She must have looked worried because Greyson rushed to explain, “Ross assures me you will be safe on Quinting property. We’ll join you as soon as possible.”
“Greyson!” Ross yelled.
“I have to go.” He pointed ahead at the next ridge as he rode away. “We’ll find him and meet you soon. Don’t worry, I promise you’re safe.”
And he was gone.
For the first time since the attack, Marian thought of her men lying in the road. Of the blood that had covered every one of them, the dead and their killers. Their avengers too. She thought of hiding in the bushes along the lake, certain she would not live out the day.
“My lady, ride with us. You have my word, you are safe here.”
Alban, bless him.
She nodded and, with nothing else to do, followed.
They might be safe, but what about the others? If Greyson was truly from the future, did he know how to defend himself? Skill with the longbow would not help in hand-to-hand combat.
From the future. Was she truly entertaining such a thought? Did it matter? She did not wish for Greyson to meet the same fate as poor Sir James. And if they did find this Yearger Irvine, he would not be alone.
And from what she understood, the man was not a man at all but a monster.
Marian shuddered.
If he’d thought being named president of McCaim Shipping was playing in the big leagues, it paled in comparison to this. Chasing after a man on uneven and unfamiliar terrain was a bit different than riding for pleasure. And he hadn’t ridden much in years, not since Mom’s disappearance. It was more her passion than any of theirs, except Ian.
This entire morning had been a complete shitshow.
He’d thought a 5:00 a.m. wake-up to hit the gym before work was early, but Greyson had nothing on his uncle. Ross had apparently risen before sunrise, only to learn Yearger had returned late the night before, learned of their presence, and taken off again.
Guilty as hell.
At least, that’s how they’d both taken it. They hadn’t wasted any time getting out of Dodge. Seeing Marian after last night, after their dance . . . it had been hard to leave her, but Ross assured him she was safe on Quinting land, especially with the regent in attendance. Still, he’d almost stayed behind—hell, Ross had encouraged him to, worried he’d slow them down—but Yearger Irvine had tried to kill his mother.
Not a chance in hell was he standing down.
He may take his father and brother’s lead more often than he wanted, but Greyson was a competitive bastard, as Reikart liked to say. He’d find a way to keep up with his uncle. Or at least he’d assumed so before the actual chase. Given the way they were careening across the road, the man might actually get them killed.
And then he saw them.
Three men riding ahead of them, riding fast but not at the breakneck speed Ross had insisted on the entire morning. But it seemed to have paid off. The men looked back over their shoulders.
“They’ve spotted us,” Ross yelled back.
And they had.
Greyson had no business riding this fast so out of practice. He certainly shouldn’t be charging toward medieval warriors. But the pain his family had been through drove him forward—straight past his uncle. He ignored Ross’s calls from behind him, charging forward until he was close enough to hear the pounding of the enemies’ hoofbeats. From nowhere, his uncle thundered past him, rode up to the closest of the three and, before Greyson could register what he was doing, slashed at him while full-on galloping. But his opponent had been prepared. The sound of clanging metal rang out as the man blocked the blow. Irvine’s party slowed and then stopped, finally turning to face them.
So much for innocent until proven guilty.
His crazy uncle was already off his horse. Did he plan to take on all three of them alone?
Apparently.
Greyson had strung the bow this morning in preparation and didn’t waste any time dismounting. Thankfully, the men weren’t wearing any armor. Assuming shooting position, he nocked the arrow, drew, and anchored the bow. He aimed at the man farthest away from his uncle—he was a good shot but wasn’t taking any chances under these circumstances, and with this bow—and released.
The fucker went down with a howl.
But Greyson didn’t even pause. By the time he was ready to take a second shot, the two remaining men dropped their swords.
Running toward them for truer aim, Greyson stopped and prepared a second arrow, stopping short of drawing. In the movies, archers stood aimed and ready, but in reality, his arm would be shaking in no time with the effort. But he’d hold strong, whatever it took. They would have their answers.
“Which of you is Yearger?” his uncle yelled.
The coward on the ground, holding his stomach, looked right at their mark. Greyson could tell the man was tall and heavily muscled despite the fact that he lay on the ground. Just as he had the thought, the man began to rise.
“Shona MacKinnish.”
It was all Ross said to him, and it didn’t take long for his reaction. Or the reaction of his companion. The one with an arrow sticking out of his stomach was too busy bleeding to bother with his friends. Both jerked their heads toward his uncle, the name clearly familiar to them.
“Your friend will die without assistance,” Greyson added. He had no idea if it were true. But just last week, he’d negotiated a contract making McCaim Shipping the owners of the only LNG-powered container ship in the world. He’d succeeded in part because he’d bluffed his way through the answers he didn’t know. Confidence moved mountains.
Another lesson from his father. One he’d never imagined using under these precise circumstances.
“Shona MacKinnish is missing,” Yearger said boldly.
“No shit.” He couldn’t help it. But apparently that wasn’t a curse these guys knew yet, because every one of them looked at Greyson.
Radiating impatience, Ross stalked over to Yearger and raised his sword to the man’s throat.
“Talk, or die. I’ve no preference.”
To his credit, Yearger didn’t flinch. But his companion did.
“Don’t even think about it,” Greyson warned.
If he tried to flee, Greyson would be forced to let loose. And the guy was clearly considering it.
“What happened the night the king died?” Ross asked.
Yearger looked from him to Ross and back. He obviously knew who they were, otherwise he wouldn’t have slunk off after just returning to Quinting. He had to know Ross wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. A fact his uncle seemed inclined to remind him of.
Greyson imagined himself raising his arm and aiming straight for the man’s heart. If he truly had tried to kill his mother . . .
“The tale I heard is a short one, if you care to hear it,” Ross said on a growl.
Yearger said nothing.
“Yer sister forced Shona to send a message to King Alexander. On the way back to Kinghorn, you tried to stab her. Then one of your men spooked the king’s horse, and he met his death off the side of the cliff. Two dead bodies you’d have claimed if Shona had not escaped.”
Still, Yearger said nothing. Greyson had negotiated with the best of them, and this guy was good. His body language didn’t betray him.
“Tell me another tale,” Ross finished, “or you meet the same fate as the king you were sworn to protect.”
The smug little shit actually smiled. “How about a tale of your other sister, Grace? The one who worked her black magic to help Shona disappear. Have you spoken to her? Your other sister?”
Ross’s hands shook, ever so slightly. But Greyson could see it from where he stood. He looked to the companion, who remained silent. But unlike Yearger, he didn’t hide his nervousness.
“On whose orders did you implicate my sister in the king’s death?” Ross asked.
“Do the Guardians know?” Yearger shot back. “They sent you as envoy to England, so surely not. But if they learned of your sist
er’s involvement in the king’s death . . .”
Greyson concentrated on the companion, the biggest threat to his uncle at the moment. He couldn’t take his eyes from him. Just like in an archery match, everything blacked out in the background. The man bleeding on the dirt road. The carefree call of the birds above them. All his attention was fixed on the two men who stood much too close to Ross. Even though they’d shed their swords, Greyson had no doubt they had other weapons at their disposal. All of these guys carried daggers with them, and usually more than just one.
“Maybe you should tell them,” Yearger said. “The Guardians and the Bruce. Shall we pay a visit to Scone together?”
Greyson could hear his heart beating. The fucker was threatening his aunt in an attempt to blackmail his uncle.
Yearger crossed his arms in defiance. And that’s when Greyson realized this man would give them nothing. Apparently a few hundred years didn’t matter much when dealing with the nature of man. Arrogant and overconfident, this guy thought he was Ross’s superior. He had a pair, for sure, and he wasn’t going to budge.
Unless they made him.
Carefully preparing the bow without drawing attention to himself, Greyson did take aim then—at Yearger’s friend, the only one who might actually give them some information today. The man had been twitching since he’d dropped his weapon.
“You have five seconds to start talking,” he said. “And I don’t miss.”
As evidenced by the third guy, who’d stopped screaming. Not a good sign.
“Five . . . four . . . three . . .”
The guy moved away from Yearger, and Greyson followed him with the bow. Encouraging.
“Two . . .”
“He tried to kill her,” the man blurted out. “And took Lady Grace too. Kidnapped her at Kinghorn when she returned looking for Shona.”
Greyson had no idea what he was talking about, but he wasn’t surprised the man was talking. Fear could be a powerful motivator.
“Where is Grace?” Ross roared.
“It was the baron. The king. They made us do it.”
“Nigel!” Yearger yelled.
The king? What in the ever-loving . . .
“Edward recruited you to kill King Alexander?” Ross asked incredulously. “And where are my sisters?”
In his entire life, Greyson had never witnessed such a display of anger. Ross’s voice was like acid, his face bright red with veins popping out every which way, but his arm held steady . . . He was going to kill Yearger.
Greyson’s mark moved quickly, backing away from Ross and Yearger and reaching for his sword. But just as Greyson prepared to make good on his threat, he realized his mark wasn’t moving in for an attack on Ross. He was running away. Yearger, on the other hand, was grasping his lower thigh.
Greyson didn’t hesitate.
He shot and Yearger fell.
As Greyson ran forward, Ross finished what he’d started. His sword sliced through Yearger as easily as Greyson’s arrow had done, and the dagger in Yearger’s hand fell to the ground.
By the time he’d shifted his aim and was prepared to shoot again, the man named Nigel was already riding away. Ross didn’t hesitate, and as they scrambled back to their horses, Greyson securing his bow behind him, he took one last look at the bodies.
Bodies of the men he’d killed. Well, he’d had help with one of them.
His stomach roiled. But he held off emptying the contents of his stomach, reminding himself that he’d avenged his mother. By the time the nausea passed, he didn’t need Ross to tell him the companion had already gotten away.
This is turning out to be a particularly shitty day.
14
They’d been riding all day. Ross and Greyson had not yet returned, but thankfully they hadn’t met anyone else on the road. Though Alban spoke to Marian periodically, most often when they stopped to rest the horses, the rest of the men had remained mostly silent. There was a sense of nervous anticipation in the group.
They slowed as they came to a bridge with two guards, alongside a small pele tower. Marian realized the significance. After paying a toll to cross, they would no longer be under the protection of the king’s regent. Fenwall would be to their southeast, the location of their attack directly to the north. But Marian was tossed around now and knew not what lay ahead, aside from danger.
“We stop here,” Alban said just before the bridge.
Marian assumed they’d only halted to pay the toll, but the others dismounted too, one of them asking for her hand. After a brief discussion with the two guards, and an exchange of coin—or so she assumed—Alban rejoined their group.
“We wait for Ross and Greyson here.”
At Marian’s questioning look, he explained, “Ross said to wait for them at the edge of the regent’s property.”
He looked distinctly aggrieved at the suggestion. Marian puzzled over it for a moment until the answer dawned on her. Ross, or Greyson, or maybe both, did not want her to be without them outside of the regent’s land. Which implied they did not trust the others to keep her safe.
She couldn’t help but be secretly pleased. Of course she trusted Alban and the rest—they seemed quite capable—but no one made her feel safer than Greyson. And if this journey had taught her anything, it was that she needed protection more than she cared to admit.
If only it did not have to be that way.
Many times she’d asked her father to train her as he would have if she’d been a boy. He scoffed at her, of course. But that had not stopped her from asking.
“You can make use of the tower for your needs,” Alban said, cutting into her thoughts.
She thanked him and then the guards, who’d likely first given the offer. It was like the others she’d seen along the border. Tall and compact, the hall akin to a large room with one single spiral staircase leading to the upper chambers.
With a bit of exploring, she found the garderobe quite easily, but after seeing to her needs, she found herself wishing to sit on something other than her horse. So she made use of a wooden chair, its seat made of leather, in the great room.
Marian’s mind dipped back to the horror of losing James and the others, but she forced it away again, trying to muse about the future. About life as Duncan’s wife. Her mind would not accommodate her though. It kept returning to him.
How easily his smile had come during their dance. The thrill of his hand on hers, his fingers warm and strong. And his claim. That black box that had reflected Marian’s own image back to her.
He claimed to know things that had not yet happened, and when he spoke, the ideas made sense. But could he really be from the future? She struggled to believe it . . . and not to believe it. All she knew was that he was in danger, and she feared for him, feared she would never see him again, or that she would only see him as she had last seen James.
“Marian?”
So strong was her relief that Marian actually envisioned herself running up to Greyson and embracing him. Instead, she stood and walked toward him as she’d been trained to do. Slow, back straight, a proper lady.
“I worried for you and your uncle,” she admitted.
I was terrified you wouldn’t return. The thought made me sadder than it should have given we hardly know each other.
It took her a moment to realize he’d worried for her too. She hadn’t noticed his tone when he’d called her name, too relieved to think of anything else, but the way he looked at her now . . . there was no doubt as to what he had been thinking.
“I didn’t like leaving you. I worried for you,” he replied, the simple words holding more meaning than he’d probably intended.
“Did you find him?”
“We did.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Marian grasped her hands together and squeezed. She shouldn’t be thinking of their dance, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She wanted him to touch her, to pull her into his arms.
“Is he still alive?”
At fi
rst, she didn’t see Greyson shaking his head. When she did, the insides of Marian’s cheeks stung. It was in that moment, as she watched the confusion and pain that he did not even attempt to hide, that Marian knew the truth.
He was a big, strong man unaccustomed to the violence and death around him. Much like he’d seemed out of sorts at last night’s dinner. Add in his strange speech, his claims, that image of her, the blank look he gave her now . . .
“You are not from this time?”
It should have been impossible. And yet . . .
“No, I am not.”
Marian reeled at the thought, even though she’d been considering it for days now. This man had been so intent on finding and protecting his family, he’d traveled not just to a foreign place but to a different time. And now he was out of place. Lost.
She didn’t think.
Because if she’d put any thought into throwing herself into a man’s arms, one who was neither a relative nor her betrothed, she would not have done it. But it felt more right than anything ever had. When he wrapped his own arms around her, Marian tightened her grip on him, holding him even more tightly than she had that first time.
She’d been in danger then.
Now it was his turn.
Greyson was in danger of coming undone. But she would not let him.
“Tell me,” she said, resting her face sideways on the very top of his chest. Though she could feel only the soft fabric of his linen shirt and tunic, Marian breathed in deeply, unused to such a clean scent. He bathed nearly every day, sought out water as if the other place he’d hailed from was a great ocean.
But this was no fish she held. He was pure man.
“I killed his companion,” Greyson said, his tone flat. “We caught up with them on the road, and Ross charged ahead. My mother was so happy when I learned archery. She was the one who gave me the idea. But I never”—his voice caught—“I never intended . . .”
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 8
