Page 58 of Kidnapped By her Highland Enemy
His hands grasped her bottom to pull her atop of him but Lucas did not want to couple with her, he only wanted this—this closeness, this intimacy…her love. They kissed slowly, and lovingly until she grew drowsy and he set her back on her side, and pulled away with a whisper.
“In two days, this time, ye will be me wife,” he said in her ear. “Rest assured of that,mo ghràdh.”
The day of his wedding had come and Lucas found himself in the middle of the loch, bathing. It was barely after dawn and the rising sun was not strong enough to cut through the thick mist lingering above the water. He had come to bathe before the ceremony that would start in roughly two hours.
He wanted to hurry back to the castle, don his great kilt and hurry to the chamber where Maisie would be waiting for him, clad in his clan’s robes as well. He could not wait to say his vows and sweep Maisie back to their chamber to continue the celebration while the rested feasted in the great hall.
Ducking his head again, he stood and began wading to the banks, where his clothes rested on a rock. A rustle in the bushes to the side had his head snapping to it, but a bird took flight from it. Standing still, he strained to hear any sounds not from nature. He listened for the sound of hooves, the sound of breathing, whispered voices, or signaling whistles, but there was nothing. Not even the birds chirped, or small critters ran about; aside from the flow of the river, it was deathly silent.
Resting easy, he went to the rocks, only to hear—and feel—a massive stomp of boots in the water and the rush of water flushing on the back of his shins.
Spinning in place, Lucas barely managed to dodge a punch then launched himself at the bed and tackled the man. They crashed into the stream, and he straddled the man. His fists flew one after the other as he pummeled the assailant, snapping his head left and right. An arm snapped round Lucas neck, yanking him off the first attacker and dragging him into the middle of the stream.
Enraged, Lucas twisted out of this one’s hold and spun around, punching this one in gut, and when he bent, Lucas thrust his fist up into the underside of the man’s chin. He saw nothing but red and his fist flew, one landed squarely on his nose— the bone cracked— while the other blackened his eye.
After he sent this one flying, two large ham hocks for fists flew at his face and Lucas counted a third opponent. It was not his first time being outnumbered and it would not be his last.
With an elbow to this one’s gut, Lucas freed himself and flung himself at his pile of clothes where he had hidden a dirk, but as he grabbed the handle, he was kicked away and landed hard on a rocky bed, his head hitting the rock’s floor with a nasty crack.
Even while pain surged through his mind, he launched to his feet and started fighting. He landed on one of the men and punched hard. It was only a matter of a minute or two before the man breathed his last; Lucas had beaten him to death with his bare hands. But he was not ready to finish yet, he jumped from the man and spun around, grabbed the dirk and punched the blade right through the second one’s gut.
He reeled up ready to dispatch the third when a rock, the side of his head slammed into his temple—and everything went black. His hand lost grip of the dirk and his body slumped to the water, unconscious.
Time was ticking away and Lucas had not returned from his bath yet. Dressed in her marriage robes, Maisie paced her chamber, anxiously pacing the room. Where was he?
A knock came at the door and Maisie answered it, hoping it was Lucas—only to see her father there. Warily, she stepped back and allowed him in. Her father, dressed in his ceremonial great kilt bearing her clans tartan, closed the door behind him.
Maisie had never seen her father this pensive in her life and for a moment she wondered if he had come to stop her from marrying Lucas.
“Faither…” she started warily. “What’s wrong?”
He rubbed his face then sighed long and loudly, “I’ve come to apologize, Maisie.”
Stunned, she stood still for a moment before finding a seat just in case her legs would go weak. “For what?”
“For dismissing yer ideas an’ solutions to so many problems I’ve have over the years,” he said remorsefully. “Granted, I still thought this connection ye have with Barclay was nothing more than infatuation, but the more Cinead and I talk, its clear we’re fighting over nothin’ but pride.”
Unbelieving, Maisie looked at her father. “But—”
He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I saw ye handled yerself at Sterling Castle and I realized ye are nay foolish nor weak. Ye’ve learned much and I do believe ye will be a good wife and lady of a clan. The prudence ye have will profit Lucas and well, all of us in the long run and I am sorry, Maisie. T’was nay fair for ye.”
For a moment, she wondered if she were dreaming—never would she have expected these words from her father, though, in truth, she had hoped so. Standing, Maisie went to hug him and said, “Thank ye, faither. It means much to me.”
He held her tight. “If only yer maither could see ye now.”
She smiled. “She would be proud.”
“Aye,” Angus said while pulling away. “She would. I must go and join Cinead. I’ll see ye soon, lass.”
With a last hug, Angus left the chamber and Maisie sat again, still reeling with her father’s apology. Was this, the issue with their clans and the resolution she and Lucas had made to sort it out, what it would have taken for him to see her as the woman she was?
I suppose so.
Not too long after that, a soft rap on her door had her tugging it open. A young woman stood there, her dark hair in plaits like most of the servant girls. “Lady Maisie, Laird Barclay sent me to come get ye.”
Relief flooded her heart—he was back then. “Please, lead the way.”
Heading down a corridor, the girl took Maisie down a staircase she had never stepped on before but decided that it had to be a secret measure Lucas had put in place to stop others from spying on them. They came out to a lower level and into an anteroom that led outside.
