Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Please. Please don’t take me back there.” Her voice cracked with pleading, but she didn’t care. Garrick’s handsome but resolute face wobbled in front of her through the tears welling in her eyes.

  He turned away from her and cursed, dragging a hand through his dark hair, which was coming loose from its tie at the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he finally said, still not meeting her eyes, “but this is the way it has to be. I have to follow my duty.”

  Her heart sank, hearing the finality in his voice. Part of her wanted to scream at him, to beg him, to tell him that he and his duty could go to hell. But she knew that none of it would work. Besides, he was right—she had put him in this situation, and now that he had to deal with it, he had to follow his own sense of right and wrong. She couldn’t expect him not to get a say in her using him to escape, and then also have to go along with her plan to deal with the situation now that he knew about it. He was involved now, and he had to act dutifully or risk her brother’s punishment.

  Even as she struggled to accept all this, she felt the tears overflowing. She had failed. She would be back to her brother’s castle in less than a day, and she would have to face the consequences of her actions. This didn’t mean that she would go back to being the frightened and submissive girl she was before; no, she would attempt to escape again and would resist her brother and his control over her as much as she could. But her hopes to start a new life for herself right away were now faded and distant.

  She nodded and tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t move, nor would the tears stop streaming down her cheeks. She turned her head away, trying to preserve whatever shred of dignity she had left, but suddenly she felt Garrick’s large, warm, and callused hand on her chin. He gently brought her face back to his and kept his eyes on her. Despite the pained look on his face, he forced himself to hold her gaze. It was almost as if he was punishing himself for something, but she didn’t know what.

  “The horses are ready,” Burke said from the door of the barn, carefully eying the two of them.

  His words registered somewhere in the back of her mind through the fog of pain. “Horses? We aren’t taking the wagon?” she asked.

  “Nay, my lady. The wagon will slow us down. We were going to take these horses the rest of the way on our journey home anyway,” Burke replied.

  She glanced behind Burke and saw that he was leading two enormous stallions, one chestnut and the other bay, out of the barn. Each horse had large saddlebags that were nearly overflowing, and she could make out some strangely shaped items wrapped in cloth sticking out of them. Without thinking, she pointed toward the cloth-wrapped objects protruding from each horse’s bags, and asked, “What are those?”

  “Those are our tools, lass. Blacksmith’s tools,” Burke said smoothly, though his face was an expressionless mask. Before she could ask why two unemployed blacksmiths had such fine horses, Burke interjected. “We’d best be on the way if we want to reach Dunbraes before evening.”

  Garrick reached toward her and wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her clear out of the wagon. He walked her over to the chestnut horse and swung himself up into the high saddle. Burke led the draft horse and wagon into the barn where their horses had been, and after a quick perusal of the area, swung himself onto the bay’s back.

  Strange, she thought to herself, that they would leave the good solid draft horse, wagon, and the rest of their supplies here in the middle of the woods. The thought flitted from her mind, though, when Garrick scooped her up so that she sat in front of him atop his enormous stallion.

  Though she still wore her thick winter cloak, she could feel his hard body in very precise detail behind her. Her back was pressed against his broad chest, her bottom and hips nestled snugly against his pelvis. His arms came around her to hold the reins. At first he had reached around her arms, but that made it hard for him to grip the reins. She lifted her arms so that his forearms brushed against her waist. Her thighs rested on top of his, and she could feel his legs give the horse a squeeze. The horse leapt forward, and her mind spun as they spirited back south toward Dunbraes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Garrick swore silently and tore his bleary-eyed gaze away from Jossalyn’s backside. They were stopped by a small stream to give the horses and themselves a brief rest after several hours of hard traveling. Jossalyn was bent over, letting the cool stream water pool in her cupped hands before bringing them up to her lips for a drink. He had been staring at her for several minutes, hypnotized by the sight of her heart-shaped rear in the air, her slim hands rising to her mouth, and the extra droplets of water clinging to her rosy lips.

  It was just the fatigue, he told himself. Neither him nor Burke had slept a wink the night before, and now, as the sun passed its zenith and approached the angled light of late afternoon, they had already put in several long hours today. Fatigue was making him careless with his attention. He knew somewhere inside that he shouldn’t be staring at her like that—like a hungry animal—but he couldn’t seem to find the energy to stop.

  Their riding arrangement hadn’t helped any, either. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of Jossalyn riding with Burke. Even though he knew after they delivered her to Dunbraes he would never see her again, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to be so near to her for the few hours they had left together.

  But maybe that had been a mistake, for now he felt an ache between his legs that had nothing to do with the long hours on horseback. That firm but deliciously soft bottom on which his eyes were currently locked had been pressing against his cock nonstop as their hips moved in unison with the horse’s strides.

  And her smell—that unique combination of wildflowers and sunshine—had been hanging around him like a veil since the moment he had pulled her up on Fletch’s back and realized that her golden hair was mere inches from his face.

  When she had shed the cloak she was wearing a few hours back, draping it across her lap, he had nearly groaned, for it meant he could feel every delicate curve pressed against him all the better.

  He couldn’t remember the last time a lass had affected him so strongly—but maybe that was because no other lass ever had. Aye, he had enjoyed plenty of willing lasses as a means of escape or release from the horrors of warfare, but he had never let them get to him before. That would endanger his place with the Bruce’s rebel force. He always had to be ready for the next mission, which normally meant being gone for weeks on end, working alone, and not getting attached.

  This wasn’t any different, he reassured himself. Or it wasn’t much different anyway. He was still following his duty to the Bruce and the rebellion. He was returning the lass to where she belonged, away from him and the dangers he brought with him. He wasn’t letting her change him or his plan.

  But then again, he wasn’t exactly performing at his peak as far as being a cold-blooded mercenary and marksman went. If he had been thinking of nothing but the mission, perhaps he could have left her back in the middle of the woods without an explanation. But every fiber in him rejected such an idea. He only hoped that by doing the right thing and returning her to her village, he wouldn’t be risking failing in his duty.

  A voice inside his head whispered that it was far from the “right thing” to be forcing the lass to return to her brother, who was not only a bastard for denying her the ability to practice healing, but also a coward and a tyrant for hurting her. The lass was taking charge of her own life, overcoming her oppressor and building a future for herself. Why was he pushing her back into her old life? Her brother was a bastard, but was he any better?

  He pushed the thought aside savagely. He couldn’t indulge in such philosophizing when lives were at stake. The lass could still escape, just not this time, and not with him. She was strong enough, he knew, to do it again, and to succeed on her own. He just had to be the bastard who denied her the freedom she sought this time.

  He could be the villain. He had gotten qui
te used to the role over the years. He had never been as concerned with justice and doing the right thing as his older brother Robert, and he wasn’t an uncompromising leader like his younger brother Daniel, either. And he certainly didn’t care to smooth things over and make others comfortable like Burke. Nay, he was the one who was willing to do whatever it took to get a job done.

  It took a special kind of person to be able to stake out a mark for days or even weeks, living alone in the woods and trusting nothing but one’s own survival skills. And then, when the moment finally arrived, to be willing to shoot and kill an unsuspecting man, in the back as often as in the chest—it wasn’t for everyone, not even the most fervent of the bloodthirsty and enraged Scotsmen who had joined the rebellion to fight for Robert the Bruce. Garrick did bad things—he killed without remorse, relied on no one, and cared only for his missions. He could break this one lass’s heart and put her back within the grasp of her manipulative and violent brother. It was nothing to him.

  “Garrick?”

  Jossalyn had turned from the stream and was staring at him with a guarded look. He realized his face was twisted into a scowl and he was glaring at her, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He took a quick breath to try to release the tension that had formed as he stood there thinking. “We should get moving,” he said, schooling his features into expressionlessness once again.

  Burke was already swinging into the saddle, though he looked just as exhausted as Garrick felt. Jossalyn followed Garrick to Fletch’s side and waited for him to mount and pull her up in front of him. She settled herself between his legs as if she were always meant to be there.

  He forced the idea from his head. He needed to concentrate on delivering her without issue back to the village at Dunbraes. Then he would have to push her from his mind completely. He wouldn’t be able to accomplish what would be required of him in the coming weeks and months if he were distracted.

  Even as he thought this, though, her hair, which gleamed in the sunlight, brushed his cheek, and he nearly lost his resolve yet again. Just an hour or two more, he told himself. But if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that instead of looking forward to being free of Jossalyn’s distractions, he was dreading the moment when they would part—for good this time.

  Jossalyn knew that this was the last stop even before she spotted the village through the trees. As Garrick and Burked reined in their horses, she could feel the tension radiating from Garrick’s body behind her. Before he could help her down, she threw her leg over the large chestnut’s neck and slid the considerable distance to the ground. Garrick dismounted too, but she took a step back from him, pretending to adjust her cloak, which she had swung back over her shoulders to avoid having to carry both it and her satchel.

  Finally, she found her voice, though it was pinched with emotion. “I’m sorry to have put you in this position. Please forgive me. I wish you a safe journey.”

  With that, she spun on her heels and half-ran toward the village, too cowardly to meet Garrick’s eyes or go through another goodbye with him. She almost expected to feel his big hands pulling her back, spinning her around so that he could apologize, kiss her senseless, and take her back north with him. But his touch never came.

  She brushed the tears out of her eyes as she went, forcing herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though it meant growing farther away from Garrick. She told herself this was as it must be, that she would overcome the sorrow, the hollowness inside, that she could still escape Dunbraes and build a new life for herself. None of it eased the crushing weight of sadness that sat like a boulder in her chest.

  She stumbled into the village on the outskirts of the square. No one seemed to notice her as they moved about their lives. They all had their struggles and heartbreaks, and she chastised herself for thinking that hers were somehow special or worse.

  Wiping away the lingering tears with the sleeve of her dress, she straightened her spine and turned toward the main road, which ran right through the square from the south and up to the castle above the village.

  Just as she took the first step back toward the castle, however, she heard the town crier’s clear voice above the mundane sounds of the square.

  “Lord Warren returns! The King is dead! Long live the King!”

  Jossalyn’s heart froze.

  King Edward was dead.

  Her brother was approaching the castle from the south along the same road on which she now stood.

  As she registered each of these pieces of news and what they would mean for her life, she felt all the blood drain from her. With Edward’s death, her brother could have potentially angled for a new position—one that could mean more power for him and less for her. It could even mean that they would be leaving the Borderlands. Or perhaps he had already arranged her marriage while he was at the makeshift court in Cumberland for Edward’s death.

  She had to get away. Now. This could be her last chance at freedom.

  But before she could run, she saw the parade of her brother’s returning men-at-arms filling the road just to the south of her.

  And her brother was at the front of the procession. She saw him squinting toward her for a moment and felt like a deer in the sights of a hunter. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide anymore.

  He kicked his horse into a gallop straight toward her. Her life was over.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Garrick had watched her as she had hurried from him, not looking over her shoulder even once. He had willed himself to keep his feet rooted to the ground despite every instinct telling him to give chase, to take her into his arms—but for what? For one more gut-wrenching kiss? For whispered words of affection, or vows that he couldn’t keep? Nay, he wouldn’t put both of them through it again. She was stronger than he would have been.

  When she was far enough away that he trusted himself not to go after her, he walked Fletch to the edge of the forest and watched her as she strode into the village. Burke followed him but didn’t say anything, despite the fact that he was likely eager to get going.

  Finally, Garrick forced himself to turn his back on her. He faced Fletch and ran a hand down the animal’s flank reassuringly. His eye caught on the long object wrapped in cloth sticking out of his saddlebag. His bow. If anything could make him feel more like himself right now, it was his bow, hand-carved and custom-built just for him.

  Though they didn’t have time to change into their Sinclair kilts at the moment, at least they could resume wearing their weapons, a comfort to any warrior. Burke was already unwrapping his sword, so Garrick did the same with his bow and quiver full of arrows. He too had a sword, which he unwrapped and belted to his waist, but nothing compared to the feel of his bow in his hand once more.

  Suddenly he heard a high voice drifting through the village and into the surrounding forest. It was a lad’s voice, but it wasn’t the sound of horseplay or pranking. He was repeating something over and over. Garrick quirked his ears. When the message finally made sense, his blood ran cold.

  “Lord Warren returns! The King is dead! Long live the King!”

  His gaze flew to Burke, who stood frozen with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Garrick tried to sort through the tangle in his mind at the news.

  Longshanks was dead.

  The Hammer of the Scots was dead.

  While part of his mind rejoiced, the other twisted. He had no idea what this would mean. On one hand, there was likely not another soul on earth who despised the Scots as much as King Edward did. His death could put and end to the wars for Scottish independence once and for all.

  On the other hand, the King’s son, Edward II, was now King, and he was an unknown entity. He was said to love the arts and have little of the spirit of war that his father had, but then again, the boy had been raised with a hunger for Scottish blood as if it were his mother’s milk.

  Then there was Warren’s return. Lord Raef Warren was his family’s mortal enemy. Garrick had fought alon
gside his brother Robert and Burke at the battle of Roslin four years earlier. He had seen the coward then, but was more familiar with Robert’s description of the man as a snake and warmonger. Warren was responsible for starting that war, which had dealt a heavy blow to the Sinclair clan and its lands. Robert had made it his personal mission to twist the knife in Warren’s side at every opportunity, raiding and stealing from him in the Borderlands.

  Though Garrick knew Robert’s blood still ran hot when it came to Warren, he had calmed somewhat with the arrival of Lady Alwin into his life. Now that she was with child, Robert had entrusted Garrick and Burke to investigate Warren’s whereabouts and learn about the movements of the English army.

  It had been a relief, when upon their arrival to Dunbraes, they had learned that Warren was away on some court business. It would be hard to avoid him, and Garrick suspected that Warren might recognize one or both of them on sight. But now the pompous arse was marching up the road, perhaps only one hundred yards from where he and Burke stood partly concealed by the thin outskirts of the forest.

  All of this crashed through Garrick’s mind like a wave. They had to move—now. They couldn’t be seen by Warren or his men, and they had to get to the Bruce to deliver this news.

  Garrick quickly dug through his saddlebag and retrieved his metal-studded leather vest, throwing it over his English clothes. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He finished unwrapping his bow and quiver, slinging both over his shoulder. Just before placing his foot in Fletch’s stirrup, he let himself take one last look over his shoulder at Jossalyn.

  He picked out her gleaming gold hair easily. Her back was still to him, but instead of continuing to walk through the village, she had frozen, and her eyes were locked on none other than Raef Warren. The man was barreling down on her from atop his horse. She held her ground, but even from a distance, Garrick could see that she had hunched her shoulders, pulling herself inward defensively.