The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

Blue eyes huge with astonishment stared up at him. “Mr. Mactavish, what on earth are you doing here?”

Her voice was dry and scratchy, he imagined from having her mouth covered with what he now saw was a rough linen neck cloth.

“I’m taking ye away.” He started to tug at the knots on the ropes lashing her to the bed.

“But you gave me up to them.”

“Bugger.” He gave up on knots that would do justice to a sailor and slid his dagger from his belt. “I shouldnae have.”

“But you must hate me. I lied to you. I stole from you.”

“Aye, ye did,” he said grimly. “That’s something we’re going to talk about. But no’ here and no’ now.” With a couple of ruthless movements, he cut the bonds attaching her hands to the posts on the headboard.

“They’ll kill me if I run away again.” Her flat tone robbed the statement of all melodrama.

Diarmid set his jaw against a resurgence of killing rage and slid the hem of her plain gray gown up just far enough to allow him to cut the ropes around her feet.

“Ye dinnae want to come with me?”

When she tried to sit up, he realized she must have been tied up for a couple of hours. The awkward position had left her stiff and clumsy. Despite Diarmid’s urgency, his touch was gentle as he helped her onto the edge of the bed.

“Don’t be a fool.” Her familiar wry smile contrasted with the dried tearstains on her wan cheeks. “Of course I do.”

Despite all the evil he knew of her, he couldn’t help smiling back. John was right. She was brave. Her courage touched his heart in a way he knew was dangerous.

Any delay was risky, but he filled a glass with some water and passed it to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured in a croaky voice.

As she drank, he inspected her for signs of injury. “Have they harmed ye?”

“Not yet.” Her lips turned down with more of that grim humor, as she returned the empty glass. “They’re storing up my punishment until we’re back at Bancavan and there’s no chance of interference.”

Fury prevented him from speaking. He set the glass on the chest of drawers with a crack.

How could anyone hit this beautiful woman? The idea made him nauseous.

With difficulty, he swallowed the knot of outrage blocking his throat and held out his hand. “Can ye walk?”

“Believe me, if it means getting away from the Grants, I can fly.”

More courage. It made her so blasted irresistible. Her courage, and her spellbinding beauty. He’d wondered if knowing of her faithlessness might weaken her power over his senses. It turned out there was no chance of that.

She accepted his hand and lurched to her feet with reckless speed. He barely had time to register the tingling warmth of her touch, before she stumbled.

Without thinking, Diarmid caught her up against him. In a flash, he was back in the Chinese Room at Invertavey with a sweetly scented woman clasped in his arms.

A storm of impressions flooded his mind. She still smelled like the soap she used at Invertavey—and horses and a trace of sweat. Those Grant bastards hadn’t even given her a chance to wash before they tied her up. Even more than that, she smelled like Miss Nita.

That alluring scent had woven itself through his dreams ever since he’d met her. Dreams where honor held no sway, and she arched up in welcome as he thrust hard inside her. Dreams where that pale blond hair floated around him like a veil of silk and he knew nothing except how much he wanted her.

She gasped and stiffened in his hold, although God forgive him, he took a few seconds to register her resistance. Azure eyes shadowed with exhaustion darted up to his face.

He saw more than weariness. He saw alarm.

What a savage he was. Self-disgust loosened his grip on her.

“Nae need to be frightened, Mrs. Grant.” He shifted away and spoke in the soothing tone he’d use to a nervous horse. “I’m only here to help ye.”