Page 1 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
CHAPTER ONE
The Highlands, 1706
The wind was cold and harsh, slipping through the heavy wool of the cloak Lydia wore, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. She winced at the feel on her wind-burned cheeks, and chapped hands. She noted that some of the others in the caravan had donned gloves in varying states of repair, and felt a brief stab of envy. She already knew that none of them would offer her a pair.
A month ago, she would never have dreamed of being in this state, wearing the clothes she now wore - a homespun linen dress of indeterminate color over two thin chemises for warmth, with a shawl and a cloak of heavy wool and stout, practical shoes that were a size too big for her and battered in several places, as well as caked in mud.
A month ago, she’d never imagined having chapped hands, or blisters on her heels, or nearly continuous aches in her back, hips, feet and calves from hours of walking, riding over bumpyroads that jarred her at every turn, and sleeping on cold, uneven ground.
But then, a lot of things could change in a month.
“Oi, Lily. Lily. Wake up, lass.”
Lydia started, whipping around to face the caravan master as she realized he’d been calling to her.
Lily. It was the name she’d given him when she’d joined the caravan of traders and other folk looking for work or coin in the Highlands. She still wasn’t used to answering to it, and would have preferred to hear it as little as possible. Hearing her assumed name spoken meant someone had noticed her. And if they noticed her, then they might notice… other things.
She swallowed back the surge of fear that always accompanied being spoken to, and tried to remember to make her voice sound more… rough, unrefined. More like the voice of the servant she’d told them she was.
“Yes?”
“Get some wood fer the fire.” His dark eyes studied her critically.
Lydia did her best when given scores, but she was unused to labor of any kind, and so many of the tasks - she was afraid that attempting them and failing would draw more suspicion than not attempting them at all. What proper serving girl struggled tocarry water from the river, or light a fire? What young woman withanysort of experience in household work was confused by washing dishes, or making up a bed, be it by the fire or in the wagons?
She did try, when she could work up the courage, but… she knew there were whispers. Whispers of derision, whispers of suspicion and scorn. But she was powerless to dispel them, and all she could do was bow her head and murmur. “Yes.”
“Get tae it then.” The man waved at her dismissively and turned away.
Gathering wood. It should be a simple enough task - save that she had no idea what constituted proper firewood and what did not. The only thing she knew for certain was that wood was supposed to be dry. Still, Lydia made her way out of the sheltered glen in which they’d stopped, idly picking up a branch here or there in a token effort.
Her wandering took her a small distance from the camp, but that was all right, as far as Lydia was concerned. The woods around her were quiet, with only the rustling of the wind to disturb the silence. Lydia felt content to enjoy the rare moment of peace.
A sudden drumming sound, irregular and vibrating through the earth, caught her attention. She had just enough time to recognize what it was - multiple sets of hoofbeats - before a ragged, barbaric looking group of riders crashed over the ridge to the north of their stopping place and fell upon the camp.
The rest of the caravan members were caught as unprepared as Lydia. Screams and shouts filled the air as the mounted men in their cloth masks and ragged, dirty attire rode into the glen, blades swinging, their horses kicking up dirt and embers from the cookfires alike.
Some of the men - like Josh the Farrier and Timothy the wagon guard - tried to fight. They were swiftly cut down and knocked to the side. The rest of the men and women in the group fled into the woods or huddled around the wagons. Some of them even scrambled over the ridge from which the attackers had come in their fear, heedless of the risk that there might be more brigands hiding out of sight.
The moment the first rider appeared, Lydia found herself frozen in fear. She had a small dagger attached to her belt, but no idea how to use it for anything other than cutting bread and meat for a meal. However, even if she had been skilled in the use of a blade, she was certain her little dagger would be no good against armed bandits with swords.
She was too terrified to flee, and too petrified to do anything else.
Within a minute, perhaps two, the members of the caravan had been thoroughly defeated, dispersed or cowered in place as their attackers stalked around the camp and poked their swords under carts, or prodded horses into rearing and stomping.
After a few moments, one of the men wheeled his horse about, and shouted to the others in a hoarse, gravelly voice. “Search the wagons an’ the woods, bring me any likely lass ye find.”
A few of the men grunted and turned to obey, and as they did so, Lydia caught a flash of color beneath the ragged leather and linen of one man’s clothing.
Familiar colors - the colors of Clan Cameron, belonging to the man who was her sole reason for being there in the first place. Lydia’s temporary paralysis shattered like ice in springtime, and Lydia turned and bolted for the trees.
She heard a man shout, and realized an instant too late that her actions had revealed her location, and the men were now in pursuit. Lydia sucked in a gasping, desperate breath and tried to run faster.
She heard the thud of hoofbeats following her, and dove for a patch of undergrowth, hoping the thick tangle of branches and brambles might slow her pursuer down. Instead, the brambles caught her skirt, and she’d scarcely had a chance to free them before a rough shove sent her sprawling into the dirt and tangled branches that covered the forest floor. She rolled gracelessly, bracken scratching her hands and face, and jumped to her feet, grabbing blindly for any weapon.
Her hands closed around a tree branch, just before a rough grip seized her cloak and jerked her back. Lydia choked, staggered helplessly backward, and tumbled straight into the arms of her captor. The man sneered at her. “Got ye, lass.”
“Let go!” Lydia flailed wildly at him with the tree branch, but the man only laughed, the sound rough and coarse as he wrenched the branch for her hand. Lydia winced at the sting of splinters in her palms. “What do you want with me?”
