Traitor or Temptress. Helen Dickson

had obviously gone careering off into the forest where she might get lost or meet with an accident, and fury because where most men would quake in his presence, this chit of a girl had openly defied him. As a demonstration of headstrong defiance, disobedience and rebelliousness, it was supreme. He had foolishly believed she would be too afraid to try escaping in this inhospitable countryside—but she was a McBryde, he reminded himself bitterly, who would dare anything.

      Cursing her to perdition, within seconds he had swung himself on to his horse and was in hot pursuit, correctly assuming she would go in an easterly direction. His men followed, some dispersing in other directions.

      

      Lorne had deliberately avoided looking over her shoulder as she picked her way amongst the hollies, the birch and the alder, but, coming to the end of the wood, she glanced back. She was unable to see the rider who pursued her, but heard the thunder of following hoofbeats becoming ever louder and nearer.

      Emerging out of the trees into the full glare of sunlight, she rode like the wind. There was nothing ahead of her but a wide expanse of forest and sunwashed heather-emblazoned hills, and no sign of life. Her face set, her eyes blazing, she urged the horse to greater speed.

      Behind her Iain saw a girl whose golden, unbound hair streamed out like a silken flag. She was a good horsewoman, riding in a way that would have done credit to her father and brothers, and in that unlikely moment he was overwhelmed with admiration.

      Suddenly, from somewhere not far away, came the long, ululating blast of the hunting horn and the baying of hounds. Panicked, Lorne’s already excited, panting and sweating horse instantly reared and bolted. Struggling to bring it under control and at the same time outrun her pursuer, Lorne clung on in desperation. Ahead of her there loomed a narrow plateau with a steep incline on either side, the ground littered with outcrops of loose stones. Unable to turn and take a safer route, she found herself riding along it, trying not to look down the steep slopes to her right and left. All she could hear was the horse’s laboured breathing and the hollow thud of hooves.

      Suddenly another blast of the hunting horn caused the horse to balk, pitching her over its head. The fall knocked the breath out of her body and she lay still, dazed and disoriented and fighting for air, while her horse galloped away. Through a haze she saw a rider appear along the plateau. Her heart almost stopped when she recognised Iain on his huge white hunter, riding low over its neck and looking like an ominous spectre of doom. Terror and rage and an acute sense of fear overriding everything, recovering her senses and getting her breath back, she scrambled to her feet, and, as quick as a harried fox, took flight.

      Iain flung himself off his horse and gave chase. Lorne turned and looked back, trying to remain upright on the loose stones. Iain almost stopped in his tracks when he beheld her face and saw her eyes sparking with green fire. She was like a tempestuous goddess, wild and beautiful in all her fury, and alive with hatred as she courageously tried to outrun her enemy, refusing to be broken. She was truly amazing, and in that moment Iain thought she was the most magnificent creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

      When he was close he snatched at her, jerking her back, his fingers digging cruelly into her arm. She whirled round, stubborn and unyielding as she tried to get free of his iron hold.

      ‘Damn you,’ he bit out savagely, trying to prevent her nails from raking his face. ‘Stop fighting me, you little hellcat. It’s plain to see you share the blood of the McBrydes.’

      Lorne continued to struggle against him as if her life depended on it. She saw his face, terrifying in its rage, his jaw clenched tight and his silver eyes as hard as granite. A cry broke from her lips when suddenly she lost her footing and began to fall, taking him with her. They hit the ground, tumbling and rolling over and over down the steep incline, a shower of dislodged stones accompanying them to the bottom.

      Lorne found herself pinned beneath Iain’s powerful frame, unable to move, her chest straining in her need for air. His head was buried in the hollow of her neck and he was breathing hard. In breathless tension she waited for him to move, wondering if he was hurt.

      With blood welling through his beard from a cut on his cheek, slowly he raised his head and looked down at her, his face just an inch from her own, his breath hot on her face. Their eyes became locked in a mesmerising web, and the fire that swept through Iain at having her womanly body pinned beneath his almost deafened him to any resistance. Immediately he recollected himself. Angry frustration ran rampant through every fibre of his being, as his argument was about to burst forth in a torrent.

      Taking note of the taut set of his jaw and the undiluted fury blazing in his eyes, tendrils of fear coiled in the pit of Lorne’s stomach and her pulse accelerated wildly. Never had she encountered such cold, purposeful rage in her life—not even from her father and brothers.

      Levering his body off hers, Iain got to his feet. ‘Get up,’ he snapped. Without waiting for her to obey he reached down and grasped her arm, jerking her roughly to her feet. Lorne winced when a pain shot up her forearm into her elbow, realising she must have hurt it in the fall, but Iain was so furious he was blind to her discomfort. Again he grabbed her injured arm in a powerful grip. She gasped in protest at feeling another shooting pain, but he was dragging her in his wake towards his horse, which had made a more dignified descent than its master. Placing his free hand on the saddle, Iain loomed over his captive, his gaze a cold blast, his expression intense.

      ‘How far did you think you’d get alone and defenceless, you little idiot? Is it that you are hell bent on self-destruction, or merely out to thwart me?’

      Without waiting for her to reply, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her effortlessly on to his horse, before hoisting himself up behind her and wrapping his iron-thewed arms tightly round her waist in a grip that was meant to hurt and retaliate.

      ‘I will give you a warning, Lorne McBryde—just one,’ he said in a low, savage voice close to her ear. ‘If you ever try anything like that again or do one more thing to exasperate or anger me, I will personally see to it that you await your father’s arrival at Norwood in my deepest, darkest dungeon. Do you understand?’

      Lorne swallowed convulsively and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, glad when his arms relaxed their iron hold.

      ‘I have your word?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Say it.’

      ‘You have my word.’

      Chapter Three

      Silence lay heavily between them on the ride back to the castle, but each was conscious of the closeness of the other. With her back moulded to the hardened contours of Iain’s body, Lorne was more shaken by what had happened than she had let him see. Her throat ached and her eyes burned, but she would not cry.

      They rode into the courtyard where a knot of men stood around waiting for them to return. Iain swung himself on to the ground and roughly pulled Lorne down after him. When she took a step back, his hand clamped down painfully on her forearm. Her face contorted with a new wave of pain, but Iain had his head turned away and didn’t see.

      Archie rushed forward, relieved that Lorne appeared to be unhurt, but the same could not be said of his master. ‘My lord, your face is bleeding. It must be tended.’

      Iain wiped his beard with the back of his hand, scowling when he saw the blood. He directed a single look at the woman by his side, his rapier-sharp gaze holding hers. ‘It will be tended, Archie, but not by you. Take someone with you to look for your horse. It bolted on hearing the sound of the horn.’

      Still gripping Lorne’s wrist and forcibly pulling her behind him, Iain strode with long purposeful strides across the courtyard, through the trees and down to the burn. Once there he let go of her wrist and looked at her coldly. Lorne set her jaw and tried to fight the sudden fear that threatened to engulf her. She knew the folly of her escape effort, and retribution in the form of Iain Monroe had come swiftly for her foolishness.

      ‘Stay there,’ he snapped, knowing he would have to guard her carefully in the days ahead. She was impulsive and