Free In the Highlander's Bed by Cathy Maxwell

trapped dove.
    Constance began combing her hair with her fingers and twisting it into a braid that she tied off with a piece of lace torn from her petticoat. She was glad now that she hadn’t tried to run.
    When she did make her escape, she’d best be certain it was at a time when Gordon couldn’t come after her.
    He glanced over at her, his expression serious, as if divining her thoughts. Like Thomas, Constance was tempted to take a step back. Instead, she stood her ground.
    Overhead, the dove gave its low call, a warning if ever there was one.
    Six
    Gordon called Constance when he was ready to leave. She didn’t hesitate, glancing up at the trees as she approached and noticing, “Your dove is gone.”
    He grunted a response, apparently a sign he wasn’t in a good mood. She could have said something about lack of sleep but murmured instead, “Lucky bird to be able to fly away.”
    If he caught her barb, he gave no sign. “Here’s something to break your fast,” he said. He offered her an oat cake from his saddlebag and a leather flask of beer.
    Munching on the flat-tasting oat cake and washing it down with beer, Constance asked, “How much farther will we travel?”
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    “Far enough,” he answered.
    “Are you going to retie my hands?”
    There was a moment’s hesitation, and then he answered, “No.” He took the flask from her, recapped it, and mounted his horse. He offered his hand to help her up.
    Constance gave a heavy sigh of resignation but placed her palm in his. His fingers wrapped around her wrist and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing and settled her once again in front of him.
    Her legs and bum wanted to protest against more riding. She’d grown soft since she came to England.
    However, this time, because her hands were untied, she didn’t have to lean awkwardly against him. She could rest her back against the hard, flat plane of his chest, which was infinitely more comfortable.
    He set his heels to the horse, his arm around her waist to keep her steady, and they were off.
    They didn’t ride with the urgency they had before. Thomas and the others kept up a lighthearted banter but Gordon was quiet. Constance listened to the men, picking up a name or two from their conversation but little other information. She couldn’t help but lean her head against Gordon’s chest. His strong arms prevented her from falling. She wanted to keep alert, but after a time, lulled by the safe, warm haven of his body, relaxed enough to doze off.
    When she woke, the forest around them had grown more dense. There was a chill in the air though the sun was high in the sky. She pulled the tartan closer around her shoulders. Her stomach rumbled. She decided Gordon had been quiet long enough. “Are we ever going to eat?”
    “You had an oat cake,” he answered, not looking at her.
    Constance frowned up at the stony set of his features. That little bit of sleep had helped restore her spirits. “I need something more than that.”
    The others had quieted, listening.
    “We don’t have time to stop for a meal,” Gordon said.
    “You don’t need food?” she challenged.
    As if in response, his own stomach growled.
    Constance arched an eyebrow, daring him to deny his simple human hunger.
    His first response was to scowl at the others as if they were the ones responsible for her questioning him.
    They fell back without a quibble.
    “You act as if this is a game, lass,” Gordon warned.
    “Captives must be fed,” she dared to remind him.
    He whipped his horse around sharply. The animal heeled back, threatening to unseat them both. “Are you mocking me?” he demanded. “Because you’d best beware. This is no game.”
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    Fear shot through her, but with it came anger.
    He thought of her as some simple debutante, some pampered daughter of theton