pulverize boulders into naught but sand, he inclined his head a single hair’s breadth. That was all.
The heat of victory—and not the lingering effects of the kiss—surged through her. She’d done it. She’d secured the best warrior in the Highlands to her cause.
When she turned and strode toward the alehouse door, the cheering crowd parted before her, clearing her way. She paused, glancing back at him coolly. “No point in wasting any more time, then, MacLeod. We’d best be on our way.”
Chapter Three
Damn, blast, shite, and bloody fecking hell.
Once he’d run out of curses, Gregor simply started again from the top in his mind.
When he’d arrived at the Caithness Games a sennight ago, he’d already been short on time. He’d wasted more than a fortnight riding from clan to clan throughout the Highlands, first requesting pledges for men to join his makeshift army, then begging.
And he had naught to show for it. His new plan—enlist each man he bested in one-on-one combat, and conscript a few of his friends if he truly walloped the poor bastard—had been going well, but not nearly fast enough.
He’d already missed most of the Games and festivals that summer, occupied as he’d been in Scone’s dungeon. Once Samhain arrived, the festival season would officially be over. After that, he’d be hard-pressed to gather as many men as he had over the last month. And Samhain was only three sennights away.
But instead of trouncing another dozen men this eve, he was riding northwest with a wee tyrant. A rather bonny tyrant at that—one who now controlled his fate.
And one whose kiss had brought him to his bloody knees—literally.
By the time they’d set out from the Caithness Games, it had been late afternoon. Autumn had stolen not only summer’s warmth, but also her light. They’d been riding for just over an hour, but they likely only had another hour of daylight remaining.
Though the lass—Lady Roberta Morgan—rode with a small handful of guards, it wouldn’t be wise to continue past dusk. Whoever was responsible for her should take more care with her protection. A woman so bonny shouldn’t be riding with such a small contingent of men across the open moors of the Highlands.
Then again, judging from her performance in the alehouse, the lass was more headstrong than an unbroken filly. Gregor very much doubted she did what she was told, nor cared what was proper if it stood in the way of what she wanted.
He gave her a sideways glance as they continued in a silence only broken by the creak of leather and the soft hoof-falls against the coarse grass.
In profile, she looked younger, though he’d guess she had about five or six and twenty years to her name.
She’d drawn the hood of her plain gray cloak over her chestnut hair against the nip in the air. The cloak was partly open at her neck, and the flash of a thin gold chain there caught his eye. The necklace was tucked into her gown, the chain disappearing beneath the blue wool.
Unbidden, his thoughts wandered down the invisible portion of the chain. What dangled at its end, nestled between those two pert breasts?
Whatever it was, it was none of his damn concern. He forced his gaze lower, away from her breasts, which swayed tantalizingly with each of her horse’s hoof-falls.
Though she rode astride, her cloak was modestly draped around her to cover her legs. Still, he spied a handspan of petite ankle and the gentle slope of her calf where her booted foot poked out beneath the wool.
Damn him to hell, but she was a bonny one. And not his to trifle with. The memory of her lips on his sent a crackle of heat through him nonetheless.
Where was her husband, or her father, to rein her in?
Casting a look at the clouds overhead, he finally broke the silence.
“No’ much light left. How long until we reach our destination?”
She turned to him, and he was rewarded with the touch of her moss-green eyes.
“No’ long now. See those mountains?” She pointed off to the west, where a series of rugged peaks rose from the rolling moorland. “Once we come even with them, we are nearly there.”
He’d been so distracted by his own thwarted plans and his endless list of curses that he hadn’t yet even bothered to ask why she wanted his help. Or mayhap he’d been too proud after that embarrassing fiasco in the alehouse.
Whatever the case, he couldn’t delay any longer. He needed to know what