Highland Warrior. Hannah Howell

fully awake. He had simply risen with the sun, felt a warm female body at his side, and was planning to make use of it. Well, if he was going to nuzzle and nudge, she thought crossly, he could at least know whom he was doing it to.

      “Get off me, ye great ox,” she muttered, moving whatever part of her body she could in a vain attempt to push him away. “I cannae breathe.”

      Ewan opened his eyes and stared down at the woman he was sprawled on top of. He was tired, having gotten little sleep, but he woke up quickly when he realized the position he was in. God’s teeth, he had been nuzzling her neck and he was as hard as a rock. Even worse, he had obviously been rubbing that hardness against her lovely backside. The position they were in was so deliciously suggestive, he trembled faintly from the sheer strength of his desire. Silently cursing, he moved off her so abruptly, he sharply yanked on her bound wrists.

      “Pardon,” he mumbled and, hearing his men begin to stir, reached over to untie her.

      Fiona slowly sat up and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She had the unsettling feeling it was going to be a long while before she could forget the feel of his big, strong, and highly aroused body pressed so close to hers. That both frightened and annoyed her. Not only did she know nothing about this man, but it was a very poor time for her to be suffering such an attraction, or infatuation, or whatever it was that was plaguing her. She already had one too many men in her life, she thought angrily as she stood up, brushed herself off, and started toward the trees.

      “Where do ye think ye are going?” he demanded as he leapt to his feet and began to follow her.

      “Tis morning. What do most people have to do in the morning when they first awake, ye fool?” When she heard him continue to follow her, she whirled around to confront him, and was pleased when he hastily backed up a step. “I dinnae need any assistance.”

      “But ye do need guarding.” He swiftly looped one end of the rope he still held around her wrist and retied the other end around his own. “Weel? Go on.” He almost backed up another step when she glared at him.

      For one brief moment, Fiona considered not going. It would be humiliating to relieve herself with him standing so close by. Unfortunately, her full bladder was making it all too clear that she would regret that decision, would humiliate herself even more if she did not hurry on her way. Muttering curses against all men, she started on her way again, glaring hard at his broad back when he took the lead.

      As she found herself on one side of a tangled clump of shrubs with him on the other a few minutes later, Fiona did wonder why she was so disturbed by it all. She had been raised by her five brothers, and there had been very little refinement or delicacy at Deilcladach for the first thirteen years of her life. When Gillyanne had arrived, some gentling of their rough ways had followed, but she doubted anyone would consider the MacEnroys refined. Performing a basic, necessary function within the hearing of another should not be troubling her as much as it was. It troubled her so much that, despite her desperate need, she was unable to relieve herself until he began. When had she become such a delicate flower of womanhood? Fiona prayed that her sudden sensitivity was not because she had some mad wish to appeal to the man.

      “I need to wash,” she said when he began to drag her back to the campsite.

      Ewan looked at her, idly wondering why he should think she looked so tempting when she was scowling at him. “Ye do understand that ye are a hostage, dinnae ye, and nay a guest?”

      Fiona looked pointedly at the rope leashing her to his side, then looked back at him. “I believe my poor, wee woman’s mind has begun to grasp that fact. I still want to wash.”

      “I think ye were raised with too light a hand upon the reins,” he grumbled as he led her to a small brook several yards away.

      “I think I was raised perfectly.”

      She ignored his grunt and tried to ignore the rope on her wrist as they both knelt by the brook to wash their faces and hands. Taking from her pocket a small square of embroidered linen Gilly insisted she carry at all times, Fiona dampened it in the cold waters. She was rubbing her teeth clean when an abrupt sense of approaching danger made her tense. A heartbeat later, as she searched the wood for some sign of what had stirred her alarm, she felt Ewan tense.

      “Enemies?” she asked in a near whisper even as she stood up with him. “So close to your lands?”

      “On every side and round every corner,” he muttered. “How fast can ye run?”

      “If we werenae tied together, I could beat ye back to the camp.”

      “Just keeping pace with me will do for now.” He caught the glint of sunlight hitting metal in the thick wood on the other side of the brook. “Now.”

      They had not run far when Fiona pulled a little ahead and Ewan realized she had not been giving him some idle boast. She was not only swift, but agile, nimbly dodging or leaping over every obstacle in their path. The moment they reached the camp, he untied the rope around their wrist as he curtly told his men to prepare for an attack. He shoved Fiona toward Simon and commanded the youth to guard and protect her.

      Fiona bit back a protest as Simon dragged her to a spot near the horses and to the rear of Ewan and his men. Now was not a good time to argue over her right and ability to defend herself. She did wish she had her sword, however. It felt wrong to stand there completely unarmed, a youth of but sixteen summers her only shield against any enemy who might reach them.

      That enemy reached the camp but a moment later. They swarmed out of the wood from two different directions so swiftly and silently, Fiona was astonished that the MacFingals were not startled into a dangerous moment of hesitation. Instead, they met the attack with a speed and ferocity that was awe inspiring. Although Simon was doing an admirable job of watching for any man approaching them, Fiona did the same. She kept an especially keen watch upon the horses. This might not be a raid, but that would not stop anyone from trying to steal whatever they could get their hands on.

      The MacFingals were efficiently decimating their enemy even though the odds against them were nearly three to one, and Fiona began to relax. She hated fighting and bloodshed, but was pleased that her captor and his men were so skilled. These men had not come to make peace, but to kill. What did trouble her was what the great skill of the MacFingals implied. It seemed they were far too accustomed to people trying to kill them. Staying with the MacFingals might provide her with a haven Menzies could not find, but it appeared it would not be a particularly safe haven.

      Just as the enemy began to retreat, Simon cursed and shoved her more firmly behind him. A huge, filthy, hirsute man ran toward them, stopping just out of the reach of Simon’s sword. The man grinned, revealing rotting teeth through his greasy beard. Fiona tensed when she realized none of the other MacFingals had noticed that one of the enemy had slipped past them. Instinct told her that Simon was skilled with his sword despite his youth, but he was facing a man nearly a foot taller and several stone heavier.

      “Give up, laddie. Ye cannae win against me,” growled the man.

      “Beating ye willnae e’en raise a sweat,” drawled Simon.

      Fiona had to admit that, for such a sweet lad, Simon could produce an impressively chilling smile.

      “Boastful wee maggot, arenae ye. I mean to gut ye, wean, and then I will plow the lass o’er your bleeding carcass.”

      Something in the way Simon shifted his weight on his feet told Fiona the fight was about to begin. Cursing her helplessness, she moved away from Simon, not wishing to impede him in any way. The first clash of their swords made her wince despite the other sounds of battle assaulting her ears. Simon quickly revealed his greater skill, but she knew it might not be enough. If his bigger and stronger opponent could hold on long enough, he could wear Simon down. There was also the simple fact that Simon was only sixteen and could not have gained the battle experience his opponent had.

      She began to look for some way to help. Her weapons were with the horses, but she resisted the urge to go after them. Not only would she be putting herself at risk by traversing such open ground, unarmed,