The Wrong Highlander Read online

  That last thought made Evina press her lips tight together and spur her horse into a run before they’d even left the clearing. Her father couldn’t die. He just couldn’t. He and Gavin were all the family she had in this world.

  Conran groaned as pain dragged him back toward consciousness. It wasn’t one pain, but a whole battery of pains, and they were assaulting him from nearly everywhere. His arms, his legs, his ankles and wrists, his stomach and his damned head were all throbbing, pounding or aching at the moment and he didn’t understand why. He also didn’t understand what he was seeing when he was finally able to open his eyes. Everything was just a fuzzy blur at first, but even when his vision cleared he couldn’t quite grasp what he was staring at.

  Something dark brown was filling most of his vision, although there was a strip of something blue on one side. Unable to figure out what the brown was, Conran turned his head slightly to peer at the blue instead, hoping that might be more comprehensible. But beyond the blue he could see the tail end of the horse he was apparently on, and beyond that, what appeared to be an upside-down rider following.

  Although the rider wasn’t the one who was upside down, he was, Conran realized suddenly as he stared at the large man and the scenery disappearing behind him. He was hanging upside down on a horse, his stomach across the saddle, with his legs hanging down one side and his shoulders and arms the other.

  That explained his aching stomach, Conran supposed as he bounced on the beast’s back, his stomach slamming into the pommel and top of the saddle. His aching head could be blamed on the blow he now recalled taking back at the river, and his ankles and wrists hurt because they were both presently bound, and tightly too. There also appeared to be a rope attached to his bound hands that disappeared under the belly of the beast he lay on.

  Conran wasn’t positive what that rope was attached to at first, but when he tried to draw his hands toward himself, a tug on his ankles gave him the answer. His wrists and ankles were trussed up and tied together under the horse. If he slipped, his weight would drag him down so that he hung under the animal like a boar tied to a spear to be carted home after a hunt. Did that happen, he was likely to be kicked in the head. Brilliant.

  Turning his face, Conran peered at the blue cloth next to his head. Someone rode with him. Presumably to keep him from slipping, he supposed. He could feel pressure on one butt cheek, as if someone were pressing down to keep him from shifting and slipping under the animal.

  The naked man who’d attacked him while he was cleaning up at the waterfall? he wondered, but then took a look at the cloth next to him again. Not a plaid, and not braies either. The blue cloth draped, looking more like a skirt to him. It was pulled tight because the rider was astride, but it was a skirt he was sure. Conran let his eyes follow the cloth down to where it ended just above a strip of dark brown that might have been the bottom hem of braies worn under the skirt, and then there were a bare couple of inches of pale calf showing above the top of brown leather riding boots.

  Conran hung there for a moment, simply staring at the bit of skin, and then tried to lift and turn his head to look at the rider presently touching his bottom so familiarly, but the movement made the pounding in his head increase in severity enough that he quickly gave up the effort. After waiting a moment for the pain to ease back to a dull throb again, Conran called out instead. Or at least he tried. Even he couldn’t hear the weak sound of his breathless voice over the drumming of the horses’ hooves. Aside from the fact that his position made it impossible to take in enough air to propel anything of volume, his mouth and throat were dry as old bone.

  Unable to get the rider’s attention, Conran tried to make himself relax, but his position was damned uncomfortable, and growing more so by the moment. He had to get the attention of the person he rode with. After a moment of debating the situation, he finally simply turned his head and bit into the patch of naked skin above the leather boot.

  It immediately became obvious that it had been the wrong move. Rather than slowing to a halt at the realization that he was awake, the rider clenched the hand on his bottom in a startled response, driving sharp nails into his ass. The unknown female must also have yanked on the reins in surprise with her other hand too. At least, that was his guess when the animal suddenly reared up with a distressed whinny.

  Cursing, Conran closed his eyes and tried to brace himself as his world turned on its end.

  “Cousin!”

  Groaning, Evina rolled onto her back, and opened her eyes, unsurprised to find Gavin next to her, concern on his face.

  “Are ye all right?” he asked, looking her over.

  “Fine,” she sighed as he helped her sit up. Glancing around she spotted the Buchanan on the ground a few feet away, next to his now-calm horse. Donnan was kneeling beside him.

  “Is he okay?” Evina asked anxiously. Ignoring the aches and pains assailing her, she struggled to her feet with help from Gavin, and moved to lean over Donnan so that she could get a look at the Buchanan’s face. Seeing his closed eyes, and pale face, she sighed with disappointment. “He’s unconscious again.”

  “Again?” Donnan glanced back at her with surprise.

  Evina nodded. “He woke up briefly just moments ago.”

  “Are ye sure?” Donnan asked.

  “Aye,” she said with a grimace. “The bastard bit me leg.”

  “He bit you?” Gavin asked with a laugh of disbelief.

  Evina nodded again. “It startled me into yanking on the blasted reins, which is why his steed reared.”

  “He’s unconscious, but breathing fine and seems good other than another bump on his head,” Donnan announced, straightening. “Must have got it when he hit the ground.”

  Evina relaxed a little. They’d both come off the horse when it reared. She’d tumbled backward, and he’d slid down the horse’s back right behind her. He’d still been trussed up, ankles and wrists, with a rope attached between them. She supposed they were lucky he’d only suffered a blow to the head and hadn’t been trampled or dragged about by his mount.

  “We’re only an hour from Maclean,” Donnan said quietly. “It might be better to get him there before he wakes again.”

  “Aye,” Evina agreed, absently rubbing her elbow. She’d landed on it hard when she fell off the horse. It was tender, probably badly bruised, as was her hip, but she hadn’t broken anything, and she was conscious, so, all told, she’d fared better than the Buchanan.

  “Gavin can take him on his horse for the rest of the ride,” Donnan said as he picked up the man and straightened.

  Evina didn’t argue. This wasn’t the first time the Buchanan had slid off his saddle. It had happened shortly after they’d left the clearing. He’d slid down, headfirst toward the ground, and then hung under the horse’s belly, faceup with the rope attached between his bound ankles and wrists across the saddle. Well, he would have been faceup if he’d been conscious. He hadn’t, however, so his head had just fallen back, his long hair dragging on the ground.

  They’d stopped at once, of course, to re-situate him across the saddle, and then had decided someone should ride with him to be sure it didn’t happen again. Evina had taken the duty because she was the lightest, and they’d hoped it wouldn’t slow his horse down too much to have her ride with him. But they were close to home now; Gavin’s horse could handle the two of them and still move fast for this last bit of the journey. The beast had originally been Donnan’s until her father had gifted his first with the steed he now rode. The animal was used to carrying the bigger man, and Gavin and the Buchanan together probably didn’t weigh that much more than Donnan did on his own, he was that large.

  “Mount up, Gavin, and I’ll lay him over the saddle in front o’ ye,” Donnan ordered as he carried the Buchanan past her.

  “Are we going to untie and retie him around me horse?” Gavin asked, leading the way to his mount.

  “Nay. We’re close enough I think we can do without the bother. Just keep a hand on hi
s back to keep him from slipping off for the rest of the journey,” Donnan instructed.

  Gavin mumbled something of an agreement as he mounted his horse, then leaned over and reached out to help place the Buchanan across his horse’s back in front of him. The two men quickly ran into trouble, however, thanks to the rope between the man’s bound wrists and ankles.

  “Just a minute,” Evina said, pulling out her dirk and hurrying forward when she saw the problem. While the two men held him aloft, she quickly cut the rope between his hands and ankles, and then stepped back and out of the way, aware that her cheeks were now a fiery red. She couldn’t help it. The way they’d been holding the man, his jewels had been dangling to the side of her face, and while she’d tried not to look, it had been impossible not to take a couple of quick glances.

  Shaking her head in an effort to remove what she’d seen from her mind, Evina left the men to arrange the Buchanan to their pleasure and moved away to remount her mare.

  “Lead the way, m’lady,” Donnan rumbled once they were all back in the saddle.

  She didn’t have to be told twice. Turning her mare, Evina spurred her into a fast jog she hoped Gavin’s steed could keep up with. She was eager to get home and see that her father was all right. Or, at least, that he still lived. If he’d died while she’d been out fetching the Buchanan back to help him—

  Evina pushed that thought determinedly away, but spent the remaining hour of the journey praying that Rory Buchanan was as good as the stories claimed and could save her father’s life.

  Chapter 2

  “Oh, thank the good Lord ye’re back, m’lady. I was starting to fear ye’d be too late.”

  Evina turned from dismounting to see her maid, Tildy, rushing down the stairs toward her. The woman was wringing her hands, lines of worry creasing her old face.

  “He’s still alive though?” Evina asked sharply, moving to meet her at the base of the stairs.

  “Aye,” the maid said at once, squeezing her hands reassuringly when Evina took them. “But barely, and I’m no’ sure for how much longer if something is no’ done. He’s burning up, he is.”

  “Something will be done,” Evina assured her, and turned to where Donnan was removing the still-unconscious Buchanan from Gavin’s mount. She heard Tildy gasp beside her as his naked front was revealed, and then Donnan tossed the man over his shoulder and turned toward her.

  “Yer father’s room?” he asked as he approached.

  “Aye.” Evina turned at once to lead the way.

  “Is that the Buchanan brother what’s a healer?” Tildy asked, huffing up the stairs on her heels.

  “Aye,” Evina murmured.

  “He’s bigger than I expected,” she muttered, and then asked, “What happened to him? Why is he unconscious? And naked and tied up?”

  “There was a—” grimacing, Evina sorted briefly through words in her mind and chose “—an incident.”

  “What kind o’ an incident?” Tildy asked grimly, her voice a little stronger.

  “It does no’ matter, Tildy,” she growled as she pushed her way into the keep and started across the great hall. “The important part is he is here.”

  “But unconscious,” Tildy pointed out. “How can he help yer father if he’s unconscious?”

  “We’ll wake him up,” she assured her.

  “How?” Tildy asked at once.

  The question made Evina change direction. They’d arrived during the evening meal and the tables were full of Maclean people eating and drinking. Evina grabbed one of the nearest pitchers of ale distributed so generously among the tables, and then hurried to follow Donnan as he carried the Buchanan above stairs.

  “M’lady?” Tildy rushed to keep up with her. “What—?”

  “All will be well, Tildy,” Evina interrupted firmly. Sparing the maid a glance, she frowned and added, “Ye look exhausted. Ye’ve no’ rested at all since we left, have ye?”

  “Have you?” Tildy countered, eyebrows arched, and when Evina looked away toward the top of the stairs and let the subject drop, she added, “I thought no’. Ye must ha’e ridden day and night to get there and back so quickly.”

  Evina didn’t deny it, but merely grunted with irritation as they reached the landing. She moved around Donnan then and led the way to her father’s door.

  It was midsummer, the days hot enough that even the castle became uncomfortably warm at times, but her father’s room was positively stifling when they entered. It also smelled of rot and, for a minute, she feared her father had passed, but a moan from the depths of the furs piled on the bed told her otherwise and Evina released a relieved breath as she rushed to his side. Frowning at his flushed face, she set the pitcher of ale on the table next to the bed and reached out to touch his cheek. Concern claimed her as she felt the heat radiating from his skin before her fingers even touched him.

  “He’s boiling. Why is it so hot in here?” she asked with dismay.

  “He kept complaining he was cold, and asked us to build up the fire,” Tildy said quietly.

  Evina eyed the roaring blaze in the fireplace with concern, and then turned to watch Donnan carry the Buchanan into the room.

  “Set him here,” she instructed, gesturing to the chair she’d had moved next to the bed when her father had first fallen ill. Donnan did so at once. He then took the time to cut away the rope binding the unconscious man’s hands and ankles before stepping back.

  Evina stared. The Buchanan was slumped in the chair, his chin on his naked chest, his legs spread and his family jewels dangling between like—

  “Good Lord!”

  Blinking, Evina glanced around in time to see Tildy drag a fur off the bed. The woman then rushed forward to lay it over the Buchanan’s lap, covering the more important parts. Standing back then, she shook her head and turned to arch an eyebrow at Evina.

  “What kind of incident sees a man naked and unconscious?” she asked, tight-lipped.

  Evina automatically opened her mouth to answer. It was habit more than anything. Tildy had been her nursemaid as a child. She’d been answering to her since she was born, but before she could explain, the woman added, “And why is he wearing his plaid as a cape rather than in the proper fashion? He looks ridiculous.”

  “We tied the plaid around his neck and his knees, originally,” Evina muttered, moving forward to untie the upper portion. It had come undone from his knees when he’d fallen from the horse the second time. “’Twas to keep it on him while we were traveling. He was lying across his horse’s back on his belly at the time.”

  “Because he was unconscious,” Tildy suggested.

  “Aye. ’Tis hard to dress an unconscious man in a plaid.” Evina got the material untied and then glanced around at Donnan. She didn’t have to say anything; he was already moving forward. He lifted the man just enough so that she could tug the cloth out from under him, but not enough to dislodge the fur. Once he set the Buchanan back down, she draped the thick material over him on top of the fur, tucking it around him like a blanket.

  “And how is it he came to be unconscious?” Tildy asked as Evina finished her task and stepped back.

  She hesitated briefly, but finally admitted, “I hit him in the head with me sword hilt.”

  “You—!”

  “He was drowning Gavin,” Evina explained defensively. “I had to do something.”

  “So, ye knocked him senseless? And then what? Ye did no’ kidnap him, did ye?” Tildy asked with alarm.

  “Nay!” Evina snapped, and then frowned guiltily as she admitted, “Well, aye, mayhap a little.”

  “Mayhap ye kidnapped him a little?” Tildy asked with disbelief. “There’s no such thing as kidnapping someone a little, lass. Either ye kidnapped him, or ye did no’.”

  When Evina didn’t respond, but simply frowned at the unconscious man, Tildy asked, “Did he agree to come, or no’?”

  “Nay,” she grumbled unhappily, and then quickly added, “But he did no’ disagree either.”
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  “Oh, Evina,” Tildy said on a sigh. “I raised ye better than this, lass. Ye can no’ run about kidnapping naked men and bringing them home, no matter how handsome and strapping and well-hung they are.”

  “Tildy!” Evina turned on her with a scowl. “What he looks like and how he hangs had nothing to do with it. I brought him home to tend Father.”

  “Well, a bloody lot of good he’s going to be at tending yer father, unconscious as he is,” Tildy pointed out with disgust.

  Muttering under her breath, Evina grabbed up the pitcher of ale she’d set on the bedside table and turned to pour it over his head. This was why she’d stopped to grab the ale to begin with; she’d hoped it would help revive him . . . and it appeared to be working, she noted as the man came to sputtering, cursing life.

  Conran was dreaming he was frolicking with a redheaded beauty with blue eyes when liquid splashed over his head, tearing him from his dream girl’s embrace. He wasn’t happy about that and came to roaring life, cursing and bellowing as he lunged to his feet, only to fall silent and still as he found himself staring at the very same redheaded beauty he’d just left.

  Well, not quite the same, Conran realized as he looked her over. She had the same face with full, luscious lips that gave him ideas, and bright blue pools for eyes. But instead of long, flowing, dark red hair and a lovely gossamer gown that revealed her round, burgeoning breasts and the curve of her hips, this one had her hair tugged back tight in a bun and wore a filthy, plain, ill-fitting dark blue gown that seemed to emphasize the shadowed hollows of exhaustion under her eyes.

  Movement drew his attention to the pitcher she was even now setting on a bedside table and Conran scowled and ran his hands quickly over his face to wipe away the liquid dripping down it. Ale. He could smell and taste it. Not bad ale either, he acknowledged as he licked it off his lips. But a damned rude way to wake him.