Bride of the Black Scot Read Free

through camp, following close behind their leader,
pulling their horses to a rearing stop just a few feet from the spot where
Juliette and Captain Morrison stood.
    She stared up at them, too struck by their sheer
magnificence to speak. They were beings from another world, another time—wild
and dangerous, free and without restraint. Something deep within her soul
stirred, and she felt as if she had lived all her life for this one moment.
    The black-clad leader of the group looked with haughty
disdain at the English soldiers who surrounded them before pinning his cold,
blue-eyed gaze on Juliette. For the briefest moment, time was suspended, the
man’s great black cape swirling magnificently about him, his ebony horse
tossing his head and pawing the earth that seemed to quake beneath her own
trembling legs. The second their gazes met, something within Juliette leaped
and she knew, knew without a doubt, that this raven-haired man with clothes as
black as the night was the same man she had seen—and seen a great deal of—at
the pool.
    The black devil impaled her with a look that suggested he
had seen a great deal of her as well. The idea was preposterous, of course; she
had been too well hidden. Yet his knowing look made her glance away. But not
before she saw the sardonic amusement on his face.
    That look made Juliette confront him squarely and without
fear. It would not do for these men of the Black Scot to report to her
betrothed that he was about to marry a weakling.
    With a creaking of saddle leather and harness, the
black-cloaked leader urged his horse closer and drew him to a stop just inches
from her. He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the pommel of his saddle as
his gaze swept over her. “I ken this is the betrothed of the Black
Scot,” he said in a powerful, threatening voice.
    ‘This is Lady Juliette Pemberton,” Captain Morrison said.
“And who might you be, sir?”
    With one graceful movement, the dark stranger threw a leg
over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He was tall and slender. His black
velvet doublet and breeches fitted him well—too well—and she wondered if he
wore the black of mourning in defiance to the king’s banishment of the tartan.
    It wasn’t his tight breeches that drew her attention,
however, but the sensual mouth beneath the hawkish nose, the raven hair that
hung to his shoulders, the proud angle of his head, the devil’s own blue-black
eyes that seemed in harmony with a face that might have belonged to the Roman
deity of the underworld.
    “Stephen Gordon at your service,” he said.
    “You are a kinsman of the Black Scot?” Captain Morrison
asked.
    His smile was mocking. “The Gordons are all clansmen, but I
ken it could be said that I am closer to our laird than anyone,” he said,
drawing his gaze from Captain Morrison and giving Juliette the once-over before
stepping closer and taking her by the chin, tilting her face toward the fire.
    The moment his fingers made contact with her skin, she
jumped as if touched by a red-hot brand. He took no notice, studying her as
casually as he might a peddler selling hot cross buns.
    “You hide your fear well,” he said.
    Her heart hammered in her chest; her palms grew damp.
Breathing became something of a labor. “I see nothing to fear,” she replied,
praying the sound of her knocking knees did not reach his arrogant ears.
    He had the audacity to laugh and her first impulse was to
take her revenge against his shin, but she surmised such an attempt in soft
slippers would only crush her toes. There would be another chance, when she was
wearing riding boots. She returned his stare. “Were you hoping I would be
afraid of you? Is that why you came dressed in black and tore down half the
tents in camp as you arrived?”
    His smile was wicked. “You seem remarkably determined in
your refusal to show fear, mistress.”
    “Fear is bondage.”
    “And pride consoles the weak.”
    “We shall see,” she said, tilting her chin up