by Emma Prince
Elaine pulled in a breath. “And was he successful?”
“Nay.” The word was spoken through gritted teeth. “Owen failed. The clan remained loyal to Donald, and my father was banished from Munro lands.”
“Were…were you banished as well?”
“My mother, older brother, and I were permitted to stay—on the condition that we couldnae have further contact with my father. For a few months, it seemed the matter was resolved. We tried to rebuild our lives, to live peacefully amongst the clan. But Owen wouldnae let the matter go.”
Jerome drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say. Elaine stiffened, waiting.
“Owen snuck back to Munro lands one day while the Laird and his young son, George, were out on a hunt. Owen kidnapped George and slipped away. He sent Laird Munro a missive with his demands—namely, that George wouldnae be released until Donald dropped his support for the Bruce and pledged the clan to the Comyns’ claim.”
“Did your Laird acquiesce?”
“Nay,” Jerome said, his voice as sharp and flat as a blade. “Laird Munro understood he had to put what was best for his clan over all else—even his family. But he launched a search party for Owen and George. They hunted them down across half the bloody Highlands, but at last they found my father and the lad. Yet even cornered and outnumbered, my father still wouldnae yield. There was a scuffle and—”
His deep voice caught in his throat. He swallowed again before going on.
“And the lad was killed. My father was taken alive to face his crimes before the Laird. Owen couldnae deny what he’d done, of course—to the very end, he believed he was doing what was best for our clan, even in killing the Laird’s son. George had only been eight summers old.”
Sickness roiled in Elaine’s stomach even as tears burned her eyes. “And…and what of your father?”
“He was given a traitor’s death, which he deserved, but that wasnae all. My brother, Tavish, had apparently been in contact with Owen. Tavish had been the one to tell my father that the Laird and his son would be out on a hunt. The clan demanded that Tavish pay for the loss of the Laird’s son as well. So Tavish was hanged.”
“Oh, God.” Elaine’s heart shattered for Jerome. Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. “To lose your father and your brother…”
“The clan wanted my head as well.” Jerome’s voice was emotionless, as if he were speaking of someone else, someone from another time whose pains and losses were not his own.
“Why? What could you have possibly done to deserve punishment?”
“Many thought I might have been a part of my father’s schemes and aided him, as Tavish had,” Jerome replied flatly. “Tavish was eighteen, a man grown in the eyes of the clan. And he’d knowingly helped my father even after Owen had been banished. I hadnae kenned what Owen and Tavish were about, but I was fourteen—still a lad in many ways, but in the Highlands, I was considered old enough to be held accountable for my family’s actions.”
Jerome’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and when he spoke again, the frost in his voice began to thaw. “But Laird Munro defended me. He believed in my innocence and refused to adhere to the clan’s calls to punish me. I dinnae ken how much of that was because he was still grieving the loss of his own son, but he took me under his wing, put his faith in me. And when my mother died less than a year later—some said out of grief for losing both her husband and her eldest son—the Laird became my only family.”
Elaine lifted her head from Jerome’s chest so that she could meet his eyes. She finally understood the pain that lurked in their dark depths.
“That is why you are so loyal to your Laird,” she said, her voice thick and low with emotion. “He saved you.”
The corners of Jerome’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “Aye, I pledged my life to serve him—and the Bruce, for my loyalty to clan and country are cut from the same cloth. But it is more than that. I willnae give anyone reason to question my allegiance again. I am the son of a traitor and a murderer. I cannae change that, but I damn well intend to ensure that I can never be accused of the same.”
She rested her hand over his heart. “But how could anyone blame you for the sins of your father?”
“As I said, we Scots have long memories—and cling to our grudges. Even the slightest slipup, a hesitation or wee error could destroy all that I’ve worked for these past fourteen years.”
Realization struck her like a blow to the gut. “That is why this mission is so important to you—because you are treating it as some sort of test, and if you fail in any way, you think you’ll be branded a traitor.”
Her words must have struck a nerve, for his eyes flashed with frustration. “Everything is a test. My whole bloody life is a test to prove that I am no’ like my father, and one misstep would be my ruination.”
“The Bruce chose you for this assignment because he already trusts you,” she countered.
“Aye, and Laird Munro trusted my father—until he betrayed him. Dinnae ye see, Elaine? The past is never over and done with. It hounds me at every moment, waiting to drag me back into its jaws.”
Another realization came on the heels of the first. “And that is why you rebuffed me the other night. You will not let yourself feel aught for me because you are afraid…afraid I’ll distract you or cause you to fail somehow, is that it?”
The words brought a wave of emotion rising in her throat, but they had to be said. For the terrible truth was, Elaine had begun to fall in love with Jerome—and not for show, not for the sake of fooling the others or catching de Soules in his scheme.
It was as delicate as the first budding flowers of spring, yet the feeling was undeniable. He was honorable and protective, brave and noble of heart. And his touch, his gaze, even his mere presence stirred something deep in her very soul.
But was she dooming herself to a shattered heart by falling for a man who refused to care for her in return?
He met her gaze, his eyes hard as stone. “Aye,” he said. “That is the bald truth—there isnae room in my life for ye, and there never will be.”
She sucked in a pained breath, but he went on, his words like a knife to her chest.
“My dedication to clan and country will always come first, for naught will ever be more important to me than proving my loyalty.”
“And this?” she breathed. “What are we, then?”
His eyes flickered with some unreadable emotion before he shuttered them once more. “We had a dalliance at Trellham and Scone. It cannae be more than that.”
Some part of her screamed that he was lying, that she knew he’d felt the same spark when they kissed, the same ache when they were apart. Yet she was already in danger of losing her heart. She could not risk more.
She ripped her gaze away from his, silently cursing herself. She’d been so determined to prove herself as well, to show that she wasn’t some silly chit only good for coddling. And then she’d gone and fallen for the first man she’d ever kissed, a man who was so haunted by his past that he could not see what was right in front of him.
“I-I understand now,” she willed herself to say past the tightness in her throat.
Just as she lifted a hand to swipe at the tears dampening her face, King Philip dropped back and reined his horse alongside theirs.
“Come now,” the King chided, a gentle frown on his face. “No more tears, my lovebirds. I do not know what has you quarrelling again, but there is no better remedy than to kiss and make up. You are in France—let yourselves love and be happy.”
Dread sank like a stone in her stomach as she dared a glance at Jerome. His jaw was set firmly and his eyes were filled with pained determination. Of course, for this mission he would be willing to kiss her—but naught more. And hadn’t she been the one to bind them in this ruse with her foolish declaration of love?
She gave him the barest nod, silently telling him that she would play along—even as a fresh swell of hurt rose in her ch
est.
He dipped his head until his lips met hers in an achingly tender kiss.
Chapter Twenty-One
Her lips tasted of salty tears. That thought cut through the roaring inside Jerome’s head as he kissed Elaine.
Bloody hell, he was making a damn fine mess of things.
He had told her everything. His father. Tavish. George. Laird Munro. Of course, plenty of people in his clan knew what had happened fourteen years past. Word had even spread to a few of their neighbors in the Highlands. Owen Munro’s name was synonymous with traitor. And many knew of his one surviving son, the lad who’d grown into a fiercely loyal man determined to prove everyone wrong.
But Jerome had never willingly told anyone what had happened, and why he remained so haunted by his father’s legacy. Yet Elaine had been so warm in his arms, and he’d longed to draw her closer, to let her see all the way into his heart.
And it had terrified him. Aye, big-hearted and deeply feeling that she was, she’d understood his pain all too well—he’d seen it in those vibrant, tear-filled blue eyes. Yet she had also been too discerning, too quick to draw the correct conclusion: that he could never outrun the shadow of his past. Which meant despite what he felt for her, she would always come second to his need to prove himself.
It wasn’t fair to her. She deserved so much better than that—better than him.
Yet some selfish, aching part of him was only too glad for another excuse to be kissing her again. Only for the mission, he told himself. Only to uncover what de Soules plotted.
But in the deepest, darkest corners of his heart, he knew the truth. It was so much more than that with Elaine, curse him to hell.
Like a man dying of thirst, he drank her in, angling his mouth over hers. Unbidden, one of his hands slipped from the reins to cradle the back of her head, his fingers burrowing in her copper tresses. She softened against him, surrendering to the kiss, losing herself in it just as surely as he did.
Whatever burned between them, it wasn’t controlled by logic. Nor did thoughts of his duty to King and country cool his longing for her. Even as he fought to build a wall around his heart, to keep her at arm’s length for the sake of his mission—and his sanity—he feared it was too late. The stones were already crumbling. His heart was already lost.
King Philip’s amused chuckle shattered the moment, saving him from the dark longing dragging him downward. He dropped his hand from Elaine’s hair and lifted his mouth, willing his eyes to remain detached as he gazed down at her.
She, however, couldn’t mask the storm of emotion playing out on her features. Her guileless eyes met his, and he could clearly see the pain and confusion he’d caused there.
“There, see now?” the King said with a smile. “You make things more complicated than they need to be, mes amis. A kiss accomplishes more than a thousand words spoken in frustration.”
“Aye, Majesty,” Jerome replied, forcing his mouth into a grin.
“Let us stop for a repast and refreshments,” the King called to the rest of the party.
The others reined in and dismounted. Jerome carefully guided his horse to the outskirts of the group to give himself another moment alone with Elaine. He swung from the saddle and helped her down after him.
“Elaine,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I hope ye understand that—”
“Munro.” Kieran was suddenly at their side, his thick arms crossed over his chest. The man’s mouth was turned down and his eyes were narrowed on him.
“What?” Jerome snapped at the giant Highlander.
“I heard ye last night. Talking with de Soules.”
Jerome’s frustration instantly evaporated, to be replaced with icy trepidation. He felt Elaine stiffen next to him, and he silently prayed she could guard her features.
“Aye, I went to take a piss and came upon him returning to camp.” He kept his voice casual, but his gaze sharpened on Kieran.
“I heard ye slurring yer words as if ye were drunk, but when I left ye a moment before by the fire, ye were clear-eyed and had yer wits about ye.”
Thus far, Jerome had felt an easy affinity with Kieran. Like him, the man was a Highlander and a warrior. But Kieran’s towering height and heavily muscled frame had given Jerome the impression that he wasn’t a man of particularly sharp wits or keen observation.
From the look in Kieran’s pale blue eyes, Jerome had made a grave error with that assumption.
“Aye, well, I—” Jerome began, but Kieran cut him off.
“Ye arenae telling me something, Munro.” His gaze flicked to Elaine. “What are the two of ye about?”
“Naught,” Elaine blurted. Jerome barely stifled a curse.
“Oh aye?”
Though Kieran remained rooted in place, Jerome instinctively took a half-step in front of Elaine, shielding her from Kieran’s scrutiny with his body.
“Strange,” Kieran went on, his voice deceptively easy. “Because I’ve seen ye casting stares at William de Soules’s back for the last two days, and I didnae miss the look that passed between the two of ye last night when the King mentioned de Soules’s estate. Then ye pretend to be drunk and try to find out where he was all night.”
Sharp apprehension stabbed Jerome’s gut. His instincts told him he could trust Kieran, but if he was wrong, he risked destroying his chance to thwart whatever de Brechin and de Soules plotted. He met Kieran’s hard stare, wordlessly urging the man to abandon this line of interrogation.
“I dinnae claim to be a particularly clever man,” Kieran continued. “After all, I was only meant to be the muscle on this mission. But ye’d be surprised how much a thickheaded brute can notice when no one is paying him any mind.”
Now Kieran dropped all pretense of mildness. His features hardened into a fierce glare.
“But ken this, Munro. If ye do aught—any wee thing—to endanger this mission, ye will regret it. I dinnae ken what ye are about, but I willnae let this go.”
Despite the taut antagonism thickening the air, Jerome took strange comfort in Kieran’s reaction to the prospect of a threat to the mission. It meant his instincts had been right—Kieran was a man of honor. Yet Jerome couldn’t risk getting him involved, for the fewer who knew that some underhanded scheme was afoot, the safer.
“Forget what ye think ye saw and heard,” Jerome said, his voice a low warning. “Dinnae entangle yerself in a simple lovers’ quarrel—for that is all this is.”
Kieran’s nostrils flared in frustration. His sharp gaze flicked between Jerome and Elaine once more.
“I’ll be watching ye,” he said darkly before turning and stomping off toward the rest of their party.
As he left, Elaine let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t seem to suspect the truth—yet.”
“Aye,” Jerome replied. “But I fear it is only a matter of time.”
And though it had been a relief to realize that Kieran was just as determined to protect their mission as Jerome was, the last thing they needed was to draw the Highlander’s attention.
Which meant they hadn’t been careful enough. If Kieran had sensed something was off, it was only a matter of time before de Soules would realize it too.
And when that happened, all could be lost.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Their final day of the journey to Paris passed smoothly—at least on the outside. But on the inside, Elaine fought to tamp down the tempest of emotion that swirled through her.
She had always felt her emotions deeply. Of course, everyone knew she was quick to tears. It was embarrassing to exhibit her feelings so easily for all to see. But it was more than just sadness she displayed readily. Whether it was a blush, a grin, a frown, or tears, her family often said she was like an open book.
Because her father, Rosamond, and Niall had always accepted that she wore her heart on her sleeve, she’d never had to learn to guard her thoughts and feelings. Now she wished she had so that she could match Jerome’s stony exterior.
He’d given nau
ght away after they’d kissed to appease King Philip. At least now she understood the shadows she’d seen lurking behind his eyes and why he was determined to push her away even though he couldn’t deny the connection between them.
But unless she wanted to make an even greater fool of herself, she had to set aside her feelings for the time being and remain focused on their mission. It was what he had done. She might not be as well-practiced as Jerome, but she refused to collapse into a puddle of her own tears like some overindulged child.
To her surprise, she found comfort in her resolution not to fall apart—and strength. Though it was difficult to share a tent with Jerome for another night, and embarrassing to have to perch on his lap as they rode, all the while pretending to be addlebrained with lovesickness, it was also a relief not to feel controlled by her emotions. As he’d said, there were more important matters at hand than their feelings for each other.
Blessedly, their surroundings provided another distraction as well. By midday on the fourth day of their journey, they’d reached the outskirts of Paris. In the distance, Elaine could see a massive stone wall encircling the city, but apparently its population had grown beyond the capacity of the wall, for they rode between huts and even a few clusters of shops.
The guards were forced to tighten their ranks around the King and the Bruce’s envoy as they approached the wall. Even before they reached its towering stone face, they’d drawn the attention of the townspeople, who streamed from their huts and trailed after the King’s procession, waving and cheering.
King Philip reached into a pouch dangling from his jewel-encrusted belt and began tossing coins to the townspeople, much to their excitement.
