Chapter Ten

Kirk splashed icy water on his face again and again, but even the October-chilled Highland stream could not cool his blood or settle his nerves.

Christ . He was in trouble.

He’d awoken the Fitzhugh widow that morning with a curt shake of her shoulder, then lifted her, still wrapped in his cloak, back onto his horse. They’d ridden all day in silence, Kirk keeping a grueling pace with minimal rests for either the animal or the lass.

In part, he’d feared the chance that lingering close to the lass’s cottage would expose him to a retaliatory attack. He’d bought himself at least a few hours before one of the guards he’d incapacitated regained his wits and strength enough to seek help. He’d also loosed their horses, though he wasn’t counting on having more than a half-day’s lead on them. And if the lad who’d seemed to be in charge of the woman’s protective detail was to be believed, the longer Kirk lingered in the Highlands, the more likely it was he would be tracked down.

But that was only part of the reason he pushed so hard southward. Deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew. He needed to get this mission over with as fast as possible, else he do something foolish when it came to the lass.

When he’d first laid eyes on her in the cottage, he’d hardly gotten a look at her, for her bodyguard had been using himself as a shield. And then when she’d leapt out the window and fled into the night, the moonbeams overhead had only given him a sketch of dark hair and a petite frame.

But now that he’d seen her, up close and in the overcast light of day, he knew he was in danger.

When Roland had told him that he was to fetch a widow, he’d expected a woman in at least her middle years. The lass seemed so young—she couldn’t be more than twenty-four or twenty-five years old, if that. Though her dark brown eyes, so like a doe’s, spoke of wisdom beyond her years, her smooth, creamy skin revealed her youth.

Her beauty was understated, but something about the subtle fullness of her lips, the soft, rich fall of her chestnut hair, and the delicate, petite curves of her frame struck a chord deep within him.

She was so much smaller than him, so feminine in every place he was masculine. Again and again, he was struck by how easy it would be to hurt her, break a bone, or leave a bruise. The thought turned his stomach. Her swollen ankle had already begun to turn a dark purple. He hated the thought of her flesh being marked—of her, an innocent, suffering in any way .

Yet despite her small size and his clear power over her, she’d shown remarkable bravery in the face of her hopeless situation. She’d fought against him even when it was futile, and when her strength gave out, she’d verbally stood up to him, demanding answers and promises for her safety.

Aye, Kirk had been struck by her strength, but what had truly broken something in his chest was seeing her unguarded vulnerability. When tears had filled those dark, depthless eyes, he’d had a sudden urge to do aught, say aught, to take away her pain.

He should have let her believe that he’d killed her guards. It would keep her afraid of him, and in her fear, she would be pliant and obedient. It would have made this fortnight go easier if she simply hated and feared him.

But for some reason he’d told her that he had left her guards alive. Why? The answer lurked in the back of his mind, but he shoved it away.

Aye, he was in trouble.

It was just a bodily lust, he told himself. He had been without even the most simplistic and base of comforts from women for several long months now. A few times, the Order had brought in a gaggle of prostitutes to ease the men’s desires and boost morale, but one look at the toothless, blank-stared women had left him cold and ill at ease.

This widow was a fallen angel by contrast. Mayhap the pinching in his gut and the fire in his veins that flared with every brushing contact or glance of her searching gaze could be relieved quickly and easily by taking himself in hand.

Or mayhap the crackling awareness tightening his stomach was the remnant of his damned honor making a sad attempt to resurface.

Everything about what he was doing was wrong. He’d wounded four of the Bruce’s warriors, one possibly permanently. He’d kidnapped an innocent woman to be delivered for some foul purpose Kirk didn’t wish to contemplate. And he had to become the monster she’d called him, had to tread dangerously close to what he feared he already was.

Kirk shook the droplets of icy water from his hands, then rose from the creek bed. He couldn’t dwell on such thoughts. He would drive himself insane if he did. Hadn’t he already resigned himself to this task? Hardening himself to his role, he strode back to where he’d left the lass.

She still sat on the forest floor where he’d deposited her, his cloak enveloping her in its folds. Her eyes stared forward glassily, her lips parted with fatigue.

Shite . He’d done a piss-poor job of seeing to her needs so far. If he kept this up, she’d be little more than a broken, crumpled husk by the time he delivered her to the Compound.

She needed rest. And food. And to be warm. He should have bound that ankle by now, too, but he’d been in such a hurry to put more distance between him and the men who’d seen his face that he’d neglected her.

He strode to his horse and made quick work of removing the saddle and saddlebags, then looped the reins loosely around a thick branch near the little creek so that the animal could drink.

Dumping the saddle and bags next to the lass, he removed a waterskin and extended it toward her.

She stared at it numbly for a few moments before accepting it and taking a long drink. As she did, he fished out hard biscuits and dried meat from the supplies Hervey had included in the saddlebags. It wasn’t much, but it would give her strength.

Silently, she accepted the food from his outstretched hand and ate slowly. He watched closely as some light came back into her eyes even as gloaming began to fall in earnest.

As she ate, he cut a strip of cloth from the bottom of his tunic, then crouched in front of her slowly, as if she were a deer that might spook.

“For yer ankle,” he said, holding up the cloth. After a moment of hesitation, she nodded.

He lifted her skirts out of the way, and since her hands were full with a biscuit and the waterskin, he pulled down her stocking. As his fingers brushed her velvety flesh, a bolt of something hot and sharp shot through him. He clamped his teeth down on a curse and focused on her swollen ankle.

As he slowly began to wind the strip of cloth around her ankle and over her foot, she stilled.

“Why are you doing this?” she murmured.

At first he thought she meant to question him about his mission and her kidnapping, but she added, “Why are you showing me kindness?”

Kirk tensed, sensing the vulnerability in her question.

“It is my job,” he replied coolly. “Ye are to be in good health when I deliver ye.”

Her dark eyes rounded as if he’d just thrown cold water in her face. God, he was a bastard. He’d ruined the small bit of comfort he’d been working to give her, a respite from the terror and pain and discomfort.

Was this how it was to be for the next two or three sennights? Stony silence between them, punctuated by cruel remarks reminding her of just how helpless she was? Christ, he didn’t even know the lass’s given name.

“Ye are the widow of a man called Fitzhugh,” he ventured slowly. “A Master Mason. Is that right?”

She stiffened, her jaw tightening. After a moment, she exhaled. “Aye. My name is Lillian Fitzhugh.”

Lillian . It suited her, though he hardly knew her. It was delicate yet strong, just like her.

“And what am I to call you?” she asked.

He considered this for a moment. If she knew his real name, would it put her in danger somehow? Or would it threaten either his cover in the Order or his mission for the Bruce?

An overpowering urge for her to know him, the real him, surged up unexpectedly. It was exactly that desire—to care for someone, to be cared for in return—that endangered everything he was working toward. Still, the Order had given him no instruction in this area, and he could only guess at the Bruce’s elaborate, ever-shifting strategies.

“MacLeod,” he said at last. It was enough for now.

“MacLeod.” She tested out the name. It sounded strange in her English accent, but he liked the way her low, velvety voice caressed it.

She looked him directly in the eye, then, and despite the falling darkness, he saw a clarity and determination in the dark depths of her gaze.

“MacLeod, you are a bounty hunter, are you not?”

His brows dropped at the question. How much did she know? He’d assumed that she was completely in the dark up until this point, but mayhap her bodyguard had informed her of the storm that brewed around her. And mayhap the keen mind behind those dark, unreadable eyes was formulating a plan of some sort.

There was no point in denying her question, though, for she already seemed to know the answer.

“Aye,” he said, feigning a casual shrug. “And let me guess—now ye are going to offer me money. Double—nay, triple—what my employer is paying me for yer freedom, is that it?”

Little did she realize no amount of coin could get him out of the perilous web of deception in which he was ensnared .

“Nay,” she replied, surprising him. “I don’t have anywhere near enough money. And I cannot overpower you, either, or flee on this cursed ankle.”

“And yet I sense that ye are hatching some sort of plan—an escape, mayhap? Or a ploy to get me to lower my guard enough to allow ye to slip away?”

She stared back at him in defiant silence, her gaze steady and her chin held evenly.

God, where did such bravery come from?

“As ye say,” he rasped. “Ye cannae flee, and ye willnae overpower me. Ye may try to outsmart me, but again ye will fail, for I dinnae need to think—all I need to do is deliver ye.”

“We travel south—are you taking me back to England?”

He lifted a brow but did not answer.

Undaunted, she went on with that same soft yet assured voice. “You say it is simply your job to deliver me—that you are being paid, and that is the end of it for you. Do you even know to whom you are delivering me? Do you even care?”

Once again, Kirk’s stomach tightened with unease. Had he done or said something, revealed something with a look or a gesture, that had jeopardized his cover? Was it possible that the lass’s gaze had cut right through him to see the hatred in his blackened heart for what he was doing?

“I dinnae ken, nor do I care,” he replied flatly, refusing to break their gaze. “I am only paid to hand ye over. Ye might as well be a shipment of wool for all that it matters.”

She flinched then, and he knew he’d won a small victory in protecting his mission. He’d reaffirmed his role as the cruel captor, the heartless mercenary. He should have felt a sense of relief that he’d managed to put a stop to her questions and wedge distance between them, yet all he felt was empty.

“We’ll sleep here for the night,” he said, rising from his crouch to fetch wood for a fire. The sun’s setting had brought a decided pinch of cold to the night air.

As he built a small blaze, she curled up on the ground and burrowed deeper into his cloak. By the time he’d stacked enough wood onto the fire, her breaths had fallen into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

He reached for his saddlebags and found the folded parchment Hervey had included in his supplies. Carefully, he unfolded it and held it up to the light of the fire. As promised, it was a map of all the safe houses the Order’s bounty hunters used on missions.

Kirk hadn’t learned of this practice until his fifth month among the Order, but it had been the most valuable piece of knowledge he’d gathered—until he’d met Roland Gervais.

The safe houses were used to shelter bounty hunters while they were on assignment with a target in tow. They were taught to stay away from towns and villages, for captives felt emboldened to make escape attempts, and more eyes and ears around meant more chances of being discovered. But it wasn’t always practical to make camp out of doors, even though it was necessary to avoid roads and towns.

So the Order had established several safe houses scattered throughout not only England, but Scotland as well. They were normally tucked away in remote areas, and were either completely concealed or intentionally made to look uninhabited—and uninhabitable. Logan Mackenzie had told Kirk once that most of the safe houses were barely more than shacks.

But they served their purpose. Kirk knew that it was his job to find the nearest safe house, then move quickly and quietly between them until he reached the Compound. It was like hopping across a river on dry stones. And now he held a map of exactly where he could land safely.

The only problem was, there were no marks on the map at all in the Highlands. Though the Order had managed to penetrate into the Lowlands with a few safe houses, the Highlands still remained a vast, blank wilderness on the map.

In any other context, Kirk would have sang with joy that the Order hadn’t yet succeeded in sinking its claws into the Highlands, but in his current situation, it meant that he was in dangerous territory. Without a safe house to hide in, he would have to continue to camp out of doors with Lillian—and run the risk of being found by a hunter, a thief, a wanderer—anyone who stumbled upon them.

And on top of that, he needed to figure out a way to get word to Colin. If the lad who’d been guarding Lillian made good on his promise to hunt Kirk down, someone needed to call him off and explain that Kirk was one of the Corps on an undercover mission.

Plus, Lillian was apparently important enough to the Bruce’s cause that she required a personal bodyguard from the Corps. Kirk would wager his head that Colin would want to know that she was now his captive—and about to be delivered to whomever had hired the Order to find her.

Kirk slowly folded the map and returned it to his saddlebags, his mind churning. He had no idea how to contact Colin without risking exposure. But he had to get word to him somehow—even as he continued to transport Lillian to the Compound.

The lack of sleep and a long night and day of hard riding in the saddle suddenly seemed to hit him all at once. He glanced at Lillian, who still huddled in a tight ball beneath his cloak. That length of wool was the only protection either of them had against the elements.

Damn it all.

He ordered the sudden spike of heat in his veins to cool, even while reminding himself that this was just a mission.

As brusquely as possible, he stretched out on the forest floor alongside Lillian. Then he pulled on the cloak until an edge lifted and he draped it over his body.

Lillian made a soft moan of protest at the cold air that no doubt rushed in around her, but then she stiffened and gasped.

“What are you—”

“I told ye I wouldnae lay hands on ye,” he snapped, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He didn’t know if he was saying it for her benefit or for his. Unclenching his jaw, he added, “I’ll no’ have either one of us freeze to death before I complete this damned mission.”

Silence met him, but he sensed her relax a hair’s breadth.

After several long, tense moments, the cloak warmed with their shared heat and he felt her relax completely into an exhausted sleep once more.

His own fatigue should have meant that sleep claimed him quickly as well, but the feel of her slim form brushing lightly against his side made every muscle in his body tense. He listened to her soft breathing and stared at the blackened sky overhead for a long time before at last he was released into blessed unconsciousness.