Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“Please…” Paisley’s hands flew up, as if her scratched palms stood any chance of protecting her against such a man.

Through flinching eyes, she made out the blurry figure of the kneeling man’s executioner. He did not look at all like she imagined a brute should be, with a wavy mane of glossy dark locks, shiny as rook feathers, and a face more handsome than any she had seen in her four-and-twenty years. Every feature was perfectly crafted—his lips full, his nose a straight slope, his cheekbones high and sharp, his skin like captured moonlight.

He barely looked real, more like an otherworldly being from the forbidden books she had devoured. A god of the old ways walking among mere mortals.

Gods who took maidens as their lovers, couplin’ in secret glades beneath the silver light of the moon…

Paisley trembled and squeezed her eyes shut, aware that her thoughts were sacrilegious. If she did not look at him, maybe such thoughts would banish themselves.

But she could not block out the soft thud of his footsteps. Even without seeing him, she felt his presence growing nearer, shivering as his shadow fell over her.

He will kill me too. I am a witness to what he did.

“Are ye alright, lass?” he asked in a lilting voice. “Did ye lose yer way? I cannae imagine ye meant to find yerself alone in the woods at such an hour, nae unless ye were seekin’ trouble.”

Paisley tried to back away, but her legs had had enough. Her throbbing left knee gave way, her aching right one unable to counterbalance. She crumpled to the ground with a cry, bracing for the fresh bite of the briars and the patches of thistles that grew as tall as her thighs.

Strong arms caught her before she felt a single sting of thorn or thistle.

She yelped, swept off her feet entirely.

“Unhand me!” she gasped in horror, her mind conjuring up those old stories again. “Please, unhand me!”

The brute did not comply at first—he carried her across the clearing. Her heart pounded violently with the strange pulse of fearful curiosity. Had she not daydreamed about such things while tending to the sheep or lighting the candles for Vespers?

Ye’ve gone mad. Ye’ve let the Devil chase ye into these woods, ye daft mare.

The nuns had warned her often enough about temptation, how easy it could be to wander off the path of holiness. But Cecilia—her dear, lost friend Cecilia—had encouraged it, so wicked in her words and ways that Paisley had often wondered why the nuns allowed her to remain.

The man carried her over to a nearby tree stump, away from brambles and spiny plants, and set her down carefully.

Flushed and panting, the last embers of those lurid old tales burning across her dirtied and scraped skin, Paisley bowed her head and clasped her hands together.

“What do ye mean to do with me?”

The man leaned on his sword, that terrible tip buried in the moss. “Well, when I heard yer voice, I’d thought I might ravish ye here on this soft blanket of earth—if ye werenae averse, that is.” Humor laced his tone. “Then I saw the veil and the habit and that scapular around yer fine waist. So, I suppose I’ll be escortin’ ye back to the convent.”

“Nay!” Paisley blurted, her eyes wide.

All of her fear drained away, for she would rather share the forest with a whole band of ruffians than return to that place so soon.

I’d thought I might ravish ye here…

She touched her cold knuckles to her blazing cheeks, half wishing she had never discovered the secret vault in the convent’s library. Before she found those precious tomes, she had been happy enough. She had realized too late that those long-hidden books were so much more than leather and paper—they were a gateway to a world beyond her imagination, a world she had desperately wanted to see.

Still desperately wanted to see.

The man eyed her with amused interest, one dark eyebrow arched. “What did ye do, lass? What could ye possibly do in a convent that was so awful that ye had nay choice but to flee?”

“I did nothin’ wrong…” Paisley mumbled, focusing her gaze on an oyster mushroom that jutted from the tree stump.

As she attempted to fold one ankle behind the other in a more decorous position, a sharp pain shot up her left leg. The gasp tore from her lips before she could stop it.

“Ye dinnae have to tell me,” the man said with a shrug, sinking to his knees in front of her. “But somethin’ is wrong with ye.”

He reached for her skirt without permission, drawing the sodden, ripped fabric up to her ankle.

“Dinnae touch me!” She kicked out instinctively, the heel of her boot colliding with his chest.

He did not so much as grimace, his solid physique not budging at all. But he did throw his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender, his lopsided smile making his black eyes glitter.

“Ye must be the first lass who’s ever said that to me. I respect it, considerin’ what ye are. Nay nun can be seen givin’ in to the wiles of a mortal man, though I have made me fair share of lasses see paradise.”

She raised her gaze, glaring at him while her traitorous face sweltered with the heat of her blush, blood roaring in her ears. Her hand closed around the cross on her scapular—the leather belt that encircled her waist, a crucifix and a written prayer hanging down.

His dark eyes noticed the gesture, and he sank back on his haunches. “I jest when I ought to be serious,” he said by way of explanation. “I wasnae touchin’ ye for any nefarious means. Ye’re hurt, there’s blood soakin’ through the knee of yer skirt. I need to check yer wounds so ye dinnae stumble off and draw all manner of forest beasts to the scent.”

Paisley jolted. She had heard of wild animals lurking in the Highland forests, had seen what was left of a sheep or two that had wandered away from the flock, but she had not thought that she might become prey. Cecilia had assured her that they would face nothing greater than a fox, but what if her friend had only said that so she would not lose her nerve?

“I dinnae seem so bad compared to a wolf or a bear now, do I?” The man smirked, and though it was not godly, she wanted to smack him for toying with her.

“There are nay wolves in Scotland,” she muttered. “There havenae been any since the Romans left.”

He cocked his head, those intensely black eyes a dangerous thing to peer into. Paisley could well imagine that a young woman could lose her way if she stared back for too long.

“An educated nun, eh?” he said.

She scowled. “I am a novice.”

“Aye, well, we all are at one point or another. Ye dinnae become an expert without years of practice.”

He reached for her skirt again.

Paisley’s breath lodged in her throat as he raised the hem, his eyes fixed on hers. A warm shiver ran up her injured leg as his fingertips inadvertently—or perhaps deliberately—brushed against her bare skin as he eased the damp, heavy material all the way up to her mid-thigh.

She had never been so exposed around a man, her whole body a spreading wildfire of embarrassment and forbidden fascination. How could such a light touch reach all the way to her lungs and squeeze them tight?

How could his fingertips spark the tingling heat that bloomed across her chest and up her neck? Why did it cause her head to throb, when her leg and her skull could not have been further apart?

He gave a low whistle, a calloused hand closing around her shin. The thumb of his other hand gently traced the deep gouge that curved around her knee joint in a livid crescent.

“That’s a nasty cut, lass. Ye sure ye havenae already been in a fight with a bear?”

Paisley could not breathe, the feel of his hand on her leg somehow climbing all the way up to her throat in a shivering ripple, tightening it. His hands were rough, but his touch was tender and warm. Her stomach now joined the strange chain of effects that his presence had somehow linked. It fluttered, quite against her will.

She cleared her tight throat. “It was dark. I couldnae see. Everythin’ in this forest has tried to cut me to ribbons.”

“Aye, the woods will test ye.” He blew gently on the wound, cooling the hot sting of it while raising the temperature inside her. “And ye’re nae trampin’ through them again without me tendin’ to this. It’s nae far from the nearest village. There’s a lass there who can remedy this, but I’m afraid ye’ll have a scar. A pity to mar such perfect skin. If ye point me in the direction of the culprit, I’ll chop it down for ye.”

She had forgotten the poor soul who lay slumped in the middle of the clearing, his blood watering the moss and grass and mushrooms. While she was foolishly blushing, there was a man dead, and by the same hand that now caressed the angry skin around her wound.

“I wouldnae follow ye anywhere,” she muttered, shoving her skirts back down over her bare legs, pushing his hand out of the way. “I just saw ye kill someone. I cannae follow a wretch who has nay mercy in his veins. Who’s to say ye wouldnae do the same to me?”

The man’s eyes flared. “ I say. But if ye wish to be righteous to a fault, ye can always stay here and make that corpse yer bedfellow ‘til the sun comes up and ye undoubtedly lose yer way again.”

He got up and dusted off his hands, towering over her. “Be warned, he’ll draw more attention than ye, and when the dawn is upon us, the night creatures are never more desperate for a final meal before they take a rest.”

As if he had summoned it, as if he were truly an old god of the forgotten order, a chilling howl pierced the muffled quiet of the forest.

Paisley jumped to her feet, immediate regret chasing a splinter of pain up her leg. She swayed and almost fell again, her inability to stay upright apparently giving the dark-haired man all the permission he needed to scoop her up into his arms.

“Where are ye headed anyway if ye’re nae returnin’ to the convent?” he asked, carrying her out of the clearing as if it were nothing.

She wriggled and writhed, infuriated by his audacity. If he noticed, he ignored it, plowing through the dense underbrush.

He maneuvered around shadowy trees and snaking roots with ease, like a man who knew these woodlands as well as he knew his own reflection, whether it was night or day. He did not stumble or falter once, his breathing even and slow despite the additional burden.

“I ken me chest can be comfortable, but ye’ve nae fallen asleep, have ye?” he teased, smiling down at her.

She turned her face away from him. “I was on me way to Clan Morris.”

“Och, then ye are lost.” He readjusted her in his arms. “Ye’ve come south, when ye should’ve gone north. Ye were lucky ye fell across me path, or else ye’d have likely hobbled all the way to the English border before ye realized ye’d gotten lost.”

“I wouldnae,” she mumbled. “That’s ridiculous.”

He laughed softly. “Aye, but at least ye didnae go north. Ye have to pass through MacBrayne lands to reach Morris lands. It’s nae safe for a lass alone there, at present. If ever, truth be told.”

“It’s nae the MacBraynes that are the trouble,” she pointed out, her voice cold. “It’s the MacNallys.”

The man cocked an eyebrow. “Ye hear of war from behind yer convent walls?”

“Nuns ken more than ye think,” she replied flatly, refusing to look him in the eyes.

“I’m sure they do,” he said quietly, too close to her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck. “But why, pray tell, is a novice nun headed to Clan Morris?”

She clamped her lips shut, understanding to a degree why other young women like herself might struggle to rebuff his charms. With his impossibly good looks, his melodic voice, his black eyes with the starlight twinkle, and those powerful muscles, it would take a strong woman to resist him.

Fortunately, she had spent years learning the ways of silence, fortitude, discipline, and restraint. Her entire season at the convent had been an education in fending off the Devil—she had not realized it would be so useful, so soon after stepping into the wider world she had dreamed of.

“A fortress, eh?” Amusement laced his enchanting voice.

She ignored him, her attention snared by a creature in the gloom. A short distance away, the huge shape stomped and snorted, foggy air pluming from the beast. Paisley’s heart lurched into her throat, her mind overwhelmed with visions of yellow-fanged, shaggy-coated wolves, vast claws swiping for her head.

What if they didnae all disappear when the Romans left?

“Careful,” her morally ambiguous rescuer whispered. “She’s a biter.”

Paisley swallowed hard. “What… is she?”

“What do ye think? Might it be a Kelpie, come to drown me in the river?” He carried her closer, a laugh bursting out of him as they approached the creature enough to see it. “Or might it be me horse?”

Paisley narrowed her eyes at him, feeling foolish.

“Up ye go,” he said, still chuckling while he hoisted her onto the horse. A mare as dark as her master.

She sat awkwardly on the saddle, trying to remember the last time she had ridden a horse. It came to her alongside a pinch of sadness, memories of the long road to the convent in the driving rain, the hood of a cloak over her head.

The man cleared his throat to bring her attention back to him. He held onto the reins, still standing at the side of the horse, patting the creature’s muscular neck.

“I’ll help ye find yer way to Clan Morris,” he said with that infuriating smile, “but nae for nothin’.”

Paisley straightened her posture. “What do ye mean?”

He pulled himself up behind her in one fluid, graceful movement. One arm slipped around her waist, and as he clicked his tongue to nudge the horse into a walk, he whispered in her ear, “I want somethin’ in return.”