Archie stood guard behind a tangled screen of willows and bushes to wait for Lorne to complete her ablutions.
Removing the pins securing her hair, she combed out the long thick tresses with her fingers, wishing she had a comb to do it properly. Kneeling by the side of the burn, she shivered when the ice cold water touched her face and neck, but it was invigorating, and when she dried herself she felt refreshed in spite of her situation. Sleep and the crystal-clear water had revived her spirit and imbued her with a reckless determination to escape her captors at the first opportunity. She would find a way. She must.
Having completed her ablutions and calling to Archie that she was almost done, daringly she walked along the green sward, hoping against hope as she clambered over a group of rocks that it might provide her with a way of escape.
It didn’t. Instead it led her into a situation she would rather have avoided.
With his breeches rolled up to his knees, Iain was washing himself in the burn. Surprise widened her eyes and her mouth formed a little circle as she sucked in her breath sharply. There was no escaping the fact that Iain Monroe was a magnificent, virile male—things she’d been too young and naïve to take in before. He strode out of the water, the lean, hard muscles of his thighs flexing beneath the tight-fitting breeches. His thick, curling hair was damp and shining, and prisms of water trickled down over his skin and the mat of black curling hair on his imposing chest, which swelled magnificently, narrowing to his flat, muscled belly. His taut muscles rippled as he reached for the towel and dried himself, before slipping his arms into his shirt and shrugging it across his broad shoulders.
Cautiously taking a step back, Lorne silently cursed when she startled a cock pheasant in the tall reeds. Irate at being disturbed, the splendid bird rose from its cover with a ferocious flapping of wings and flew off, squawking its complaint. The noise brought Iain’s head jerking up and round. Seeing Lorne watching him, he came towards her with the swiftness of an animal, like a stalking wolf, graceful as a gentleman should be. With dark brows raised in question, he propped his shoulder casually against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her in insolent silence.
‘Well?’ he enquired at length. ‘Have you had an edifying look, Mistress McBryde?’
Trying to ignore the treacherous leap her heart gave at the sight of his bare chest exposed beneath his unfastened shirt, feeling trapped like a rabbit in its own snare, Lorne gazed helplessly into those inscrutable eyes—silver or dove grey, she couldn’t decide which. Wishing she could hide her pink cheeks she said hastily, ‘I—I was just—’
‘Running away?’ Iain caught the spark that ignited in her eyes and the temper behind them. She looked so young, innocent and wild. An inexplicable, lazy smile swept his face as he surveyed her from head to foot. The wind ruffled her hair, which he saw really was as gold as a sunburst, and her slanting emerald eyes were fringed with absurdly long and curling black lashes. Without her cloak her gown revealed an alluring womanly form with ripened curves in all the right places. The bodice of her dress was low cut, which afforded him a glimpse of the thrusting fullness of her breasts pressed tightly against the fabric. He looked down at her dewy skin—tinted with roses after its brush with the cold water—and soft mouth, feeling a hunger he had not felt in a long time.
The intimate smile that appeared on his firm lips during the silent, searching interval caused Lorne’s flush to deepen and her eyes to flash indignantly. ‘Can you blame me for wanting to escape my father’s enemies?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose not. Do you defend him?’
‘He is my father.’
‘Don’t equivocate. That was not what I asked.’ His eyes became probing, questioning. ‘I asked if you defend a murderer—a man who considers the lifting of his neighbours’ cattle and the burning of their cottages to be an ancient and honourable Highland profession. Have you no pride when it comes to the truth of the matter? Doesn’t what he did flaw his character in your mind? Does he not shame you to the core?’
A sudden coldness crept up Lorne’s spine and her stomach churned. In fury she faced away, unable to look at him lest he saw the truth. No, she did not defend her father, but she would not betray any of her kin by saying so to this stranger—her father’s enemy. But Iain Monroe was right, she was ashamed—deeply so—and since that day when his brother had been murdered, she had been like a ship adrift on a storm-tossed sea, having no security wherever she was, but having no escape from it either.
‘I am not obliged to discuss my family with you, Iain Monroe. You can go to hell,’ she snapped.
Iain’s laugh was low and scornful and infuriating. ‘Nay, Lorne McBryde. That particular abode is reserved for the devil and those he spawns—men of your father’s ilk.’
‘You beast,’ she hissed, incensed. Acting on pure instinct, she spun round and her hand came up to deal him a slap, but he caught her wrist before she landed the blow. His hold was inescapable, his eyes as hard as granite.
‘Don’t even think about it. My hand still smarts from the bite you inflicted on it last night. That was the first time you drew my blood and ’twill be the last,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘No woman has ever bested me and none ever will.’
Twisting the fingers of his other hand in her hair, he snapped her head back. Half-stifled, her head reeling, she found her lips sealed by a hard demanding mouth that bore down relentlessly on hers. His lips were meant to punish, and Lorne was too stunned by what he was doing to react. When he raised his head the only sound was the burbling water and their rapid breathing as they gazed at each other. The air crackled with emotion.
‘What a pity you are a McBryde and I have to miss the chance of making love to you,’ he drawled. ‘You are made for it. Were you any other wench, I might well be tempted.’
Outrage exploded in Lorne’s brain. Her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment and shame, she glared at him, her eyes spitting venom. ‘You rate yourself too highly. You are arrogant in your assumption that you are some magnificent gift to womankind. I would sooner bed down with a ravening beast than bed down with you.’
Iain’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you always such a shrew?’ He gave her a long-suffering look, as if she were being unreasonably difficult. Reluctantly he released her, feeling a desire to kiss those lips again—but this time to feel those lips respond and return the kiss.
‘A shrew!’ Lorne gasped, appalled that he had kissed her so brutally. ‘How do you expect me to behave? You have your men kidnap me—threaten my life—you insult and degrade me every time I am in your presence—and now you have the gall to kiss me. My reputation might mean nothing at all to you, but it certainly does to me. When this is over and word gets out that I have been with you, there is bound to be a scandal over it,’ she berated him with bitter scorn. ‘I will be despised for something that isn’t my fault.’
Iain stared down at her irate face in shock and amusement. ‘Reputation? Since when did Highlanders concern themselves with young ladies’ reputations?’
Lorne seethed. There was nothing more definable than this man’s clear and absolute self-possession. He had no understanding of what it was to be tormented, afraid, alone, to hope for salvation in the form of someone he knew, someone close. These things belonged to another breed, and in that he held nothing but contempt.
‘For the past seven years I’ve been away from the Highlands, living in England with my grandmother.’
Iain’s eyes danced with mirth and his teeth flashed white from between his parted lips. ‘Why? What did you do? Are you so unmanageable and undisciplined that even your own father cannot control you?’
Her eyes clouded. ‘I didn’t