Page 35 of In the Highlander's Bed

Exceptthisone had…and in her mind, he was more manly for it. He was crusader and king, humble and yet, if need be, ruthless. He could fit anywhere in the world and survive.

Walls around her heart that she’d never noticed before seemed to melt away. His touch did that. His simple kindness had challenged everything she’d thought about her world.

She watched him tie off the knot of her bandage, wondering if he was experiencing what she was…and knowing it was not so.

If ever there was a reason to escape, this was it. These tender, new feelings for him made her vulnerable, and she didn’t like being vulnerable.

Gordon finished knotting off the second bandage and then rose. He poured himself a draught of whiskey into the tankard and downed it, without any sputtering. His gaze met hers. “’Tis good.”

She shuddered her distaste. It was a way to hide the turmoil of her true feelings and to exert some semblance of control over herself.

He laughed and put the cork back in the bottle. “I’m going out. When I return, I’ll see you fed. In the meantime, you will wait here.”

“You’re going to leave me?” She didn’t want to be alone. Everything was too strange, too new. “I thought I was going everywhere with you.”

“Obviously not.” He placed the whiskey in the tack chest before reaching for a dark wood writing case and a small leather purse, which he tucked inside the case. He closed the tack chest.

As he headed toward the door, Tad rose, tail wagging as if in anticipation of going wherever his master was. She noticed Gordon hadn’t bothered to retie her.

Did he think her beaten?

Never.

As if reading her mind, Gordon said, “You won’t be leaving this tent, Constance. Nottonight. If all goes well, in two weeks’ time you’ll be sitting at Colster’s table. So, stop playing as if this were a game or some drama for the stage. Be wise and stay here. I shall be back shortly. Tad,guard.”

The wolfhound’s tail stopped wagging. The dog’s happy grin turned to what appeared a frown of disappointment as he swung his great shaggy head in her direction, and she knew whom he blamed.

“He can outrun any deer on this mountain. I’ve seen him take down a boar with his bare teeth. You’ll be here when I return,” Gordon assured her.

“How long will you be gone?” she asked, wondering if the dog ever acted on any of his grudges.

“Until I’m ready to return,” Gordon responded, as if she were a distraction and little more—but then, at the door, he stopped.

He turned and walked back to the tack chest. He set aside his writing case, opened the lid and took out two pistols, a powder horn, a dirk, and a sword. He placed the dirk in his boot, tucked the pistols in his waistband, lifted the horn’s cord around his neck, and attached the sword around his waist with a belt. “I don’t want you tempted,” he explained to her beforepicking up the case and leaving the tent.

Constance sat back. The tent’s canvas was heavy and muffled most of the sounds outside. For a moment she gave in to defeat, but only for a moment…until she realized she had a new enemy—boredom.

There was nothing to do in the tent. After two minutes of sitting, she was ready to move. She didn’t bother trying to slip out the door. She knew Gordon well enough to know he meant what he’d said, and if he claimed Tad could stop her, then it was true.

However, that didn’t mean she couldn’t while away the time satisfying her curiosity about Gordon. She opened the lid to the tack chest. Tad watched with undisguised curiosity, one ear cocked higher than the other.

Gordon’s clothes were folded neatly. Constance ran a hand over them. He was not a vain man. They were plain and hard worn.

Beneath them she found a Bible with an inscription on the inside cover. The light in the tent was too poor to read the writing. She poked around the chest, found a tinder box, and lit the oil lamp hanging from the tent’s center pole.

The boldly written inscription said:

To my son, in whom I am well pleased.

Remember justice without heart mocks the very meaning of the word.

Your father.

September 8, 1797

Amidst the Bible’s pages she found a watercolor miniature of a woman with Gordon’s sharp, intelligent green eyes. She turned the portrait over. Someone had written:d. 1788.

There was not much else in the tack chest other than some tools, the whiskey, a jug of cider, and miscellaneous leather pieces of tack. She wished he hadn’t taken his weapons.