Highland Surrender Read Online Free PDF Page B

wig among the darker heads of the Scots.
    “Elizabeth,” he blustered, breaking from the crowd. The gold of the round buttons down the front of his coat came into view, and Elizabeth noted that he’d placed his wig carefully askew to give himself an anxious demeanor. As always, he played the concerned, doting uncle to a T. Now all the residents of Camdonn Castle would spread the rumor of what a fine, caring man he was, and if she ever disputed it, well, they viewed evidence to the contrary right this very instant.
    “Oh, my dear.” He reached up to pull her from the horse. Her feet hit the ground with a jolt, and he loomed over her, his face a mask of concern. “Oh, Lizzy. How I have worried. Thank God you are unhurt.”
    She managed to smile up at him. “I am fine, truly.” She risked a glance at Robert, who watched the scene dispassionately.
    “Come, child, let us go inside. It is warm there, and your maid awaits with fresh garments and a warm posset for you.”
    “But what about Lord Camdonn, Uncle? He’s lost. I fear he’s been shot or fallen from his horse—”
    “Never fear, dear girl. Lord Camdonn’s men will find him. They will scour every inch of the countryside, and I have no doubt he’ll be home by dusk.” He gave her arm a fatherly pat.
    From the corner of her eye, she saw Robert take up the reins and lead the horse away. She knew better than to stare, and she tore her gaze away from the Scot as Uncle Walter ushered her toward a long rectangular building with a tall square tower rising from one end. Long ago, this building must have served as the keep.
    She’d felt utterly safe with Robert’s strong arm locked around her body. With his powerful legs encasing her behind. As he moved farther away from her, so did that warm, sweet sensation of security.
    She looked up at her uncle, saw the silvery glint in his eyes as he slanted his gaze at her disheveled gown, and steeled herself against the panic threatening to consume her whole.
     
    Ceana pushed through the brush and dropped to her knees beside the man. Eyes half lidded, he didn’t seem to register her presence as she assessed his condition. Blue tinged his pale skin, a stark contrast to his red lips and dark lashes and brows. High, slashing cheekbones, a sloped straight nose, and black brows arching over long-lashed, wide-set eyes all worked together to create an artistic masterpiece.
    She tore her gaze from his face, which required no further analysis, certainly, for it was uninjured. Only the paleness of his skin offered information; he’d lost too much blood.
    Once she escaped the snare of his far-too-handsome face, it was simple enough to diagnose his malaise. Sticky blood covered his shoulder and most of his arm, darkening the black wool coat covering his torso. He’d been dealt a crushing blow to his arm—or maybe he’d been shot. She shuddered, remembering the poachers. Perhaps they weren’t poachers after all.
    His rich clothing left no doubt that he was a fine gentleman. Not that it mattered to her—she wasn’t the obsequious, sniveling sort, fawning over the higher orders like they shat gold. People were equal to her, no matter their station in life, and while the difference between her class and his might be clear as day, she’d care for him as she’d care for anyone else. He deserved no more and no less than the lowliest whore or the poorest beggar.
    People could either accept her as she was or leave her be. She didn’t care one way or the other, and ultimately, when it came to a choice between living and dying, neither did anyone else. Of any class. No one cared about her appearance or her social standing if she was saving their life.
    “Can you hear me?” she asked in Scots. She tried again in English. When he didn’t answer, she spoke more sharply, smacking his smoothly shaven cheek lightly with her palm. His skin was clammy, cold to the touch, his breathing rapid.
    His eyelids fluttered, revealing the dark orbs