Page 9 of Seduction in a Kilt

That lasted for about six seconds.

She shrieked and tried to run faster as she heard him crashing through the undergrowth after her, swearing intermittently as he came. She could hear his harsh breathing as he got closer and closer. Then suddenly, an iron hand grasped her ankle. She screamed, “Let me go! Let me go! I mean ye nae harm!”

But there was naught but an angry grunt as the fist closed painfully around her ankle, and she lost her balance, crashing forward full length on her face. Spitting leaves and earth, she scrambled to free herself from his grip, trying to grab anything she could to pull herself away from him, kicking her legs frantically.

But it did no good, and she sobbed in defeat as she was slowly but inexorably dragged backwards by her leg over the soaking ground, until two beefy arms went around her waist, and she found herself pinned beneath him.

Damn it!

Too much was at stake to give in so easily, so she fought with all her strength to get away from him again. He growled and grabbed her by her shirt, holding her off as she punched and flailed at his face. Suddenly, as she wrenched herself backwards, there came the sound of material ripping.

Everything stopped then. She panted, trying to wriggle her legs out from under him. Then, all of a sudden, some of the crushing weight upon her lifted. She realized he no longer had hold of her and was in fact sitting on his haunches with a handful of her shirt in his hand. She followed his eyes, and saw he was staring open-mouthed at her chest. She looked down at herself and gasped in horror to see the front of her shirt had been ripped away, and one of her breasts was completely exposed! The cold had made her nipple harden to a rosy point. Her heart sank to her boots then, and the fight went out of her.

He tore his eyes from her nakedness and stared at her face with obvious bewilderment. In tones of wonder, he breathed, “Jaysus Christ! Ye’re a lassie!”

She was already hastily gathering the torn material over the telltale breast, thankful for the meager moonlight and red glow of the fire that hid her blushes. For some reason, she felt furious rather than afraid. “Aye, I’m a lassie, all right? Are ye happy now? I’m nay threat tae ye, so ye can let me go,” she groaned, glaring at him and trying to shake off the grip he still had on her arm.

“Ach, nay, nay, there are plenty of lassies who make very good spies,” he told her, tightening his hold and pulling her to her feet as he stood up. He was hurting her, but she refused to let him see it. “What’s yer name?”

“Amy, Amy Blythe,” she said, having already chosen the false name she intended to adopt in her new life.

He nodded. “Well, all right, Amy Blythe. I’m Liam MacTavish, and I work fer Laird Stewart, who was just here. But ye probably already ken that if ye’re spyin’ fer MacAlister.”

“How many times dae I havetae tell ye? I’m nae—” She was cut off when, to her shock and indignance, he suddenly picked her up, slung her over his large, muscular shoulder, and strode back to the fire. “Let me down, ye great lummox!” she shouted, pounding his back with her fists and kicking at him. But all was in vain, for he simply held her ankles easily in one hand until he finally set her down right next to him by the fire.

“Here, cover yersel’,” he told her, not unkindly, tossing her a blanket. She breathed a sigh of relief that, despite discovering she was a woman, he was not going to assault her. Instead, to her surprise, he made some tea, adding a nip or two of whisky from a small hip flask he carried in his pocket to the mixture before handing her a beaker of the steaming liquid. “Drink it. It’ll warm ye up.”

“Warm me up fer another interrogation,” she said bleakly in her normal voice. Cold and defeated, she was grateful for the blanket and the hot beverage. She realized that if she were to have any hope of getting her liberty back, she was going to have to convince him she was not spying for her brother.

But she knew that if she admitted to being Carson MacAlister’s sister, she would be as good as hanged as a spy when he got her back to the castle. How could she convince him of her innocence without giving too much away? “I’m nay threat tae ye. Ye should have just let me go. I told ye, I mean ye nae harm,” she reiterated.

“So ye say. D’ye mind tellin’ me why ye’re out here in the forest in the middle of the night, disguised as a lad, and tryin’ tae steal me horse?” he asked, blowing across his own tea to cool it before sipping it.

She hesitated, unsure what to tell him. “I was supposed tae be gettin’ wed this mornin’, but I didnae wantae be married, and the man who was supposed tae be me husband is cruel. I couldnae stand the thought of bein’ shackled tae him fer a lifetime. I was gonnae hide in the forest and go intae the town disguised as a lad and find a way tae get a lift somewhere far away.

“But then it got dark, and the weather got worse, and I thought I’d havetae spend the night here in the forest. I was worried me soon-tae-be husband would already have men out lookin’ fer me. Then, I heard ye and yer horses, and I thought if I could take one of them, I could be away and safe in nay time.”

“So, ye’re telling’ me ye’re running from yer own weddin?”

“Aye.”

He laughed mockingly. “A good story, but I dinnae believe a word of it.”

“Why would ye nae believe it?” she asked, frustrated. “’Tis the truth, I tell ye!”

“Nay, I think ’tis more likely that ye’re spyin’ fer MacAlister. I admit, ’tis unusual fer a spy tae be a woman, but it is nae unheard of. Dressin’ as a lad would make sense.”

“I thought it would help me hide from those me groom would send searchin’ fer me. I had tae run in me weddin’ dress! These were the only clothes I could get tae change intae during me escape.”

“How convenient. Nay, ’tis too much of a coincidence fer ye tae suddenly turn up here, on Stewart land, wearing a ring with the MacAlister seal on it.” He gazed at her searchingly as he spoke, and she had to stifle a gasp. For the first time, she had got a good look at his eyes.

In the flickering firelight, she could see they were a stormy dark gray with glints of blue and fringed by thick, dark lashes. His gaze seemed to pierce her, and a peculiar shiver went through her as she met it with her own. “How de ye explain that?” he asked, glancing at the ring.

Ivy frantically wracked her brain to think of a way to explain the ring without telling him how she came by it—that it had belonged to generations of the ladies of McAlister, the last one being mother, Lady Sophie, now long dead. “I-I stole it.”

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that gave her goosebumps. “I thought ye’d say that. Ye’d rather have me believe ye a thief than a spy, eh?”

She shrugged helplessly. “’Tis true.”