her back against a tree, napping perhaps.

Away from the rest of the world, he swam and basked in the sunshine like a lazy merman and pondered what to do when he returned to the palace. He intended to confront Anne about his birth and her reasons for not telling him. The queen was a large part of his life. He loved her, but he wasn’t sure he could forgive her.

He’d stay away from Abigail MacGregor and put her in no danger with Charlotte. He turned back to check on his charge and found her untying the laces of her kirtle.

“What are you doing?” he called out. Surely she wasn’t thinking of undressing and entering the water with him. He didn’t trust himself with her, buoyant and weightless and naked.

“I smell,” she called back. “I need to bathe and since I’m here—”

“No.” He held up his palm. “You smell quite nice. You don’t need to bathe.”

“I see.” She folded her arms across her chest and sent him a frosty glare as he swam closer to the shore.

At least she’d stopped undressing.

“This is how ’tis going to be with us? You barking orders at me?”

Her lovely eyes widened on him as he stepped out of the water, then darted away and looked at everything but him.

“I would enjoy it even more if you obeyed them,” he said, bending to his clothes. He looked at his belt and noted that hers was still there. Why hadn’t she taken it back when she had the chance?

“I do obey ye!” she argued. “I’m astoundingly agreeable.”

“Then cease arguing with me.”

“I dinna’ argue with ye!”

“What are you doing right now?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head.

She looked like she wanted to pick up a rock and fling it at him, but she lowered her gaze instead.

“Abigail,” he called out, bringing her eyes back to him. He bent to retrieve his belt and tossed her sword to her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Come at me.”

She paused for a moment, then jabbed her blade at him before he put his belt back on. He deflected the blow with ease, swinging around on one bare foot and coming to rest with his arms around her, her back to his chest, her sword useless in her captured hand.

“Try again.” He pushed her back toward her starting position.

She came at him slower, with a bit more caution but with the same result. He captured and subdued her in the blink of an eye, holding her securely, her back to his chest. When she tried to pound her heel into his shin, he avoided harm once again and then disabled her feet with one of his legs wrapped around both of hers.

She felt so damn perfect pressed against him. He never wanted to move again. He dipped his nose and lips to her neck and inhaled the alluring scent of her. “What will you do now?”

Her breath came hard and heavy, tempting him beyond reason. He spun her around so that she faced him and dragged her up against him. For a moment, nothing existed in the world but her. He looked into her eyes and thought about kissing her. He feared it would be the only thing he thought about for the next month.

“Now is your chance to use your knee, my lady.”

“Nae! I couldna’ do—”

“Then you’re dead.” He released her and turned for his coat.