Highlander Most Wanted: The Montgomerys and Armstrongs

by Maya Banks

  When he topped the slight rise that looked over the stream, he was not prepared for the sight before him, even though he well knew what he might encounter.

  Genevieve was rinsing soap from her hair, and Jesu, she looked like a goddess. Her right side was turned toward him, her face arched into the sun as she poured water over her head from a clay jug.

  There was such contentment, a visible sigh puffing from her lips, and the sun shone over her features, illuminating every beautiful line of her face and body.

  She was small and delicate, her features tiny but lush. A gently curved waist, plump buttocks, rounded hips, and her breasts … A hot flush traveled through Bowen’s body and his breath came in ragged spurts as he took in the sight before him.

  She was stunning. So beautiful that his cods ached. His hands fair itched to touch her, to caress her sleek flesh and coax sounds of pleasure from her lips.

  The moment she turned her face and he saw the ravages of all that had been done to her, he went cold, and guilt surged through his veins.

  He was acting no better than Ian McHugh, staring at her with lust in his eyes and heart. Thinking that she was no better than a vessel for his pleasure. He should not be here, intruding on her privacy. There was no honor in making a woman feel unsafe.

  Before he could retreat, she looked up, as if feeling his gaze on her body. Her eyes were startled, and yet she didn’t move. Perhaps she saw the foolishness of trying to hide now when she was in plain view.

  Heat crawled over his cheeks. It brought him shame that he stood staring at her even once his presence was known. And yet he drank his fill of the vision before him. Aye, her face was scarred, but somehow it didn’t matter. The lass’s beauty could not be denied.

  Or maybe it was her calm courage. The way she faced him, unwilling to flinch or play the shy maiden. She utterly fascinated him, and that was troublesome given his doubts about her.

  ’Twas true the lasses always paid him extra attention. His brothers teased him about his looks and his charm. He knew women found him comely and were eager to invite him to their beds.

  He was used to the attention and could shake it off when there were more serious matters to attend to. But he did enjoy a warm, willing lass in his bed, and he’d never had to go without when he desired one.

  But Genevieve didn’t look at him with lust or a teasing glint to her eyes. There were no coy mannerisms or come-hither looks.

  She merely stared back at him, as if unwilling to be the first to blink in their silent standoff. There was false bravado in her expression, as if she’d steeled herself for whatever was to come. Almost as if she fully expected pain or humiliation from him.

  It made what he’d come to confront her over even more distasteful, and a pang of unwanted guilt nagged at him. He hadn’t realized until now how much he wanted to be wrong.…

  Finally, he started down the incline, breaking the visible tension between them. The lass was likely freezing, standing there hip-deep in the water.

  He tried very hard not to let his gaze wander, but he was inexorably drawn to her breasts and down the flat line of her belly to where the dark curls of her womanhood were barely visible above the waterline.

  Jesu, but he was breaking into a sweat and the morning air still had a decided chill to it.

  Her body was perfect, and simply made for a man’s hands to appreciate. Her breasts were plump but not too much so. Just enough to fill his palm … and his mouth.

  And ah but he could well imagine cradling her luscious backside in his hands as he stroked in and out of her.

  As he neared the water’s edge, Genevieve lowered herself in the water, her eyes hooded and wary.

  “I would speak to you, Genevieve,” Bowen said, his voice graver than he intended.

  “I would prefer our conversation to take place when I’m at least covered,” she said in a tart voice that gave him hope.

  A saucy Genevieve he could take. A beaten-down, frightened Genevieve made his stomach knot.

  “I’ll turn my back and allow you to leave the water so you don’t grow chilled,” he offered.

  When he didn’t immediately proffer his back, she frowned and made a circling motion with her hand.

  Smothering a smile that surprised him by twitching at his lips, he swiftly turned his back and stared at the keep looming in the distance.

  Damn it but he didn’t want to be soft toward her. He didn’t want her to make him smile—or anything else. But he was a liar if he suggested such. He could tell himself all he wanted, but there was something about the lass that was compelling.

  His body and mind were not in accord on this matter, and his body was fast winning the battle.

  Soft splashing sounds reached his ears, and a shiver stole down his spine at the idea that she was rising from the water. Rivulets would be sliding down her sleek body and, even now, chill bumps would dot her torso, hardening her nipples, and water would cling to the damp curls between her legs. Hiding all that warm, moist womanly flesh that he ached to explore.

  A blistering curse burned his lips. It was absurd for him to carry on like a lad who hadn’t yet reached manhood. He stood there fidgeting like a nervous boy who’d just laid eyes on his first naked woman.

  “You can turn around now.”

  Genevieve’s voice was soft and sweet, and he spun immediately, eager to drink in her appearance again.

  She was wrapped in a drying blanket. It covered every inch of her skin. Only her head poked out. Her wet hair lay limply over her head and was arranged to cover her scarred cheek.

  He wanted to tell her that she needn’t hide her disfigurement from him. It certainly didn’t make him want her less. It had been Ian’s intention to ruin her for any other man, but Ian was a bloody fool for ever thinking that scarring the lass’s face would make her any less desirable.

  His fingers curled in anger at the thought of Ian holding her down and flaying open her cheek with a knife.

  She cleared her throat awkwardly at his prolonged silence.

  “Laird? You wanted to speak with me?”

  He let out his breath as she settled on one of the large boulders that lined the river. Her blanket was pulled even tighter around her as she huddled behind its protection.

  The right thing to do would be to allow her to dress and return to the keep, but he didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation.

  Deciding to sit across from her on the banks of the stream rather than to continue looming over her, he settled down and then met her gaze.

  “I would ask you a question, and I’d like an honest answer.”

  Her eyes narrowed at the slight and she pursed her lips, but she remained silent. Then she merely nodded.

  “Did you have anything to do with Eveline Montgomery’s abduction?” he asked bluntly.

  She froze. Went completely still. Where before she’d fidgeted nervously in the folds of the blanket, now she didn’t so much as move a muscle. Her jaw tightened and fear crawled, ugly and dark, into her eyes.

  She gripped the blanket so hard the tips of her fingers went white and the blood drained from her face.

  Nay, the lass would never make a warrior, as he’d observed before. There was no way for her to disguise her actions. It was all there to see in her eyes.

  However much he tried to control his anger, it crept over him, itchy and hot, until he was no longer able to remain sitting there.

  As soon as he stood, she flinched back, becoming a much smaller target. There was such desolation in her eyes that it froze him from the inside out. ’Twas like looking over the most barren winter landscape. Cold and haunted.

  “Tell me you didn’t do this thing,” he whispered.

  “I can’t do that,” she said, her voice cracking like dry wood.

  “Sweet Jesu, why?” he thundered. “How could you do such a thing, especially knowing the manner of man Ian McHugh was?”

  He came across more forcefully than he wanted, but he was near to explod
ing.

  “Genevieve? I expect an answer.”

  She looked so stricken, her eyes wide. Her mouth opened, but she swallowed and then closed it again.

  They both jumped and turned toward the keep when shouts went up in the distance. Bowen strained to hear what the noise was about, and when he finally heard the distinct call his blood went cold.

  “To arms! We’re under attack!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Bowen made a grab for Genevieve, hauling her up beside him and then urging her back toward the keep.

  “Run!” he urged. “Make haste.”

  Genevieve scrambled over the rocky terrain in her bare feet, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her body. Her clothing still lay on the bank of the river, and Bowen gave her no time to retrieve it.

  He ran as fast as he was able with Genevieve in tow, until they reached the back entrance through the skirt. He ducked inside, his hands still firmly wrapped around Genevieve’s arm.

  “Go inside,” he ordered. “Take cover in your chamber.”

  He nudged her forward and then broke into a run, unsheathing his sword as he went. When he reached the courtyard, it was chaotic.

  The McHugh warriors looked bewildered, while the few remaining Montgomery and Armstrong soldiers were preparing for battle.

  Bowen found Brodie in the crowd and shouted to him. Brodie looked up and then stalked a determined line over to where Bowen stood.

  “What is happening? Who called the men to arms?”

  “I did,” Brodie said, his features grim and his eyes dark with the promise of battle. “The McHugh idiots were set to welcome their laird home. ’Tis not a welcome he seeks!”

  “Patrick McHugh rides against us?” Bowen asked incredulously. Could they be so fortunate as to have the jackal come to them? “It will certainly save us time hunting him down.”

  “He’s not alone,” Brodie bit out. “He’s found an ally in the McGrieves. They ride side by side with him, and they bring their army.”

  Bowen swore. “How many?”

  “I don’t know. They are but a fifteen-minute ride from the keep. The McHugh watchmen came in bearing the news that their laird returned. I had to tell the fools to prepare for war.”

  Bowen ground his teeth together until they nearly snapped under the pressure. “Spread word that McHugh comes to battle his own kin. Remind them of all he has stolen from them, and of the dishonor that he bestowed on their name. Tell them he has a bounty, and that any who side with him are enemy not only to the Montgomerys and Armstrongs but to the Crown as well. Look out for any traitors—and watch your back, my friend.”

  Brodie caught his arm as they clasped hands in a warrior’s shake. “Aye, and you as well.”

  Bowen broke away and shouted harshly to his men to ready themselves. Then he called up to the tower watchman.

  “Do you see them yet?”

  “Aye, Laird!” the man called down. “They are topping the last rise to the keep, coming from the north.”

  Bowen turned, sword in hand, raising it above his head as he stared at the assembled troops.

  “No mercy!”

  “No mercy!” they roared back.

  Genevieve frantically pulled on a simple day dress, not bothering with any underclothing. Her hands and knees shook until she was a clumsy mess and she wanted to scream in frustration.

  “Genevieve, we are under attack!”

  Taliesan’s fearful cry from Genevieve’s chamber door gave Genevieve a start. She whirled around, nearly tripping as she attempted to fasten her dress.

  “Aye, I know it. Help me,” she said grimly, offering her back to Taliesan.

  Taliesan’s fingers shook as she fastened the dress. As soon as she was done, Genevieve broke away and went to the small trunk positioned close to her pallet. She’d managed to keep so few of her things. Ian had taunted her with the gifts from her parents. Not many had survived, but what did remain, she cherished greatly. He’d taken great pleasure in breaking or ruining an object when he perceived she needed punishing.

  She opened the trunk and pulled out the bow and the quiver of arrows fashioned especially for her smaller frame by her father. She slung the quiver over her shoulder as Taliesan looked on, mouth wide open.

  When she started past Taliesan, the other woman put her hand out, gripping Genevieve’s arm.

  “Where are you going? What do you think to do?”

  Genevieve squared her shoulders and looked Taliesan directly in the eye. “Listen to me. Go and seek refuge in one of the tower chambers. Make sure it’s a room with no windows—and bar the door. Seek as many of the women and children as possible, and encourage them to do the same. Do not allow anyone inside who is not known to you.”

  “And you?” Taliesan asked fearfully. “What of you, Genevieve?”

  “I will not be imprisoned again,” Genevieve said fiercely. “The Montgomery men are all who stand between me and the McHugh Laird bearing down, seeking to reclaim his keep. I’ll either aid the Montgomerys in defending their position or I’ll die trying. I’ll never again be subjected to the whims of a single McHugh.”

  “Have a care, Genevieve. I beg you. Do not do anything foolish.”

  Genevieve snorted. “I would hardly call killing a few McHughs foolish.”

  “God be with you,” Taliesan said, pulling Genevieve into a fierce hug.

  “And you,” Genevieve returned. “Now go and seek shelter in the tower.”

  She swept past Taliesan and hurried down the hall to the stairs. As she descended, the sounds of battle could be heard echoing through the courtyard. The clash of swords and shields. The roars of rage and cries of pain.

  As she stepped through the doorway, the smell of sweat and blood tainted the air and was oppressive in her nostrils.

  The courtyard was a sea of chaos. It was hard to discern who fought whom. Her gaze sought out the now familiar Montgomery and Armstrong warriors, though their numbers were smaller than just a day before.

  Patrick, being the coward he was, likely had set a watch on the keep and had attacked the moment the bulk of the Montgomery and Armstrong forces departed.

  Her gaze halted when she found Bowen in the midst of a fierce battle with two of the McHughs who had departed with Patrick. He was holding his own, though, and didn’t need her aid.

  She searched farther, looking for Patrick, though she didn’t expect him to be in front leading the attack. Nay, he’d be on the fringes, avoiding confrontation.

  Finally, she found him and, as she suspected, he was lurking on the perimeter, sword in hand, but he wasn’t engaged, and two of his warriors were solidly in front of him.

  Rage suffused her as she stared at the source of her torment for the last year. Nay, he may not have taken an active part in her abuse, but he turned a blind eye to Ian. He never once called his son down for his actions. Never said to him he was being dishonorable.

  He’d stood by while she’d been repeatedly used, a means for Ian to slake his twisted desires. He hadn’t cared that she’d been broken numerous times. That, at times, she’d wanted to die. Or that her very soul had been forfeit to demons she could never hope to escape.

  She reached over her shoulder to grasp one of the arrows by the fletching and quickly notched it. She raised the bow and set her sights on the man in front of Patrick. She would have to act quickly. Once Patrick sensed danger, he’d slink away like a rat in the darkness.

  Rapidly taking aim, she let the first arrow fly. Savage satisfaction coursed through her veins when the warrior just in front of Patrick clutched his chest and toppled forward, her arrow embedded deeply in the area just above where his chain mail protected his vulnerable areas.

  Patrick sent a panicked look, desperately searching for the source of the attack. He instantly hunkered down, cowering behind his shield, all the while hoarsely yelling for someone to come to his aid.

  Her lips curling into a snarl, she notched another arrow and took aim, waiting patiently for the right o
pportunity.

  Sweat beaded and rolled down her back. Her entire focus was on her target. Her arm ached from the strain of holding the bow at full draw, but she’d wait forever if that was what it took.

  Revenge was sweet on her tongue. She didn’t spare a moment’s regret for killing another person in cold blood. It was nothing less than she’d done in her dreams time and time again. It was all that had sustained her over the last months. Dreaming of vengeance.

  Her arm was starting to shake when Patrick made his move. He’d evidently decided that he was in too vulnerable a position and shot upward, holding his shield to guard his upper body. He fled toward the back of the keep, where less fighting was taking place.

  Calmly, she took aim at his leg, knowing it would slow him and it would also likely afford her a kill shot when he was forced to drop his shield.

  She shot the arrow and was rewarded by the sight of him stumbling and dropping to his knees, his cry of agony rising above the din of battle. It struck him just above the ankle and rendered him incapable of walking. She notched another arrow, never removing her gaze from his fallen figure. She drew and waited, and, as she’d hoped, his shield dropped. Just enough …

  She let the arrow fly.

  It struck him in the side of the neck, going all the way through to the fletching. His eyes wide and glassy with death, he pitched to the side, sagging pitifully, wilting like a flower too long in the sun.

  For a long moment, she stood, bow held high, staring as the life faded from his body. Then, slowly, she lowered her bow, calm pervading her mind.

  It was done. She may not have been the one to deal Ian his death blow, but she’d exacted vengeance against his weakling of a father. If she was supposed to feel guilt over the taking of a life, it was too bad. She wouldn’t spend a single moment being remorseful that Patrick McHugh had met such a violent end.

  The continued sounds of battle seeped into her consciousness, and she turned, anxiously seeking the fate of the Montgomery and Armstrong forces.