Dickie cursed and drew back, then resumed the attack, raining a flurry of blows on the targe.
"That's it! Give no quarter!" Georas roared. He slashed with more fury than finesse, but the air resounded with the grating of steel on steel.
Rowena scrambled up from the dirt, back braced against an oak as she watched the struggle. Surely Glenshee could not prevail against these two. Should she call for help? Oh, that was rich. Whom did she expect would come?
While she debated, the dark knight sent his blade sliding down Georas's. With a flick of his muscled arm, he sent his opponent's sword arcing into the brush.
"What the…?" Eyes wide, Georas backed up, rubbing at the small, bloody slice on his wrist. "Get him, Dickie."
"By all means, Dickie. Come and get me," Glenshee taunted. The deadly tip of his blade swung back and forth between the two, keeping them at bay.
"The hell with this." Dickie backed up a step, then turned and ran to his horse. "No wench is worth this much trouble."
Georas glared at the knight. "We'll finish this another day, Glenshee."
"Name the time and the place."
Georas growled a low curse and backed toward his horse. He sprang into the saddle, sent a last, scathing glance at her rescuer, then spurred away into the mist.
Rowena released the breath she'd been holding and sagged against the tall oak, scarcely feeling the damp. As her breathing quieted and her heart settled, she became aware of the hushed silence all around them. The trees stood motionless; expectancy hung heavy as fog in the air.
Her rescuer stood a few feet away, staring after the MacPhersons, his face hidden in shadows. His sword, held still in his right hand, gleamed evilly in the pale light.
Suddenly the lump was back in Rowena's throat. Had she traded one thug for another? "Thank you, sir, I—I am in your debt. I do not know what would have happened had you not come."
"I do, I am afraid. Georas MacPherson and his brother are old hands at picking on things that are small and fragile."
Was that how he saw her? Defenseless? Vulnerable? She tried to step back, found the way blocked by the oak.
"Pray do not be alarmed." He sheathed the sword and extended his large, lean hands, callused palms up. "You are quite safe with me, lass."
A sense of déjà vu swept through her, taking her back to another time and another man—a lad, really—who'd saved her from a band of bullies at a clan gathering. Lion Sutherland. Friend, lover, enemy. She stared at him, eyes aching as she tried to pierce the gloom. There was something in the timbre of his voice, in the way he held himself, so straight, assured and proud, that made her tremble. "Who are you?" she whispered.
He cocked his head, considering. A smile flashed briefly. "How remiss of me." Sweeping off his helmet, he bowed low, courtier to lady. "I am Lionel Sutherland of Glenshee."
"Sweet saints above." Rowena swayed, praying for the ground to swallow her up. "It cannot be you."
"Rowena?" He closed in on her, his hand warm and hard as it seized her chin and tilted it up. "Dieu. 'Tis you." His grip tightened. "Bloody hell. If I'd known, I'd have run Georas and Dickie through for daring to touch you." His thumb whisked over her jaw. "Are you all right?"
"Aye," she murmured, dazed by the unexpected turn of events. It was horrible, yet thrilling to see him again, to stand so close after so long. His hair was shorter, the dark mane just brushing his shoulders, its red lights dulled by the gloom. Nothing could dampen the glow in those amber eyes, though, eyes that could freeze or burn. Eyes that studied her with searing intensity. Aye, he was still a magnificent man, with the body of a warrior and the face of a poet. A man other men followed into battle, a man women sighed over and burned over. She'd sighed and burned. Oh, how she'd burned.
Oh, how she'd grieved when it was over.
The memory of his leaving broke through her dazed state. Shivering with emotion, she tried to draw back.
"Shh. No need to fear, I've got you safe." He drew her into his embrace. The feel of his arms was so familiar, so welcome after six long years of drought, that she shivered again. "Easy." He stroked her back, as he'd done so often in the past, holding her as she drifted down from the heights of passion into blissful contentment.
Angered by her own weakness, she tried to twist free, but he held her fast. Clearly, whatever he'd been doing in France these six years had built up his strength, not depleted it. "You are hurting me," she said, knowing his one weakness.
His grip eased, but he didn't let her go. "I know I hurt you," he said, his voice low and tight, and she knew it was not the present of which he spoke, but the past.
"I do not want to talk about it."
"I understand, but—"
"Oh, you do?" The temper Rowena had held in check all the while she'd lived with the Gunns suddenly threatened to explode. Shaking free of his grip, she shouted, "Well, understand this, I loved you. With all my heart. When you left, you broke it. You nearly broke me. Do not," she added, when he reached for her again.
"You have every right to be hurt and upset, but there are things I need to tell you."
"Well, I don't want to hear them."
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was agitated and trying to work through a problem. Good. She hoped it plagued him into the early grave he so richly deserved.
"At least listen to what I have to say," he argued. "You owe me that much."
"I owe you?" Rowena's simmering fury boiled over. She buried her elbow in his rock-hard midsection, ignoring the shaft of pain that traveled up her arm. His grunt of surprise as he bent over was satisfying, but not half as much as the sharp oath she wrang from him when her knee caught him under the chin.
The earth shook as he hit the ground. "Damn." He dragged the hair from his eyes with an angry swipe. "Where the hell did you learn such low tricks?" he gasped.
"From you. You said a lass should be able to protect herself." Rowena stood over him, hands on her hips, wounded spirits soaring. Seeing him lying at her feet almost made up for the past. Almost. "And I could not agree more." Dusting off her hands, she spun around to look for her horse.
But she'd forgotten how quick he'd always been to retaliate. Grabbing hold of her ankle, he jerked her down on top of him. Before she could wriggle upright, he rolled, pinning her to the soggy ground with one heavy thigh. His elbows were planted just above her shoulders, caging her, yet sparing her the brunt of his weight. Eyes bright with anger and something even more dangerous, he smiled down at her. "Even better."
The feel of his warm, solid body pressing into hers, the scent of his skin, the quick hammer of his heart against hers were so achingly familiar that for a moment her mind emptied of everything but this. She'd thought herself dead to all emotion save her love for Paddy. 'Twas the worst irony to find that even after six years of hating him, with one touch Lion could still make her yearn and burn.
"Ah, Ro. Jesu, but I've missed you." He lowered his head, his breath warm on her mouth.
Buffeted by memories, she waited, wanting his kiss, craving the taste of him. And then what? She'd been down that path before. It promised paradise, but lead to hell. "Nay!" She turned her head aside, shivering as his lips grazed her ear.
"You cannot avoid the inevitable," he whispered, nibbling his way across her cheek.
She had to. Desperate, Rowena fought back the only way she could. When his lips grazed hers, she bit him. Hard.
"Hell!" Lion reared back, eyes shocked, blood welling from a neat set of marks in his lower lip.
Rowena was so furious with him, with herself, that she shook all over. Nay, 'twas the ground that shook. She looked up, past Lion's shoulder, to see a troop of mounted men galloping toward them.
"Lion!" called one of them. "I thought you were rescuing the lady, not debauching her."
Lion rose lithely. "Save your pity, Bryce. I'm the one with bruised ribs and a bloody lip. Any losses?"
"Nay, we chased the MacPhersons off before they could do
more than frighten these folk. And the lady?"
"Is just fine, thank you," Rowena said briskly. She dusted off her hands and searched the crowd of milling men, finding the Gunns knotted together in the throng. Eneas's disappointment at finding her alive was apparent. Some of the others looked shame-faced. And well they should, riding off and leaving a lady and a lad to face a horde of— "Oh, my guardsman," she exclaimed, starting back down the road. "He was injured."
"I will find him," Lion said, trotting alongside her.
Rowena turned on him. "I do not want your help."
He had the nerve to look hurt. "Bryce," he called over his shoulder. "Would you assist the lady Rowena in finding her man?"
Rowena marched down the muddy track, the knowledge that Lion watched her sending an odd thrill down her spine. Seeing him again after all this time was…
Terrible. Horrible.
And exciting.
Dangerously exciting.
That was what frightened her the most.
Bryce Sutherland waited till the little cavalcade, with himself and Lion at its head, had gotten underway before he broached a delicate subject. "How does it seem, seeing the lady Rowena after all this time?" he asked of his cousin.
"I am not sure," Lion replied.
This from the man who was always confident, always knew which way to jump, no matter how perilous the situation? "Twas a shock," Bryce said. Ten years Lion's senior, he was as much mentor as captain of the elite force that had fought under the Sutherland banner during their years in France.
"Aye. When I realized the lass I'd saved from the MacPherson was Rowena, I damn near fell over." A muscle in Lion's cheek jumped as he flexed his jaw. "She is not well pleased to see me," he said in a low, troubled voice. "And who can blame her, for she thinks I left her without a care or a qualm."
"Did you not explain what happened that night?"
"She would not speak of it." Lion exhaled, his eyes bleak in the sockets of his helmet.
"Mmm. Mayhap she will when she is over the shock of the MacPhersons' attack and her guard's wounding." Bryce deftly changed the subject. "Did she say what they were doing here?"
Lion shifted in the saddle, barely resisting the urge to look back at the object of his turbulent thoughts. She'd refused any further help from him. That had hurt. "I did not think to ask."
"Aye. You were a trifle busy when we arrived."
Lion flushed. "Appearance to the contrary, I was not trying to seduce her." Though he'd wanted to. Still did, if the truth be known. He'd gorged himself on women when he'd learned his Rowena had wed another, but none of them had captured his heart or satisfied his soul the way she could.
"Have your feelings for her changed, then?"
"Nay." His heart had soared when he'd recognized her. "But she made her hatred of me plain enough."
"She is only recently widowed."
Lion nodded, gut tightening with guilt.
"According to Eneas Gunn, Padruig's brother and the leader of this band, they believe Padruig was killed by thieves."
Did she mourn him? Had she loved him? "Eneas is the wretch who ran off and left her to MacPherson?"
"The same. I'd say there is little love lost 'twixt him and Rowena, for when we'd routed the MacPhersons, he was not anxious to go back and find his brother's widow."
"Bastard. I'll see she's kept safe," Lion murmured. "Whether she wants my help or not."
"I still cannot believe Alexander had Padruig killed simply because he would not bring his few men to Blantyre."
"The Wolf grows more and more unstable in his thinking." Silently Lion cursed the earl for wreaking havoc in the Highlands. 'Twas not peace Alexander wanted, but power. Under the guise of curbing lawlessness, he planned to gather about him a huge Highland army. With it, he'd wrest the throne from his weak, ineffectual brother, Robert. "If only we could find proof of Alexander's true intentions."
"Mad he may be, but Alexander is clever, too clever to leave evidence lying about."
"But we know he has designs on the crown. He has promised that when he's king, he'll grant land and other favors to some of the more powerful clans, the ones he cannot now sway to his side with gold or intimidation. Rory Campbell saw the document Alexander sent to Archie, chief of the Campbells."
Alarmed, Rory had ridden to Lion's family at Kinduin, where he'd been fostered as a lad. Lion had only just returned from France when Rory burst in with his tale of treachery and intrigue. They'd agreed that Lucais, Lion's father, would go to Edinburgh to try and convince the king to recall Alexander from the Highlands. Rory would return to Blantyre and secure the promissory note. But Rory had been ambushed and killed. The murder of his friend had launched Lion into a desperate scheme of his own to infiltrate Alexander's ranks. He'd been right successful, too. The earl trusted him…as much as the wily wolf trusted anyone.
"We've had Alexander's things searched and found naught," Bryce glumly reminded him.
It had not been easy getting a Sutherland, disguised as a servant, into the chamber Alexander used at Blantyre. "Naill could not get into the locked strongbox. 'Tis the most likely place for the earl to store such damaging evidence."
"We must somehow get inside that chest, no matter how dangerous," Bryce murmured. Searching the personal belongings of a man as powerful and ruthless as Alexander Stewart would be akin to walking bare naked through a room full of vipers. One false step and they'd all be dead. "Mayhap we might slip a sleeping potion into his wine and take the key from around his neck while he is unconscious."
Lion shook his head. "If he suspected that he'd been drugged, he'd kill every servant in the place…and mayhap even harm Lady Glenda." Lion liked the woman, who was chatelaine of Clan Shaw's stronghold Blantyre Castle. Three months ago, Alexander had decided the large, strategically placed fortress would make the perfect headquarters from which to conduct his "pacification" of the Highlands. He'd presented himself at the castle gates, and when Lady Glenda had balked, had proceeded to seduce the homely, middle-aged woman. Lately, however, there'd been signs the earl wearied of his mistress.
"We must come up with something," Lion said grimly. And while he was on the subject of problems, he added, "I will think on it whilst I escort Rowena to wherever she is bound."
"Eneas said they were destined for Blantyre Castle."
Lion gasped and whirled to stare at the woman whose image had haunted him—waking and sleeping—during his years in France. She was looking down at the injured man his lads carried in a litter. Harry had received a grave wound to the side trying to defend her. His sacrifice had given Lion the time to reach her. Harry was unlikely to live, but that hadn't discouraged Rowena from tearing up her own shift to fashion a bandage for him. She'd always had a soft spot for hurt things.
"Why are they going there?" Lion asked.
"Clan business, Eneas told me. Nastily, I might add, as though I had no right to inquire into his affairs."
"Any man who leaves a woman in distress is no man at all." He looked back again, studying the delicate line of her face. "And Blantyre is no place for a gentle lass like Rowena." The vain, shallow women who hung about the earl's court would slash her to ribbons with their vicious tongues. And the men… Lion's gut roiled at the thought of his fragile Rowena pursued by Georas MacPherson and his ilk.
As though sensing his scrutiny, Rowena looked up. Their gazes met, locked. Her eyes were as dark as peat smoke and just as mysterious, her pale, dirt-streaked features coolly blank. When had she learned to guard her thoughts like that? Lion wondered, remembering the lass whose every notion he'd been able to read from the first.
Staring into her closed face, he knew exactly what he wanted. To win her back. But would she give him the chance? Not willingly, if her steely gaze and set jaw were any indication. They were all the spur his competitive spirit needed. She'd been a cautious, wounded thing when he'd first met her. He'd gentled her and won her then. He'd do it again.
Lion grinned, flashing her fair
warning with a look. His smile widened when she stiffened, outrage painting red flags on her colorless cheeks. 'Twould be an interesting contest.
Chapter Three
Though she rode with one eye on poor Harry, Rowena's thoughts were on the man who led them through the misty forest.
She'd never expected to see him again. In the early days following her marriage, consumed by pain and bitterness, she'd wished for Lion to die of some withering disease. Surely her life must be cursed, for not only was he hale, hearty and twice as handsome now, she was also in his debt. Oh, how that galled.
"Lawd, that must be Blantyre Castle," Clem Gunn said from the pack of clansmen who rode behind her. "Is it not the grandest place ye've ever seen?"
Rowena looked ahead, her eyes widening. Blantyre rose out of the fog, spires pricking the sullen sky from behind tall, stout walls. The lights shining from the square towers beckoned, offering warmth and comfort. Like a stalwart gray sentinel, the edifice seemed to offer sanctuary. Or was it only her need for a haven that made her fancy she'd find one here?
The gatehouse bristled with armed men, but Lion was instantly recognized and the drawbridge lowered. Over the narrow causeway they rode, and into the spacious outer bailey. The grassy field was crammed with tents of all description, from fine canvas ones to drab bits of oiled cloth.
'Twas like a miniature city, really, with stables, a blacksmith and even an ale tent set up by an enterprising merchant.
"Who are these men?" Clem asked.
"Likely the men come to help the earl subdue the outlaws," Eneas replied. "Large as it is, there would not be room for so many inside Blantyre. The most important of the clan leaders would have chambers inside the castle. And those of lesser rank might sleep six and eight to a room in pallets on the floor."
Lion's Lady Page 4
