Highlander Enchanted

Chapter Three

You are an English noble. Behave as such. Isabel chanted silently.

It took every part of her resolve not to back down from the imposing warrior before her. His face, and those of the others, were painted, some in blue, others red and one white. Unable to make out his red-coated features well, she was pinned in place by his piercing blue-grey eyes and the intensity hanging in the air around him. She had met many great lords during her time at court, but none of them were capable of ensnaring her entire being with a combination of size and presence the way this man did. The laird of the ruffians was a head and a half taller than her, wide of shoulder and chest and broadly muscled. He smelled of leathers, man and forest and radiated heat. The worn material of his tunic strained to cover the bulge of his arms and shoulders while the trews he wore beneath his tartan displayed the thick shapeliness of his lean legs.

Many men had made her heart skip a beat when she met them at court, but none of them made it race the way this fierce warrior did. She did not feel the pain of her injured leg when his eyes were on her, and his touch had sent fire through her.

Ailsa had told Isabel horrific tales of how barbarians raped and murdered the women of their enemies. She did not want to know what they did to Englishwomen, for Ailsa had assured her it was far worse. Isabel prayed that the name of Black Cade was enough to scare the heathens into not accosting her.

"Ye think ye can kill the greatest warrior in the land?" Amusement flickered through the barbarian's gaze.

She hesitated, aware of how large he was. Her plan had been poor before she ran across this laird and seemed outright childish after she met one of the Highland warriors Ailsa had spoken so much about. If Black Cade was larger than this warrior, he was surely a giant. "I will ... try."

The men behind him were laughing, every one of them. The laird did not. His half-smile was naturally crooked from a scar running across his cheek and lips, but he seemed too hard to know what laughter was. His features were chiseled and planed beneath the face paint, his soulful eyes making him appear much older than she would have guessed by his body and speech.

"Then I will take ye t'him." His voice was gravelly and low, the kind that made a woman's thighs – and will – weak.

"You are an enemy?" she asked, releasing a breath. Ailsa had also gone on for a solid day about how the barbarians would do anything to exact revenge on their enemies. "You wish to see him die?"

"Nay, lass. I wish to see ye try t'kill him."

"M'lady." She corrected him out of habit.

"Eh?"

"You do not refer to an English noble as lass," she replied. "M'lady or Lady Isabel."

One of his eyebrows shot up, and he tensed, a warning she knew she had better heed. He took her face in one rough hand again, his thumb on one cheek and his fingers on the other while his calloused palm lifted her chin. He was gentler than she expected and held her in place without harming her. He lowered his face to hers and held her still, his large frame making her feel like she was a flower next to a mighty oak.

She waited to hear what he planned to do with her.

"I'll refer t'ye as I see fit, lass," he said in a tone that made her shiver. "B'have, and ye'll be treated as a lady. B'tray my trust, and I can no' guarantee yer life."

Her breath caught, as much from the moon-hued eyes as her fear.

"Ye doona wanna ken what happens then," he finished. "D'ye understand?"