Read Online Desiring the Highlander by Michele Sinclair - Free Book Online
Authors: Michele Sinclair
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hue she had ever seen. Darker than the sky. Clearer than the sea. A woman could get lost in eyes like his if she let her guard down. They seemed to reflect understanding. He didn’t know why she needed to be the one to let go, but he recognized her pain. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for her in a long time.
And for a moment, Ellenor almost reconsidered running away.
Cole threw the leg bone of the rabbit he had been chewing on into the fire. He offered to do the same for Ellenor, but she opted to glare at him and toss the bone in herself. Shrugging, he stood and announced, “I’m going to scout the area and will return shortly.” Then he paused and added in Gaelic, “And if our aoigh decides she no longer wants our company…” He paused, looked back and gave her his half grin. “Then let her go.”
A minute later, he was gone. Ellenor sat in shocked silence, wondering if she could have misunderstood…but she doubted it. After her father died, she had stopped venturing into town alone, ending her secret lessons in the Gaelic language. However, before that, the old Scottish smithy had told her that, with the exception of Laurel Cordell, she was the finest student he ever had. She had similar compliments from the abbess who had taught her how to read and speak French and Italian. She had a mind for languages and found them easy to digest and learn, but never did she dream she would actually have a need for one of them in her lifetime. Tonight, the once-useless talent had both calmed and inflamed her fears.
Since they stopped to make camp, the three Highlanders had chatted intermittently in their language about various topics. Most of them uninteresting—horses, the flat terrain, and the painfully slow pace they had been forced to endure. Ellenor had almost given away the fact that she could understand their speech by making a sarcastic comment, but held her tongue just in time. And the price for her silence had paid off.
She had learned the name of her captor—Cole. He was the third of seven siblings and they were headed to the home of his eldest brother and laird of their Highland clan. The brother was married, and by the sporadic comments—quite happily. However, nothing in the conversation explained why his brother had ordered Cole to go south and bring her safely back to him.
Ellenor could only surmise two reasons. She was to be married, which was unlikely, but possible. The thought of building alliances with an English baron might appeal to some. The other reason was labor, but even that was a stretch. Why go to so much effort to punish a single Englishwoman whom you don’t even know?
“Do you think she will try and run?” The question came from one called Jaime Ruadh—or Jaime the Red, which was appropriate for his wild hair was an incredible shade of bright crimson.
His friend, Donald, shrugged and stoked the fire. “Hope so.”
“You’re just sore about earlier,” Jaime chided. He was still gnawing on the rest of the rabbit so his words were slurred and half-articulated.
“More like pissed. All I did was try and keep the wench from falling.”
“She was just scared of you.”
“I don’t care if she thought I was the devil,” Donald retorted, adjusting himself once again. “You don’t kick a man that hard…there…especially when he has to sit in the saddle all day.”
“True,” Jaime agreed. “And I’ve seen no remorse from the lass.”
Ellenor’s eyes widened and quickly looked away. All afternoon she had been returning Donald’s evil glares, believing her violent reaction had been justified. He had grabbed her from behind and she had wanted him to let go and never think about touching her again.
“The damn mùrla is no more capable of remorse than she is of shame. No woman should allow herself to smell the way she does.”
Jaime took a last bite, licked his lips, and threw the bone in the fire. “Come on now. I’ve smelt worse. Hell, you’ve smelled of
And for a moment, Ellenor almost reconsidered running away.
Cole threw the leg bone of the rabbit he had been chewing on into the fire. He offered to do the same for Ellenor, but she opted to glare at him and toss the bone in herself. Shrugging, he stood and announced, “I’m going to scout the area and will return shortly.” Then he paused and added in Gaelic, “And if our aoigh decides she no longer wants our company…” He paused, looked back and gave her his half grin. “Then let her go.”
A minute later, he was gone. Ellenor sat in shocked silence, wondering if she could have misunderstood…but she doubted it. After her father died, she had stopped venturing into town alone, ending her secret lessons in the Gaelic language. However, before that, the old Scottish smithy had told her that, with the exception of Laurel Cordell, she was the finest student he ever had. She had similar compliments from the abbess who had taught her how to read and speak French and Italian. She had a mind for languages and found them easy to digest and learn, but never did she dream she would actually have a need for one of them in her lifetime. Tonight, the once-useless talent had both calmed and inflamed her fears.
Since they stopped to make camp, the three Highlanders had chatted intermittently in their language about various topics. Most of them uninteresting—horses, the flat terrain, and the painfully slow pace they had been forced to endure. Ellenor had almost given away the fact that she could understand their speech by making a sarcastic comment, but held her tongue just in time. And the price for her silence had paid off.
She had learned the name of her captor—Cole. He was the third of seven siblings and they were headed to the home of his eldest brother and laird of their Highland clan. The brother was married, and by the sporadic comments—quite happily. However, nothing in the conversation explained why his brother had ordered Cole to go south and bring her safely back to him.
Ellenor could only surmise two reasons. She was to be married, which was unlikely, but possible. The thought of building alliances with an English baron might appeal to some. The other reason was labor, but even that was a stretch. Why go to so much effort to punish a single Englishwoman whom you don’t even know?
“Do you think she will try and run?” The question came from one called Jaime Ruadh—or Jaime the Red, which was appropriate for his wild hair was an incredible shade of bright crimson.
His friend, Donald, shrugged and stoked the fire. “Hope so.”
“You’re just sore about earlier,” Jaime chided. He was still gnawing on the rest of the rabbit so his words were slurred and half-articulated.
“More like pissed. All I did was try and keep the wench from falling.”
“She was just scared of you.”
“I don’t care if she thought I was the devil,” Donald retorted, adjusting himself once again. “You don’t kick a man that hard…there…especially when he has to sit in the saddle all day.”
“True,” Jaime agreed. “And I’ve seen no remorse from the lass.”
Ellenor’s eyes widened and quickly looked away. All afternoon she had been returning Donald’s evil glares, believing her violent reaction had been justified. He had grabbed her from behind and she had wanted him to let go and never think about touching her again.
“The damn mùrla is no more capable of remorse than she is of shame. No woman should allow herself to smell the way she does.”
Jaime took a last bite, licked his lips, and threw the bone in the fire. “Come on now. I’ve smelt worse. Hell, you’ve smelled of
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