Highland Rebel Read online

  Catherine scuttled to the far corner of the bed and turned to face him, crouched and ready to attack. She knew she’d made a stupid mistake. He was big, he was in his cups, and now he was angry. His drunkenness alarmed her, but it also gave her hope. Men were often vicious in that state, but when he was done with her, when at last he slept, he’d sleep soundly. She reached for her boot and retrieved the knife, palming it in her hand. Let him drink, the oafish brute. Eventually he’d sleep, and when he did, she’d use the dagger to cut his throat.

  Several moments passed and he made no move. He seemed in no hurry to deal with her. His eyes were half closed and he looked as if he might drift off. The waiting unnerved her. “Why didn’t you?” she asked finally, breaking the silence.

  He looked at her incredulously, still clutching his hand. He was dark and light in the shadows of the lamplight, cruel mouth, ferocious smile, dark hair, and fire-lit eyes. There was blood on his lip, and his face was red and swollen from her blow.

  “Why didn’t I what? Leave you to Gervaise? Are you mad, woman? Have you no idea what he’d have done to you? No care for your person? You were on the menu tonight, hell-spawned vixen. He would have taken you on the table in front of his men, and when he was done, the rest would have diced for you, then taken you one by one.”

  “So… you’re to have me first… What then?”

  “Why then, my love, you’ll be so grateful and repentant, you’ll love, honor, and obey me, till death do us part. I’ve claimed you as my wife.”

  “You’ve what?” she gasped, horrified.

  He shrugged. “I’m no more pleased by it than you, my sweet, believe me, but there was no other way. I’m here on sufferance as it is. I’ve a mission to complete. I can’t damage this alliance by stealing you—you’re a prime piece of booty after all—and though I might stake a claim for your… er… services… along with the rest, the only way to safely remove you was to marry you.”

  Her mouth opened and closed several times. Stunned, she could find no words.

  “I know. I know,” he said, taking another swig from his bottle. “I’m sure you’re grateful, love. There’s no need to thank me, though it is the custom in many parts of the world after one has been rescued.” He turned his head and regarded her quizzically. “Are you quite alright, my pet? You’re very quiet all of a sudden.”

  “But… but… but it isn’t legal! It can’t be! I never agreed to it,” she sputtered. “I never said the words!” He grinned and stretched, leaning back against the cross pole and crossing his ankles, and a part of her brain noted coolly he had a pleasing countenance and an athletic form.

  “My dear child! Your input was hardly required, but the priest is one of God’s shepherds, and you did nod your agreement, in front of witnesses, as I recall.”

  “But I don’t wish to be your wife!”

  “Well, there we are then! I don’t wish to be your husband. It seems we’re in perfect accord! Perhaps we shall suit after all.” He motioned towards the door. “I can throw you back to the wolves if you insist. See if you can make a go of it on your own. I doubt they’ll allow you armor or a weapon, though.”

  Hating him for her predicament, hating him for his smug smile, she fingered her dagger and said nothing.

  “Well then,” he held out his hand, examining the wound in the lamplight, “we’ll discuss it no further. You’re a vicious hellcat, I’ll grant you that. You’d surely have been more than our friend Gervaise bargained for. It might have been entertaining to watch you geld him, but I don’t think you’d have enjoyed the aftermath.”

  He rose unsteadily, still clutching the bottle, and approached the bed. She eyed him warily. He’d removed his coat, and his linen shirt hung loose and half opened, a victim of their earlier struggle. He hadn’t shaved, and the hard-planed features of his face looked harsh in the shadows. He perched on the edge of the bed and offered her the bottle, shrugging when she shook her head no. He placed it on the f loor, then reached out a finger and touched it lightly to her knee. When she made no move to protest, he reached for the front of her shirt, gathered it in his fist, and pulled her closer.

  She erupted suddenly, clawing and cursing and slashing with her knife, but he was fast—much faster than she was. He straddled her in one f luid movement, imprisoning her wrists, the ferocity of his grip numbing her hands and fingers, forcing her to drop the weapon. He shifted hard against her stomach, winding her, and hauled her hands above her head, holding her there with one hand as the other traced the soft contours of her body.

  “What’s this then? No gratitude, wife? No welcome for your husband?” he mocked, as she lay mute beneath him.

  Catherine blinked back tears of anger, humiliation, and despair. She’d had only one chance and she’d failed.

  He shifted, allowing her to breathe, and cupped a breast through the thin fabric of her ragged shirt, grinning as he brushed a thumb across its pebbled tip. “You’ve sharp and pointy teeth, mouse, but the rest of you is soft and warm.” His hand traveled her length, his fingers lingering over her curves before stopping to pluck the dagger from where she’d dropped it on the bed. Still holding her, he twirled it through his fingers.

  “Shall I give this back?” He waved it in front of her, teasing, pretending to consider it, and then shook his head. “No… I think not. Not until you’ve learned to control that temper.” He drove the dagger forcefully into the headboard, burying it halfway to the hilt.

  “Let go of me!” she snarled, infuriated by his arrogance and smug smile. Twisting and bucking, she wrenched her hands free and struck him full across the face, cracking his nose and making him see stars.

  “Unnnngh! Damn it, woman! Cease and desist!” he roared, reasserting his hold and shaking her hard. “The deed must be done or they’ll not acquit us man and wife. I’ll try to help you as I may, but not to the extent of jeopardizing my mission or my life. You need to choose, princess. Go back to Gervaise and his crew, or make your bed with me.”

  The truth hit her, sudden and hard. He was much stronger than she was, and she’d wasted her best opportunity, lost her only weapon. She was cold, she was hungry, and she was tired. There was no way she could win this battle, but she didn’t know how to stop fighting. “Just get it over with then,” she snapped.

  Jamie winced, tenderly feeling his nose, and ran his eyes up and down her length. She wasn’t like any of the women he’d known and pleasured in London. She had the same soft curves in all the right places, but she was strong, strapping, her body toned and sculpted, a warrior woman. It pleased and excited him, but she lay there stiff and rigid, like some virgin sacrifice. A sullen, hostile, angry, virgin sacrifice. His lips twitched in a smile. He reached out a hand to touch her, thought again, and carefully withdrew it. Reaching down, he hooked the whiskey, taking a sip as he contemplated the situation.

  He knew she was afraid. He could see it in her eyes, though she hid it well. She’d have to be mad or a fool not to be. Nevertheless, she hadn’t panicked. She was unusually brave for a wench. No submissive wee mouse, this one. His hand and his face were throbbing. Best not forget she was a dangerous opponent. It wasn’t unexpected given where he’d found her, in the middle of a battlefield wielding a sword and screaming her defiance. She eyed him now, watchful and wary, calculating, waiting to make her next move. It was amusing, endearing, and most unexpected. It was… interesting.

  He grinned in appreciation and wondered what she’d look like clean and cared for. He wondered what she’d look like naked. He’d find out soon enough. However he’d never been partial to rape—had hoped to find the girl at least somewhat accommodating, perhaps even grateful. As it was, he wished he hadn’t drunk quite so much. If he took her now, considering both their states, it was certain to be a disaster. Still, it would be worse for them both if Gervaise and his men suspected he’d left her untouched. Pondering the dilemma through a haze of alcohol, fatigue, and lust, he grinned as he hit upon a solution. In vino veritas!

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sp; Jumping up, he grabbed the coverlet and yanked it from the bed. Safety first! The violence of his sudden insight sent her tumbling to the f loor with a shriek of anger. Good! The bloodthirsty wench deserved it! He strode around the bed and picked her up, managing to avoid some of her wilder kicks, wincing as she pulled sharply on his hair, almost tearing it from his scalp. Grunting as a well-placed foot just missed the tender parts of his anatomy, he threw her back onto the bed, dropping heavily on top of her, pinning her down and pulling off her boots. There were no more hidden weapons. He countered her struggles with mild amusement and no small degree of lust. It really was too bad the wench was unwilling, she was proving to be a spicy little armful of fire and venom.

  “Temper, temper, love! I know you’re eager,” he soothed. “Give me but a moment and I’ll make a woman of you, I promise.” He held her like that, his grip unbreakable, until she tired. When her struggles ceased, he rewarded her by loosening his hold. “You’re quite the armful, my love. I’d no idea you were so enthusiastic.”

  “Bastard!” she hissed, struggling anew.

  “And so very astute,” he said through gritted teeth, gripping her tighter and giving her a shake. “Listen to me! I’m not going to harm you. Now… hold… still… don’t… move.”

  She could feel it then, his arousal pressed hard against her, prodding against her belly. She looked into emerald eyes, amused, drowsy with drink, and quickening with interest, and her movements stilled.

  Grimacing, he grasped her shoulders and pushed himself upright. “That’s much better, mouse. Now stay there like a good girl, and be still. No more hopping in and out or tossing to and fro.” He nodded in satisfaction, patting her clumsily on the shoulder, and rose from the bed.

  Catherine sputtered in indignation. Hopping in and out! Tossing to and fro! He’d thrown her onto the bed. He’d tossed her onto the f loor. She watched him through narrowed eyes, saying nothing as he removed his boots, then his breeches. His abdomen was hard and f lat, ridged with muscle. Broad shouldered and tall, his body was lithe and graceful, his buttocks firm and… blinking, blushing, horrified, her eyes followed him as he turned around, returning to the bed, an erection of massive proportions jutting proudly at attention.

  Her muscles tensed and her stomach clenched with fear as she prepared for battle once more. She’d tried to stab him. She’d scratched him, hit him, and bit him, drawing blood. She might have broken his nose. She hoped so. Now it was his turn, but she knew he still underestimated her. Arrogant cur, he’d mocked her by leaving the dagger within her reach, stuck in the bedpost. Sooner or later she’d find a chance to use it. One less enemy and the sweet taste of revenge.

  The bed sank under his weight and she closed her eyes, steeling herself. After several moments, she opened them again. He sat cross-legged and naked, sucking on the mangled pad of his thumb. She watched with a detached fascination as he took the knife and worked the tip into the jagged wound her teeth had left, grunting in satisfaction when it reopened, and blood began to f low. He smeared it against the sheets, then straddled her in a sudden move. Holding her wrists with one hand, he hooked her breeches with the other, forcing them off as they wrestled silently, she grim and desperate, he almost negligent, chuckling, and grinding against her as she struggled.

  Her shirt had torn open, a victim of their earlier skirmish, and he grinned in appreciation, admiring her naked form. She was everything he’d imagined and more. She had the body of an Amazonian huntress! Healthy and strong, long and sleekly muscled, with full, firm, rose-tipped breasts and beautiful, shapely legs that a man might—

  She jerked hard against him and he recollected himself, releasing her wrists and letting her go.

  “There!” he said proudly, gesturing at the smear of crimson on the sheets and nursing his wound. “’Tis my blood on the sheets, as you’re too mean to offer your own. It should do well enough to convince our friends Gervaise and Father Francis that you are in truth a lady and we are truly wed.” He eyed the scene carefully. “Hmmm… it’s not quite right, though. Just one more thing.”

  Pinning her shoulders, he stole her breath in a demanding, whiskey-soaked kiss, rubbing his bristled jaw against her tender f lesh and leaving her lips swollen and her tender skin abraded. Catherine knew she should fight him, but his grip was firm rather than cruel, and though his lips claimed and insisted, they didn’t brutalize. She was losing the edge of fear that had fueled her earlier struggles, and weariness clawed in its wake. He didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d said as much. She was exhausted and chilled, and his heat enfolded her like a blanket, making something inside her unclench, loosening stiffened limbs and bow-tight nerves, and melting her resistance. She felt as if she were underwater, every movement a struggle against a current that pulled her down, promising peace and rest if she’d only stop struggling and let herself f loat. For a moment she did. It wasn’t surrender, but something like acceptance, tinged with a distant curiosity.

  He responded by gentling his kiss to one of invitation, his breath tantalizing and teasing, hot against her skin. His hands released her shoulders, and his fingers traced the delicate curve of her collarbone. Her shiver had nothing to do with cold or fear. He smelled of wood-smoke and leather, he tasted of whiskey and rain, and his body pressed against hers, solid and warm. Somewhere between waking and sleep, hesitation and desire, she sighed.

  He broke the spell suddenly, letting her go abruptly, sitting up to survey the scene with a pleased grin. “There now, mouse! All the world’s a stage. They’ll think me a veritable bull, and you properly chastened.” He mussed her hair and chucked her under the chin, then playfully offered her the knife again, tossing and catching it when she grasped for it.

  “Oh no, my dear. You’d like that far too much. You’re a naughty wee mouse, with very sharp teeth, and you’ve already bitten me once. I swear you’ve used me ill on this our wedding night. I had so hoped you would be gentle. I may never recover.” He drove the knife back into the bedpost, ready for quick use if needed, then placed his sword on the ground beside the bed. Leaning overtop of her, he reached over and filched the coverlet from the f loor, dragging it across them both before sinking with a groan into the mattress. He was stiff, sore, and bone tired.

  “Well, mouse? How does it feel? Your first experience was memorable, I trust? If you were a virgin, you are one no longer, at least not in the eyes of the world, but you’ll still be enough of one in the eyes of the church to win us both an easy annulment. Brilliant, don’t you think?”

  When she failed to respond, he grunted and stretched, pushing her to the edge of the bed and grabbing most of the coverlet for himself, remarking as he turned over, “Here I am in my marriage bed, and I’m the one with torn f lesh and blood spilled upon the sheets. Be damned if I can’t get the simplest things straight!” So saying, he rolled over and went to sleep.

  Catherine lay in the dark, heart pounding, confused, uncertain as to what had just transpired. Part of her was unaccountably disappointed, and part of her was still prepared for a battle that had never come. The camp had quieted, though she could still hear low voices and the occasional burst of laughter. A steady rain was falling, beating a tattoo against the canvas roof. Underneath it she could hear the river rumbling over rock and gravel just thirty yards away. He lay on his back, one arm f lung above his head, throat exposed, his breathing deep and even. She eyed her dagger, still jutting from the post behind him. Easing from the bed, she pulled her shirt tight, retrieved her breeches and boots, and crept around the other side. She edged toward the post, her fingers extended, gingerly reaching for the haft of the knife.

  She froze, heart in mouth, as the bed creaked and he shifted position, muttering something in his sleep. When he subsided, she continued, working the haft up and down, back and forth, slowly prying it loose, grinning in triumph when she’d finally worked it free. Alone, surrounded by enemies, a female at the mercy of men who didn’t pretend to any civilized code of conduct, it had taken all
her nerve not to succumb to hopelessness and fear. It was the weapon hidden in her boot, a last gift from her father, which had kept her from panic and allowed her to imagine that she had a plan, as feeble as it was. When the Englishman had taken the dagger from her, plucking it from her grasp with wink and a grin as if it were a toy, she’d felt the first stirrings of despair.

  Gripping it in one hand, she ran her fingers along the blade, testing its edge. It was razor sharp, deadly, and she didn’t feel helpless anymore. The thought of using it against an armed camp was laughable, but it would be lethal against one man. She edged closer, examining his sleeping form, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The visage she’d earlier thought harsh and cruel had softened in his sleep. A faint trace of stubble defined angular cheekbones and framed full, sensuous lips, curled now in an innocent smile. Dark bruises were beginning to form on his cheek and under his eyes, a sign of her earlier struggle. He looked surprisingly boyish and vulnerable, and for a split second, as she stood there shivering in the dark, she imagined herself crawling back under the blanket with him to share his warmth. What kind of woman would think of such things even as she plotted her husband’s death?

  The strands of dark hair tangled around his neck looked like blood in the lamplight. It would only take one thrust, quick and clean. He’d have no time to call for help. She raised her arm, poised to strike, but she couldn’t stomach the though of cutting his throat as he lay there defenseless. Despite his drunkenness and her provocation, he’d done her no real harm. He’d given her his coat to shield her from the cold, and his protection, however unwelcome, to shield her from Gervaise and his men. She licked her lips, tasting his kiss. He was a brute, an arrogant and handsome brute, but not, apparently, the kind of brute that would rape a helpless woman, even in his cups when it was legally his right.