Page 27 of In the Highlander's Bed

Groggily, she looked around. There was no dog. They were riding downhill into a valley. Tall pines bordered a path wide enough for one horse.

The dog barked again, and then Thomasanswered it with a howl of his own. The bark had been a signal. No wonder it hadn’t sounded natural to her ears.

They were coming to the rebel camp.

The pace of the horses picked up, a surer sign than any that the end of the journey was in sight. A scent drifted across the air. The smell of a campfire.

Constance straightened and leaned forward. She’d been to Shawnee camps and wondered how this Scottish one would differ.

They’d just reached a bend in the road when a pack of children came whooping down upon them, calling “Gordon” at the top of their lungs. Their clothes were homespun and they appeared full of energy and life.

The children danced alongside the horses, asking questions and staring at Constance. One boy with hair the red of a ripe apple even boldly said, “Is that the Englishwoman?”

“It is,” Gordon said, and the children gave a loud cheer, making Constance’s cheeks flame with the unwanted attention.

A few minutes later they came upon the Scottish camp, and Constance caught herself gawking.

It was like none she’d ever seen before. It was huge and a veritable hodgepodge of humanity.Tents, lean-tos, daub huts, and any other manner of makeshift quarters were haphazardly spread out along the shore of a silvery loch.

Gordon’s followers weren’t only young, strong men like Robbie and Brian. There were hordes of children and women of every size and age. A few goats, several sheep, dogs, and a pig wandered freely. Most of the men, many well past their prime, looked like farmers who wouldn’t know how to shoot, let alone wield a sword.

These people reminded her of settlers who came to the frontier because they had nowhere else to go. They lacked direction and passion. They were the ones who couldn’t survive.

“Thisis your rebellion?” she asked, realizing too late that in her shock and disappointment, she’d spoken aloud…and they were the wrong words to say.

Seven

The pleasure Gordon felt at accomplishing this mission, the pride he’d had that at last he was turning the tide of events in his favor, evaporated at her words.

Constance saw the camp with the unvarnished clarity of an outsider, forcing him to do the same.

It was a stunning moment.

He’d wanted to believe that onlyhehad noticed the shortcomings of his followers. He’d told himself that he was too hard on them. His expectations were too high. He had to give them time to learn to fight. He’d wanted to believe he could teach them how to succeed.

Constance had just confirmed his deepest fear—that no matter how hard he tried, these people, the skeletal remains of what had once been a powerful rebellion, would never measure up to their deadly task.

At one time, at Nathraichean, he’d helped Laird MacKenna put together an army that would have fought well. However, when MacKenna stole the clan’s money and ran to Italy, a good portion of that army lost heart. Many had left, scattered to parts unknown. Those who remained were the ones either afraid to leave or, like Thomas, who hoped for opportunity.

It was vital to Gordon that he keep the dream alive. They must fight the English and win. If they didn’t, if they failed, not only would the Scotland of his youth be lost, but his father’s death would have been for naught.

His clan’s welcoming faces changed before his eyes. Constance’s reaction made him notice what he’d attempted to ignore. His people depended entirely too much on him for guidance. Every day they pressed him, needing him to make decisions about even the most rudimentary matters.

They were also lazy, and it showed in the lack of orderliness in the camp. He knew without being told that while he was gone, they hadtaken the time off. They’d sat with their wives, played with their children, and waited for him.

That’s why he needed the Sword of the MacKenna. With it, he was certain he could rekindle the fighting spirit of the Scottish. And what Constance Cameron thought didn’t matter…or shouldn’t.

But it did.

It had been a long time since a lass had caught his interest. Constance Cameron’s sharp tongue and sharper wit had accomplished the task almost overnight, and he knew he needed to keep his distance from her. She raised doubts, challenged him, expected to be his equal—all while not seeming to notice how hard he’d been riding with her bum against his crotch.

Well, he was no bloody eunuch.

Nor did she have a say here. These were his clansmen.

Gordon slid her off his horse so swiftly, she almost fell to the ground. He jumped down and steadied her. She flashed him a surprised look. Clearly, she realized he was angry. He ignored her. She was a hostage. He owed her no apologies or explanations.

“Robbie,” he said, wanting the man’s attention.