Chapter Two

Dearest Lord, keep Jamie safe, Ella prayed as she balanced in the branching oak. She stared down the steely tip of Cain Sinclair’s arrow, sliding her gaze past the threat to stare into his rare light-blue eyes.

“If the legend of your abilities proves true, you will pierce me dead with one clean shot.” With God’s grace, he’d be vain enough to dispatch her with mercy. She’d endured pain in her life, and the anticipation of more brought the tingling sensation back to the skin beneath her leather mask.

They stared at each other. Although Ella wouldn’t shame herself by looking away, she let her gaze slide along his solid jaw that was covered by a few day’s growth of beard, his nose that held a bump where it had once been broken, and his cheekbones where a white line showed a scar from battles past. He had painted blue lines of woad on one side of his face from forehead to jaw to give him the fierce, wild appearance of their Pict ancestors. But he didn’t need paint to give him the look of promised death. The intensity of his eyes spoke of slaughter, and the hardness of his muscles preceded pain.

Brows bent and full lips parted, Cain Sinclair looked…curious. He exhaled long and lowered his bow. So unconcerned, he even arched his back and stretched his muscled arms overhead, which only made them look larger. A horse’s head was tattooed in curves and spikes of dark pigment on the upper part of one arm, while woven lines encircled both biceps.

She should nock an arrow and fire at that massive chest of his, but instead she balanced on the limb, trying not to disgrace herself with a swoon as her heart pounded. I am going to die.

“Remove your mask,” he said.

She blinked, her lips curling back in a snarl. “No.” She forced herself to breathe evenly to battle against the tingling sensation running along her jaw and lips.

His brows lowered in annoyance. He stripped off his one thick gauntlet and placed his hands on the tree trunk, quickly assessing that the oak was too large and rooted to be shaken. He clicked his tongue, and his horse came closer to stand under the tree. But instead of using the horse to lift himself, Cain bent his knees and jumped, his fingers catching on the first thick branch Ella had grabbed from her horse’s back. Biceps bulging, he lifted the weight of his body up through the air.

Cac. She turned toward the other limbs, but none of them were as thick as the two lower ones. Before she could do anything, Cain Sinclair unfolded his huge body into a solid stance on the limb below her, making the leaves quake, his face rising to the same level as hers. Only the thinner bough that had cracked under her weight separated their bodies.

Breathe. Ella pulled in air, glancing down. It was the only direction that afforded an escape. Sinclair’s horse stood ready, almost directly below her. Foolish man. All she had to do was take a step out along the limb and drop onto the horse’s broad saddle. She’d honed her balance for two decades. Her constant training might save her life this day.

Cain’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, anchoring her as if he could read her thoughts. “Take off your mask,” he repeated. “I would see the face of my enemy.”

How could she break his hold on her? She needed something to shock him into relaxing his grip. Kicking the man in his shin, knee, or if she were lucky, his ballocks, might not be enough to make him release her hand. Ella imagined herself dangling down by her one arm, it being wrenched out of place. “Release my hand, and I will take it off.”

His fingers unfolded, only to wind around her other wrist before she could move. He stared into her eyes, a few inches away. She could see the lines and flecks of darker blue in his irises. The fingers of his free hand caught at the back of her mask where ties held it in place over her hair, deftly pulling the knots free.

Very well, let him see her. Let him be shocked, his face pinching in disgust as it had when she was a girl at the festival and he had realized she was a Sutherland. She waited, ready to act. Heart pounding, she forced herself to breathe as he dragged the leather mask free, throwing it below.

The late morning air felt like a splash of cool water against her hot skin, but a flush burned through the relief as he stared at her, his gaze taking in every inch of her face, pausing on the puckered scar. As she fought the urge to turn away, her free hand rose involuntarily to pluck at the loosened hair at her temple. Ella watched for the tight look of revulsion that had haunted her girlhood nightmares after the festival. Time moved forward with the pound of her heart, but his grip only tightened as if anger made his muscles turn to granite. If her hideous scar couldn’t shock him into loosening his hold on her, what would?

Her gaze dropped to his full mouth as his lips parted. She’d heard tales of Cain Sinclair’s conquests with women, how they gladly crawled into his bed. His prowess and skills as a lover were as much a part of his legend as the lies his father spilled about God sending his sons to conquer the world. Her face grew hotter still as she remembered the foolish stories she’d woven in her head as a girl, stories about him sweeping her away from her cruel life at Dunrobin.

The lines between his brows deepened as he inhaled, fury growing in the clench of his teeth. His voice was deep, like a rumble of advancing thunder over a mountain ridge. “Who is the foking bastard who dared to brand ye?”

…

Cain’s blood raced with the heat of renewed vengeance. The raven-haired woman standing strong and proud before him had been maimed with a round mark that had been burned into her skin along the left side of her face at the crux of her jaw.

Keeping balance by leaning against the limb separating them, Cain raised his free hand to gently turn her chin with his knuckles so he could better see the mark. It was the size of a large signet ring used to seal parchments with wax. For such a clear picture, she must have been held immobile while the metal seared her flesh. He leaned in closer to spy the shape of a mountain cat. “Bloody hell,” he murmured. “’Tis the Sutherland crest.”

Arabella Sutherland jerked her face from his touch. “Let me go,” she said through her teeth. “I am just a weak, pitiful woman. Let me go, so I can hide away and weep in fear.”

There was absolutely nothing weak or pitiful about the Sutherland chief. The fear he’d glimpsed when he’d first caught up to her had faded. Now her angry gray eyes sparked with life and… Determination. Strength. She knew he had every right to crush her. This was war, she was losing, and she had ordered the killing of his father. Her life balanced on his benevolence, yet her gaze and tone held contempt.

“Nay,” he said slowly. “Ye will come with me to Girnigoe Castle.”

She blinked. Only the slight widening of her eyes hinted at dread. The hand he held lifted, and her free hand landed on his shoulder, the pressure of it almost making him look sideways at it. Her hand slid up to his hair at the back of his head, and she leaned in.

Cain’s life froze as her lips pressed into his. She stood there, her mouth against his, her eyes open with inexperience. There was no hesitation or dismay in the kiss. He inhaled her scent, heat and woman with the edge of something floral. It made his heartbeat thud deeply, and a warning flitted through the thickness suddenly clogging his head. What was she doing?

She slanted her face to deepen the kiss, opening her lips against his own. A river of lust surged up inside him to smother the warning, and he released her wrist to cup her face. Her skin was so soft, the strong curve of her jawline the perfect complement to the grace and courage of this warrior woman. The taste of her burrowed into his mind, spurring wild thoughts of them rolling together in the shadows of night under the stars.

She broke the kiss, breathing heavily. His hands curled over the limb separating them, wishing to tear it away to reach the beautifully curved body clothed in black leather. “Arabella,” he whispered.

She reached up, touching his cheek. She stared into his eyes, her breath coming deeply as if her heart pounded, too. Her hands slid down to hold his forearms. “I am called Ella,” she said, and he felt her breath touch his lips.

“Ella,” he repeated, as if tasting it on his tongue.

She stared at him, blinking as if waking from a dream. The unguarded look made her even more beautiful. God in Heaven, he wanted her.

Whack. Ella’s braid whipped him across the cheek as she spun away. He reached out to grab her, his hands catching only air. In an instant, she was gone.

“Fok,” he yelled, slamming forward against the limb. It let out a sharp crack with his weight as he looked over it. Ella Sutherland crouched on the back of Seraph, her arms out to keep her balance. With a broad smile, she dropped down into the saddle, the largeness of it making her look small.

“Siuthad,” she yelled for the horse to go. Her knees clutched around Seraph’s girth as she dug her heels into the horse’s side, clicking her tongue. But the mighty horse didn’t move, wouldn’t move.

Cain wiped the dampness of her kiss from his mouth with the back of his arm. She’d tricked him into letting go of her. He’d purposely given her a false means of escape in case he had not been able to grab her arm before she jumped, but the kiss had robbed him of his senses, something that had never happened to him before.

“Siuthad!” she repeated, not knowing what Cain knew.

“In his battle armor, my horse will not move for anyone but me,” he said, his words grinding out with suppressed fury over his foolish reaction. He’d bloody hell let a lass trick him, a virgin lass, her inexperienced kiss racing like wildfire to burn his renowned discipline to ash.

Staring down at her, his gaze locked with Ella’s for half a moment before the earlier look of hatred tightened her face. The kiss had been a complete farce, tearing through him while she remained unmoved. You stupid arse. One kiss and he was ready to forget she was the enemy.

“Ye cannot escape me.” His words ground out with wrath, propelling her from Seraph’s back.

She swooped down for her bow and quiver, which she must have dropped while she kissed him. Obviously, her mind had been clear and unaffected while muddling his. Curse the siren.

Without a backward glance, she ran. Cain jumped down, his boots thudding against the earth, and took off after her. She sprinted ahead, leaping over branches, ducking and weaving around thin pines and white birches. Without his heavy armor to weigh him down, Cain gained on her easily.

Bloody, fiery hell. She’d tricked him, with a blasted kiss. He’d been kissed by dozens of lasses, and none of them had prompted him to abandon a lifetime of training and instincts. Ella Sutherland was the enemy and—she is mine.

The muscles in his thighs stretched as his legs pumped, propelling him through the forest, his stare intent on the swinging dark braid. He was closing in on his prey, his strong heart pounding as the air fed his perfectly conditioned lungs. He could sprint like this for hours without tiring, yet he wouldn’t need but one more minute to catch her.

He was close enough now to hear her huff as she leaped over a mushroom-covered log, and he reached out to graze her swinging braid. A surge in her speed meant she’d felt his touch. The slightest twitch of her head told him that she would veer to the right. Anticipating the direction, he reached out to grab her, yanking her into his chest as they fell together onto the mossy forest floor.

Taking the jarring impact, he rolled her over, pinning her under him. She twisted, trying to kick out, but his heavy legs caught hers. Damp leaves and twigs caught in her hair as she thrashed, trying to twist out from under him. Grabbing her wrists, he raised them over her head. She paused to glare up at him. Cain leaned forward, both of them breathing hard, until they were as close as they had been in the tree.

“Surrender,” he ordered. “Ye are mine.” He lifted slightly off her chest so as not to crush the breath from her. Without it, she could not admit that she had been conquered.

“Death before surrender,” she replied, breathless, her beautiful gray eyes narrowing to slits. Damn him for noticing the long, dark lashes encircling them. Och, but she’d grown up into a fierce beauty full of fire.

Submission would be easier, but the challenge fit her better. Nay, Ella Sutherland wouldn’t beg for release unless it was another trick like the blasted kiss. He hardened his stare, bringing on the look that promised death. It had intimidated great warriors before; surely it would cow this young female chieftain.

“In truth, there are two outcomes,” he said. A new strategy formed rapidly in his mind. He waited for her question, but she just glared, showing her hatred. “Aye,” he continued. “Two choices. Death or…ye wed a Sinclair to join our clans peacefully under Sinclair rule.”

Her eyes widened, lips falling open for the space of a heartbeat. “Which Sinclair?” she asked.

He frowned at her, feeling the ploy but answering anyway. “Me. With my father dead, I am the chief.”

Her mouth relaxed, but it wasn’t a grin. Despite her sudden look of apathy, her cheeks bloomed red, and she wet her full lips. “Then I choose death.”

His head ached from thirst and dirt. Sweat and blood caked his skin, yet his breath burst from him with one wry chuckle. Cain released her arms, and she yanked them back. He sat on his bent knees over her. What a perfect gift to give his da on the day of his death, the conquest of the Sutherland clan.

Ella dug her heels into the dirt, pushing backward, and scowled. She was like a cornered wildcat, ready to spit and scratch if he tried to grab her again. Smooth skin showed above the collar of her black tunic, the fabric in stark contrast to the paleness of the graceful column of her neck. They’d landed in what his aunt would call a fairy ring, a wide circle of purple wildflowers, and one had broken off to dangle in the dark hair framing her face.

“Ye will wed me, and I will rule over both clans.” Wedding the Sutherland chief would cement the joining of their clans without slaughter. The conquering of her clan would ensure that his father’s sacrifice was not in vain, earn him respect as the new chief, and it would appease his curiosity about the fire that had roared to life within him with her kiss. He could also discover and kill the bastard who’d burned her family crest into her skin. Aye, the union was the right choice.

“Did you not hear me, you big, crown-wearing ox?” She shoved her gloved fist into his chest, making him want to strip it naked to see her delicate hand in the flesh. “I choose death,” she said, her bottom lip protruding the smallest amount. “A quick death, befitting a chief.”

He caught her hand, turning the palm up to slowly pull the glove off each finger as she tried to tug it away. “Apparently, ye choose very poorly,” he said, and tucked her empty glove in his belt. Her delicate fingers tapered to finely shaped nails, calluses built up where they rubbed on the bowstring, like the calluses on his own fingers. Her palm was bruised, the skin torn, likely from her grab onto the tree.

He let her snatch her hand back. “Poorly?” she asked.

“I have a poultice for the scrapes.” He pushed up, reaching under her arms to quickly lift her out of the clump of flowers before she could attack.

“I said death,” she said, jerking back from his hold once her feet were under her. She stood, her small hands fisted against her legs, teeth clenched. “I choose death.”

She was furious. She was beautiful. There among the flowers and trees, he couldn’t imagine issuing the order to his brother, Bàs, to execute the brave woman. She was rare, like golden horses from the far east. The thought of her pale and still like his father made his hand itch for his short sword to protect her. A Sutherland. The enemy. Not if she wed him. He would force the clans to unite under his rule and be victorious.

Shooting his hand forward, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers becoming a manacle. “Let me go,” she demanded, and struggled as he began to walk them back toward the battle.

Aye, the wedding was a good strategy.

“Stop…” she continued, digging her boots into the soft earth, making him drag her. “You said I have a choice.”

“I said there are two choices, not that they are your two choices.” He trudged through the forest, kindly walking around the thick brambles instead of dragging her through them. She didn’t seem to appreciate his kindness, as she tried to hold onto any tree she could reach to slow their progress.

“Mo chreach,” she yelled. “’Tis my capture, ’tis my life. It should be my choice if there are two.”

“First of all, prisoners get no choices,” he said, glancing back at her. The purple flower still tossed about, tangled in the hair that had come free from her long braid. “And secondly, I have decided there is only one choice.” He paused, holding back a low limb so it wouldn’t smack her in the face, not that she noticed. “Ye will wed me, and the union will join both our clans under my rule.”

She shook her head as she stared directly into his eyes. He watched annoyance pinch her lips, lips that were soft and so incredibly expressive. “I do not care if I am a prisoner or not,” she said. “You said there were two choices.” Her free hand swung up to show two fingers in a V. “When did the first choice disappear?”

Cain leaned in close so that they stared straight into each other’s eyes. He let the coldness settle back into his gaze. “The moment ye fooled me with a kiss.”

…

The horse that had refused to move for her before surged under Ella as Cain clasped her before him, his muscular arm like a steel band around her middle. He’d tricked her out of the tree by placing the horse underneath. She clenched her teeth. They had both tricked each other, but ultimately the man had won. This time. But the next contest would end differently.

Bent over the neck of the white horse, Ella could see the sprawling fortress of Girnigoe Castle where its granite walls clutched the land, keeping it from falling into the North Sea. Massive stables sat on both sides of the road before it, most likely to house the hundreds of horses they kept. Her fingers curled into the fine mane of Cain’s horse. Lord help her, she was trapped between the soaring castle before her and the powerful Sinclair monster behind her.

Nothing can hold you if you’re smart enough. She repeated Kenneth’s words in her mind like she had all her life, especially after her mother died and Ella was left to live in Alec Sutherland’s cruel grasp. Ella had learned the ways of escaping from nearly every trap and lock as she grew up, but she’d never been in the clutches of the sons of Sinclair before. They are only human. She repeated the words like a prayer, squeezing her eyes shut for a second.

The wooden gates stood open as they neared the outer barbican, a structure with twelve-foot stone walls, the first defense of Girnigoe Castle. Cain slowed his horse to a trot, and Ella bounced. Her eyes scanned the faces of his warriors, each nodding or holding a fist to their hearts as Cain rode through the bailey and under another archway, the horse’s hooves clopping hollowly across a wooden drawbridge. Several men even bent on one knee, their eyes cast downward in respect or fear.

Did they wonder why he had not led them on to Dunrobin Castle? Was the death of his father the reason for withdrawal or was the new Chief Sinclair convinced that he could conquer the Sutherland clan by forcing her to wed him? I will not. I will die instead. Hadn’t she always guessed that she would die young, despite Kenneth’s command that she was to live a long life? The thought that she might die today made her heart pound.

Inside the gate, Ella’s breath caught, her stomach twisting. Gilla stood with a warrior off to the side. She looked well enough, but did she wonder where her mistress was? “So,” she said, “you are a thief of lands, castles, people, and horses.”

“Unlike Sutherlands, we care for our horses,” Cain answered behind her. She didn’t bother to tell him that Alec Sutherland had loved his horses much more than his people.

At the end of the drawbridge, the thick points of a portcullis rose up, allowing them entry into the inner bailey, structures encircling it. Beyond the bailey, she saw another drawbridge leading to more buildings. No wonder Girnigoe hadn’t been taken by siege. It was built upon the sea for defense with many walls, baileys, and at least two drawbridges.

“Seraph must be walked, watered, rubbed, and fed,” Cain said to the lad who ran out to take the reins as he easily jumped down from the tall horse.

“Aye, milord,” the lad said, bowing low.

“And check for rain rot along the girth line.”

“Aye, milord,” the boy said, his face as serious as Jamie’s had been when Ella had told him she must ride into battle that morning. Poor Jamie. The twelve-year-old boy must be so worried for her, his kind heart tormenting him with thoughts of her torture. What would he do if she died? Would his nursemaid, Florie, and Kenneth keep him hidden like they had all these years?

Ella watched Cain warily. Would he grab her or perhaps knock her to the ground before his men? He had retrieved her mask but did not give it to her to don. Everyone could see the humiliating brand that marked her as a Sutherland. She stifled a flinch as he pivoted around and grabbed her around the middle. Hand flying in defense, she slapped at him. He moved his face, dodging her strike, and released her where she sat.

“The lad needs my horse,” Cain said, looking up at her, his face grim.

“Do not touch me,” she said, glancing about before kicking her leg over. She dropped to the pebbled dirt in a crouch and stood, hands fisted and raised.

He considered her stance and then turned away to stride toward a large structure, signaling to several of his men who carried a body wrapped in plaid. She swallowed, lowering her arms. His father.

Everyone stared at the body and not at her. Did Cain Sinclair think her coward enough to follow after him without being forced? Fool. Without further thought, she took several steps backward and turned, walking briskly back the way they had ridden. The portcullis was still raised. She would grab Gilla and flee.

“Ella Sutherland.” The deep voice from behind shot dread through her, kicking her heart into a gallop. She leaped into a run, but no less than six Sinclair warriors slid themselves before the open portcullis, swords drawn. If she continued to run at them, would they slice her through, saving her from torture and rape? Immediate death could be her way out, but the thought of Jamie’s worried face flashed through her mind, slowing her steps until she stopped before the wall of warriors and swords. Some frowned; others looked amused.

“Ella Sutherland,” Cain repeated from right behind her as she inhaled and exhaled quickly from her run. “Ye are not a guest here to decide when ye leave. We have business in the great hall.”

Business? She swallowed down the fear nearly choking her as her heart hammered at her breastbone. Would all four Sinclair horsemen take their vengeance out on her? She turned slowly on her boots, finding her voice. “You think I will walk obediently toward torment and execution?”

His lips pursed as if in thought for a moment, lips that she remembered were deceptively pleasant to kiss. “I plan to wed ye, not kill ye.”

Stomach knotted, she forced herself to breathe fully, summoning the anger to beat back her fear. She met his eyes with fire in her own. “Same thing.”

He smiled broadly, the action at odds with the blue woad and blood marks still splattered across his face and the coolness in his blue eyes. “Ye are a prisoner without choice in the matter of your life, and I have decided your fate, which does not include death.”

She glanced about the perimeter. Certainly there was a blade sitting about that she could fall upon. Her heart pumped like the hard beat of a bird’s wings as she contemplated her end.

“This is Lady Ella Sutherland,” Cain said, his gaze now on his men behind her. “She is mine.” He stretched out the last word, his voice as huge as his form. “See that no harm comes to her, even by her own hand, but she is not to leave Girnigoe without me or one of my brothers. Keenan, make sure the others know.”

“Aye,” one of the guards behind her called out, and Ella turned to glare at him. He had a menacing scar over his brow, and his wry grin made her want to kick his shin.

Ella stood stiffly, wishing she still had a dagger secreted on her. What should she do? Just stand there until someone dragged her away? Because she surely did not want to follow the arrogant clod into his castle. She squeezed her eyes shut like she used to do as a child, wishing to vanish, wishing to blink out of existence to infuriate her tormentor. She heard the crunch of pebbles as he walked closer.

“What are ye doing?” he asked, his words soft and curious.

“Praying to die right here and foil your plans.”

With her eyes shut, she waited, listening, and felt his breath touch her ear. Tingles prickled down that side of her body. “Is it working?” he asked.

Her eyes snapped open so he could see the hate in them, but her breath caught at the blueness of his eyes and his nearness, like in the tree. She pulled her lips back, gritting her teeth. “Yes, I have died. Best to toss this stinking corpse out of here.”

He leaned in again, and she fought to not back up. Inhaling deeply near her hair, he whispered, “Your corpse smells of fresh Highland air and flowers.” His gaze fastened to her eyes until she felt like she could not look away. Like a mouse caught in his falcon’s sight. He grinned. “I will keep ye for now.”