Highland Heat by Mary Wine

escort.”
    The queen nodded. She stepped forward and grasped Deirdre’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “I shall keep my word and pray you make it to me so I may reward you. Do not be frightened.”
    “I’m born of Highlander stock, madam; there is naught here I fear. It is my home.”
    The queen’s grip tightened a fraction more. “Excellent.”
    She stepped away, Sir Richard urging her away until the night shadows swallowed them. Deirdre listened to the sound of their footsteps until they faded as well. Only a few of the horses were left; the one the attendants had taken the clothing from remained near her. Deirdre reached out and ran a sure hand along the side of the creature. There was comfort in feeling the heat of the animal. In spite of her brave words, she discovered loneliness assaulting her.
    There was the true root of the reason she had taken her place at the abbey instead of remaining under her father’s roof. It was in every person’s nature to seek the company of other living souls. Very few could resist that urge for long. Remaining on Chattan land would have seen her falling from grace again. Oh, it might have taken years; in fact, she was certain of that, for she had more than her share of pride.
    Yet she was still weak enough to recall exactly how Quinton’s lips felt against her wrist. She had enjoyed it. Now, when there was no one about to judge her, and darkness to hide in, she had to face the truth of her own nature. She did not like being alone. She suddenly understood why women lived as mistresses; they were unable to ignore their need for companionship even if fate had been cruel enough to see them loving a man who was already wed.
    There was a crunch of dry wood, left behind as the snow melted, and new plants had yet to cover the ground with soft leaves that would mask the sounds of men moving through the hills. Every Highlander knew to wait until spring was full in bloom before attempting to raid. The queen’s escort was obviously English.
    “We’ll wait until dawn breaks.”
    The man held out something shapeless. She reached for it and smiled when her fingers felt the unmistakable roughness of wool. The fine garments she wore didn’t hold back the chill, and the coldest part of the night was yet to come. Deirdre wrapped the cloak about her and raised the hood. The English knight didn’t linger near her. He rejoined the small group of men who had been chosen to be sacrificed for their queen.
    Deirdre felt their frustration as she tried to ignore a growing sense of impending disaster. She held the edges of the cloak tight and forced herself to sit down near a smooth boulder that might offer her a place to lean her head. She pulled her legs up against her chest and sighed. At least her body heat was no longer seeping away into the night. The wool might be rough and scratchy, but it was warm. Her toes began to thaw now that she had her feet drawn close to her body. She leaned her head against the stone and tried to force her thoughts to stop spinning so fast.
    But that left only Quinton Cameron’s face behind. For some reason, she recalled his face with vivid detail, the square jaw and hard features, which lacked excessive fat because the man kept pace with his men.
    Deirdre stiffened, annoyed with the direction of her thoughts.
    Her eyes opened, and she watched the shadows again. She didn’t know much about Quinton Cameron, but she was sure the man was every inch a Highlander. There was a boldness in him that a man might only earn. More than one arrogant English lord had tried his hand at demanding respect from the Highland clans. They failed because they sent their servants to do their hunting.
    Quinton Cameron had walked into the abbey first, doing what he ordered his men to do without hanging back. She discovered herself respecting the man even as she felt her temper sizzle once more.
    With a snort, she forced herself to seek out what little sleep might be hers before the day arrived.