Just as she had knelt to pluck another one of the plants, she had glanced up and spotted a pile of red fabric along the creek bank. She blushed and averted her eyes immediately, but then she realized that she didn’t see or hear Garrick at all. She stood and glanced around quickly, but still didn’t see a sign of him. Uneasiness crept through her. Where could he have disappeared to so quickly? Could he be hurt somewhere? Was the wound in his back worse than she had thought?
She took a few steps toward the creek, but suddenly the surface of the water exploded and Garrick emerged. Naked.
She assumed he was naked, anyway, since his lower half was still submerged in the creek. Her eyes traveled down to where the water lapped just below his hip bones. She gasped at her own brashness, and quickly spun on her heels so that she was facing away from him.
“I—I’m sorry. I was just collecting more yarrow, and then I didn’t see you…”
“Did you want to see me, lass?” His voice was closer than where he had been standing a moment ago. He was coming toward her. And he was naked. Her stomach seemed to flip over.
“No, well, yes, I mean, I…I saw your clothes but you weren’t anywhere, and I was worried about the cut on your back, and…” She was babbling like fool. She took a deep breath and attempted to gather her wits—and tried to force her mind to stop picturing the water dripping from his dark hair onto his shoulders, his chest, his stomach…
“Would you mind handing me my kilt? Unless you don’t mind if I get it?”
She looked down at her feet and realized that she was nearly standing on his pile of clothing. “I’ll get it!” she said frantically, grabbing the red plaid so that he wouldn’t reach around in front of her to fetch it himself. She held the fabric out behind her and felt him take it out of her hand. So now he was within arm’s reach of her. Still naked. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to stop blushing like a fool, but it didn’t work. Her face was hot.
Actually, her whole body was hot, despite the cool morning air. She told herself she was being more than a fool—she was being a blind, naïve fool, for, she reminded herself, she didn’t even know this man behind her. Yes, they had talked and interacted and even kissed, but this was a different Garrick than the one who pretended to be a Lowland blacksmith. This Garrick was a mysterious Highlander who had killed people in front of her.
That thought cooled her blood somewhat, and she opened her eyes again. Looking down, she realized the rest of his clothes were gone from her feet, though she hadn’t heard him move or felt him brush past her. Then she heard water splashing and turned around to face the creek. Garrick knelt at the water’s edge, his kilt fastened around his waist by his belt, but his torso still bare. He had his bloodied shirt in his hands and was dunking it into the creek.
Her eyes locked on the red slice running down the middle of his back, and she stepped forward to view it more closely. As she looked at it, she had to admit he was right—it wasn’t much more than a cut. It was only about six inches long and not very deep. She absently ran her fingers around it to make sure the surrounding skin wasn’t swollen or becoming infected. He jerked and stiffened at her touch.
“I doubt this needs stitches after all. I should check on it tomorrow to make sure it is still healing properly, though,” she said, still absorbed in assessing the injury through her healer’s eyes.
Then she realized she was touching his exposed skin, which was warm under her fingertips. She had also just said that she would check on him tomorrow without considering the larger question of where he would be tomorrow—and more importantly, if she would be with him.
She withdrew her fingers from his back, and an awkward and laden silence stretched. Finally, he wrung out his shirt and stood, turning to face her. His steely eyes locked onto her, and he said what she had wanted to say and yet feared to broach.
“We have some things to discuss.”
Chapter Seventeen
He searched her large green eyes, looking for a hint of her state of mind.
Normally, he could read people as if they were open books. He had become skilled at analyzing people’s movements and unspoken thoughts out of necessity, since he normally worked alone and at a distance. He had learned how to figure out what a mark was thinking, and then anticipate his next move in order to adjust his aim accordingly. But as he let his eyes drink Jossalyn in, he couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. He saw a mixture of dread, anticipation, uncertainty, and—was he just fooling himself, or did he see a flicker of desire in the emerald depths of her eyes?
He pushed the thought aside. Aye, he hungered for the lass, and they had clearly had a connection earlier, back when she thought he was a simple blacksmith and he thought she was a pretty English lass. But nothing could come of it. Now he knew that she was the sister of his enemy and an English noblewoman. And now that the truth of who he was had been revealed—or at least part of it—he would be a fool if he thought she could still desire him for the Highland killer that he was. She would probably be even more horrified to learn that he was an elite member of Robert the Bruce’s army, and the best archer-assassin in the Scottish fight for independence. But it was time to tell her—or maybe just explain a few things.
He took a breath to steel himself, preparing for the inevitable: her horror, disgust, shock, and fear of him.
“As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, Burke and I are not blacksmiths.”
She nodded, keeping her eyes locked on his.
“We are from the Highlands and are part of the Sinclair clan.” He waited, but her eyes didn’t register anything at the name of his clan.
So, Warren had kept her in the dark about his affairs and activities against the Scots, and the Sinclair clan in particular, he thought. He would have to tread very carefully, then. He wanted to explain things to her but didn’t want to give her too much information. It was safer for her if she didn’t know too much, he thought grimly. He didn’t know how long she would be with them, but at some point, he would have to figure out some place safe for her to go—away from both him and her brother. It wasn’t wise for her to be with either of them. He hated to have to admit that he had something in common with Warren, but when it came to Jossalyn, they were both dangerous to her, albeit for different reasons.
“Why did you lie? Why did you say you and Burke were from the Lowlands and that you were blacksmiths?” she asked, a hint of hurt creeping into her voice.
Her pain stung him, but he couldn’t let himself focus on it.
“We were…gathering information on the English army’s movements.” He paused, weighing how much he could say, but then added, “For the Scottish cause for independence.”
“You’re a freedom fighter?”
Her words caught him off-guard. It wasn’t often that the English called what the Scots were doing “freedom fighting.” Rebelling, yes. Acting like savage barbarians with their raiding and slaughtering, yes, according to those who opposed them. But “freedom”?
The only other time he had heard words that sounded even vaguely sympathetic to the Scottish cause coming from an English mouth was when he had met his brother’s wife. He had been instantly suspicious about her loyalty to Scotland given her nationality, but love seemed to be strong enough to overcome Robert and Alwin’s differences.
Someday you’ll understand. His brother’s words floated, unbidden, to his mind, but he pushed them away, not wanting to consider why they lingered in his thoughts.
“Aye, we fight with the Bruce for our independence.”
Her eyes widened, but instead of fear or horror, he saw interest and curiosity. He felt himself harden inside with suspicion. Years of isolation and subterfuge had made him distrustful of people, but it had also kept him alive. Why would she be interested in the fact that he was part of the Scottish rebellion, rather than frightened or disgusted? Could she be part of some scheme? She was English, after all, and Warren’s sister to boot.
He must have been glowering at
her, for she blinked and took a step back. As if understanding his silent suspicion, she said “I have always felt an affinity toward the Scottish people. Ever since my brother and I moved up to the Borderlands, I have…understood the desire for freedom.” She trailed off at the end, lowering her eyes to the ground between them.
“Is that why you tried to escape with us earlier into Scotland rather than back to England?” he said, some of his suspicion dissipating.
She nodded then met his eyes again, but this time her brow was furrowed. “How do you know my brother?”
He ran a hand through his dripping hair. Explaining this to her was necessary, but also dangerous. If Warren ever did manage to get his hands on his sister again, he would pump her for information on her “kidnappers,” and she would have to tell him that the members of the Sinclair clan, at the order of Robert the Bruce, were spying on him and readying themselves for a war.
“Have you heard of the battle at Roslin?”
Her furrow deepened, and she shook her head slowly. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure.”
“It happened four years ago in Scotland—on Sinclair land. Your brother instigated the attack, but we were victorious.” He watched her closely for her reaction. She was letting her eyes wander, and he guessed that she was scanning her mind for information.
Finally, she spoke. “I remember my brother returning from a battle about four years ago. He never let me be privy to information on the war, but that wasn’t long after our parents died and we moved to Dunbraes. He was…strange after that.”
“What do you mean, strange?”
She struggled for words for a moment, biting her lower lip. Despite telling himself to stay alert and keep his mind on task, his eyes kept tugging to her mouth, where that plump lower lip was caught between her teeth. Thankfully, she spoke.
“He didn’t take our parents’ death well. He blamed the healer who had tried to help them, and when she couldn’t save them, he became obsessed with being in control and maintaining order. I think…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I think he began to see Scotland as some sort of disease that England had to defeat, and that the Scots’ way of life was dangerously wild and needed to be controlled and stamped out before it could spread.”
Her words struck him. He had always thought Warren was an evil warmonger, but his hatred of Scotland and the fact that he was leading the English charge against them took on a new twist in light of Jossalyn’s insights. Then something else clicked into place.
“And he hates you just as he hates all Scots and Scotland, because you are a healer. You deal with disease and injury, but even you cannot overcome nature. You cannot save everyone, and you can’t control nature’s course, so he loathes you, as he loathes himself.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded slowly, and Garrick felt a pinch of something in his chest. He understood her, or at least understood some of her suffering.
A tiny part of him selfishly wished she could understand and know him too. But he pushed the thought away harshly. He had no right to ask her to see his true nature and accept him. He was beyond this innocent lass’s redemption.
He forced his mind back to the issue at hand. “Your brother has caused much pain and suffering in Scotland, and for the Sinclairs in particular. I was sent to gather information on the English army’s movements. Your brother is at the forefront of the conflict, not only in terms of being the northernmost English holding in the Borderlands, but also in terms of his…fervor for battle. So we infiltrated Dunbraes village to investigate.”
He was expecting her to recoil despite his careful wording—he hadn’t quite said it, but he was telling her that he was a spy, and had lied and deceived freely. He had even used her for information. But her next question surprised him.
“What did you learn?”
His suspicion crept up again, but he paused to consider her question before his distrust shuttered him to further conversation. This lass was more than an English noblewoman. She had endured a harder life than some pampered lady at court. She had been living in the Borderlands among a combination of her war-hungry and abusive brother, Borderlanders who feared war and had to keep their alliances fluid, and likely, some Scots with thinly-veiled hatred for their new overlord—and his English sister.
Despite all that, she had managed to ingratiate herself to the entire Dunbraes village from what he had seen, likely because she offered her healing skills freely and earnestly, helping anyone who needed it. And she had suffered her brother’s control and abuse, all the while longing for her own freedom.
He hesitated for a long time as he chewed on all of this, eying her warily. When he continued not to answer her, her face finally contorted into the expression he had been expecting this whole time—frustration, hurt, and withdrawal.
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
“Do you trust me?” He took a predatory step toward her. “Because you shouldn’t, lass.”
Finally the inevitable was happening. She took a step back warily, but he took another forward. She would see who he really was, even without him having to tell her all of it, and she would flee him, or at least turn away from him.
He couldn’t have her stay with him—for too many reasons. The most obvious was that he had a mission. He had to tell the Bruce about Longshanks’s death and give him time to plan their next step. Then his work in the Bruce’s army would continue. There were always more marks. He couldn’t simply walk away from his work and into the arms of a waiting Jossalyn. The thought was like a punch to the stomach, both the achingly honeyed idea of being with her and the bitter truth that he never could, not long-term anyway.
But another reason besides his duty to the Bruce and his mission whispered in the back of his mind. She would never be able to care for him, to understand what he had done over the long years of warfare and battles. It was better that she know the truth now before either one of them let their attraction go any farther. He wasn’t the hero. He did what had to be done, including pushing her away—or rather, giving her a glimpse of his life and letting her turn away from him in revulsion.
“I’m not the man you met back in Dunbraes. I am a warrior, a killer, not some innocent blacksmith. You shouldn’t be out here alone with me.”
She began to take another step back, but then halted, lifting her chin. “If you are so dangerous, then why am I still alive?”
“Like I told you before, Burke needs you, and I need Burke to complete my mission. Don’t think it means you’re safe.”
Part of him hated trying to scare her like this, but the other, louder part reminded himself that it was true—he wasn’t a safe person to be around. Danger followed him—nay, he sought it out. He couldn’t just bring her along with him to the Highlands and into Robert the Bruce’s war camp. He still had no idea what he was going to do about all this, but he had to put some distance between them. She couldn’t think of him as some sort of champion, and he couldn’t let himself indulge in the pleasure of her nearness. He had to be bigger than his desire for her.
Just then, her eyes flicked from his face down over his torso, which was still bare. He watched as a flutter of heat seeped into her eyes, and he felt himself snap. He could crush down his own craving for her, but her desire for him was his breaking point.
In one stride, he closed the distance between them, and his body slammed into hers.
Chapter Eighteen
A war raged inside Jossalyn. Garrick’s words of warning registered, for she too had been unsure of whether or not she should fear him. What he said was true—he had lied. He was actually a Highland warrior, and clearly, a very skilled one. But for some reason, his threat about being dangerous to her rang hollow. She couldn’t explain it, but she simply didn’t believe him.
For one thing, the more she thought on it, the more she realized he hadn’t snatched her away with him—he had saved her, first from her brother’s impending strike, and then from the battle that had boiled
all around her back at Dunbraes village.
Moreover, she had seen for herself how protective he was of her, both when he had first seen the bruises her brother had left, and again when her brother had been about to hit her. He may have deceived her before, but she didn’t think he could fake the visceral, instinctive protectiveness he had shown her.
But all of this was hard to wrestle from her mind, for her eyes kept tugging down to drink in the sight of his incredible physique. He had donned his kilt but still wore nothing on his upper half. Every plane and muscle seemed to work in hypnotic coordination when he moved. She remembered the feel of both his warm skin and hard muscles when they had kissed back in the smithy—vividly. He was so strong and large, and yet he could be so gentle with her.
He was attempting to intimidate her by taking a step forward, trying to prove his claim that he wasn’t a safe person to be around.
It was true, she didn’t feel safe around him, but not because she feared he would hurt her or mistreat her somehow. Instead, she feared her own reaction to him. She had felt the fluttering of girlish affection before, but this completely eclipsed her youthful attachments. She was drawn to him as a woman is drawn to a man, not as a girl daydreams over a lad. He made her feel something she had never felt before—or rather, he awakened something inside her that she had never known had been there all along: desire. Raw, hungry, bodily desire.
She couldn’t resist it anymore. She didn’t want to. She let her gaze slip down from his steel-sharp eyes to the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms, the broad expanse of his chest, and the narrower, chiseled planes of his trim waist.
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