by Maya Banks
“You did a fine job, Genevieve. Bowen will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Nay,” she refuted softly. She knew better.
“I have matters to attend, and ’tis important we keep careful watch on the borders,” Brodie said. “Summon me when he awakens and alert me if his condition worsens.”
“Aye, I will.”
He touched her shoulder briefly with his hand, and then he was gone before she could react to his gesture.
She sagged when Brodie departed the chamber. What a fraud she was, playing savior, making herself important.
Though none would likely believe it, she had no ulterior motive for helping Bowen Montgomery. She knew that she would answer for her actions, regardless of her role in keeping Bowen alive.
Despite all the wrong that had been done to her, she still had a burning sense of right and wrong. Perhaps her view was not shared by others, but it was what she thought that mattered to her. She could only control her own actions, and, if she could help it, she would not act with dishonor, for to do so would make her no better than Ian or Patrick, or the countless others who’d made the choice to sell their loyalty.
Deaglan and Geoffrey rose from their places by the fire. Deaglan stood by Bowen’s bed long enough to offer his and Geoffrey’s services should they be needed, and the two quit the room to resume their posts outside the door.
The chamber was once again blanketed in silence, and Genevieve sat staring at Bowen as he rested with ease.
Tentatively, she slid her fingers over Bowen’s warm hand that was palm down on the mattress.
“I know you sleep, Laird,” she whispered. “But ’tis my wish for you to recover even though I must answer for my actions when you awaken. You are the only hope for this clan. For me. I would have you live so that you may see this clan through the coming days. I do not want Ian and Patrick to win, though they are both dead and lie in cold graves.”
She left her hand covering his, enjoying something so simple as an innocent touch. Completely harmless. His warmth bled into her cold hand, warming all the way into her arm.
He moved her in a way that was unfamiliar to her. She felt none of the loathing, fear, or disgust that she felt with Ian or the others with whom he tortured her.
He left her hungry, for what she couldn’t be certain, but he instilled an ache deep within her soul, for no matter what he decided her fate to be, she knew him to be an honorable man.
Aye, she would be at peace whatever his edict. She deserved his anger and censure. She had done the terrible thing he’d accused her of, and yet he hadn’t come to her in rage, making threats, and neither had he abused her.
He simply asked her if what he’d learned was true. And when had anyone questioned her before rendering judgment?
For that he had her respect. She only hated that she couldn’t deny his claims.
Having forgotten the warm water she’d requested, she hurried to the fire, where the pitcher had been placed, hoping it hadn’t chilled too much.
After dipping a finger into it and finding it still warm, she dipped several cloths into it and then laid them by the fire so they would be comfortable on Bowen’s skin.
When she returned to Bowen’s bedside, she carefully unwound the linen strips from his arm and examined the cut. She then cleaned it with the warm cloths, watching all the while for signs that he’d awakened.
After cleaning the wound to her satisfaction, she wrapped it in clean dressings and directed her attention to the stitches on his chest.
She wiped away crusted blood and placed a heated compress over the length of the cut.
Appeased that she’d done everything in her power to ensure his comfort, she settled back in her chair, weariness assailing her.
She would stand guard by his bedside, her prayers lifting to heaven for his quick recovery. Until she was forced away, she would remain here, Bowen’s own guardian.
She’d prayed often enough for a champion of her own, and until now, her prayers had remained unanswered. Although it was likely Bowen would no longer champion her cause, she would hold dear the memory of the gentle warrior and his careful treatment of her for the rest of her days.
CHAPTER 20
It was late in the evening when Bowen began to stir. Genevieve sat up straight, her anxious gaze traveling immediately to Bowen’s face as his eyelids fluttered and struggled to open.
Her first instinct was to bolt from the room, but she had to ascertain his fitness. All through the day she’d stood vigil by his bedside, watching closely for any sign of a fever.
Even now, her hand went automatically to his forehead and down to his cheek, testing for abnormal warmth.
He uttered a sigh as her hand glided over his face, and, while his face felt cool to her touch, his words had her wondering if he had indeed been overtaken by illness.
“Such a beautiful lass,” he murmured.
She yanked her hand away, stepping back into the shadows cast by the burning candles. Though he had no apparent fever, ’twas obvious he was not fully awake, because he certainly wasn’t referencing her with his remark.
She took this opportunity to slip away, heading to the door to alert the others. ’Twas time for her to take to her own chamber. The laird was awakening and, by all accounts, he was well and seemingly pain free.
Hearing no protest from the bed, she quietly opened the door, slipping into the hall, where Geoffrey and Deaglan stood guard.
“The laird is awakening,” she said.
She swayed precariously, fatigue sapping what little strength she had left. Deaglan put a hand out to steady her, but she quickly stepped to the side.
“He hasn’t taken a fever and he isn’t thrashing about in pain. Perhaps he’ll be lucid now and aware of his surroundings.”
“We’ll see to him immediately and send word to Brodie,” Deaglan said. “Now, go to your chamber, mistress, and seek your bed. You’ve remained at his side for two full days. You have need of your rest.”
She nodded, only too willing to remove herself from Bowen’s chamber before he fully awakened. Oh, aye, sooner or later she would receive her reckoning, but it would be after she’d enjoyed a full night’s rest and could better face her judgment.
She went into her chamber, but even though she was weary to her bones, she couldn’t sleep. She was too agitated, and paced her chamber restlessly.
Needing the coolness of the night air, she pulled the furs away from her window and leaned from the sill, breathing deeply of the chill.
It was a beautiful night, stars scattered like jewels across the sky. It was clear, with no cloud in sight and nothing to hide the near-full moon from view.
It glistened off the river that snaked around the keep and softly illuminated the landscape, making it glow with an eerie light.
She rested her arms on the narrow ledge and stared longingly toward the horizon. Below, the courtyard was mostly silent. Torches blazed along the tops of the stone wall, and she could see motion from the night guards as they manned their posts.
But the land was blanketed in silence. Deceptively peaceful. There was no sign that, just two days prior, a bloody battle had been waged. Lives were lost. Women and children mourned husbands and fathers. Lives were irrevocably changed.
Sadness gripped her. ’Twas such a useless thing. And so unnecessary. Many had suffered for the actions of a few. Wasn’t that always the way of things? The collective suffered for the actions of an inept, ineffectual leader.
She closed her eyes and allowed the cool wind to blow over her face, ruffling her hair until finally a chill skated down her spine.
A shout below broke her from her reverie and she quickly looked down to see several men scrambling to open the gate into the courtyard. When she looked beyond, she saw dozens of men on horseback riding toward the keep, two torches in the lead.
Her heart leaped into her throat until she heard someone shout, “The Montgomerys have returned!”
Relief took over. T
eague was back. The messenger had been successful in overtaking him. Reinforcements had arrived, and they would be safe from attack.
But with the arrival of Bowen’s brother came the fear that, surely, once Bowen had explained all, she would be an outcast. The kindness and understanding they’d shown her would be replaced by anger and thoughts of revenge.
She turned away from the window, agitation taking hold once more. For the first time, she didn’t want to be alone. The isolation of her chamber—something she once longed for more than anything—was stifling and overwhelming. But she had no desire to return to Bowen’s chamber, where even now her fate could be in discussion.
On impulse, she cracked open her chamber door, peeking out to see if Geoffrey and Deaglan were outside Bowen’s chamber. But nay, they must still be inside.
Quickly, she darted to Taliesan’s door and knocked. The entire time she waited, she jittered from head to toe, not wanting to be discovered lurking in the halls when she was supposed to be in her own chamber, resting.
Finally Taliesan opened the door, and when she saw Genevieve she instantly swung it wide for her to enter.
“Is aught amiss, Genevieve?”
Concern radiated from Taliesan and Genevieve hastened to assure her.
“Nay. I could not sleep and was … lonely. And restless. I saw below my window that the Montgomery forces have arrived, and knew I wouldn’t rest for the remainder of the night.”
Taliesan shut the door and turned, her eyes wide. Relief shone in their depths.
“Oh, ’tis good news you bring. We need no longer worry about having to fend off an attack when we are sorely undermanned.”
Genevieve wished she could be so relieved over the news. Worry was about to eat a hole in her stomach.
“Sit, Genevieve. Do you have need of anything?”
Genevieve settled on the edge of Taliesan’s bed and shook her head. “Nay, just your company.”
Taliesan, clad in only her nightdress, sat on the bed, dragging her lame leg up so that it didn’t dangle over the side.
“ ’Tis glad I am for your company. Things are so tense within the clan. I finally sought refuge in my chamber, because everywhere I turned there was naught but worry, anger, fear, and stress. The clan has no idea what to think or how they should feel. Many are resentful of the Montgomerys’ and Armstrongs’ intrusion, even as they realize the sins committed by Ian and Patrick and weigh this against the loyalty they feel they should have toward their own kin, regardless of their transgressions.”
“I suppose we’ll wait it out in your chamber together,” Genevieve offered faintly.
“Why don’t you try to sleep, Genevieve. You look exhausted. You can share the bed with me. No one will bother you here.”
Genevieve glanced at the pillow and then stifled a yawn.
“Come. I have a nightdress you can change into. No need to go back to your chamber. I’ll help you out of your dress, and then we’ll both have a long sleep.”
CHAPTER 21
Bowen let out a groan and then pushed himself up in the bed, surprised when pain set fire to his chest. He sagged back, all his breath leaving him in an excruciating rush. What the bloody hell?
His head hit the pillow and he reopened his eyes to see Brodie Armstrong looming over his bed.
“What are you doing here?” Bowen grumbled.
“Seeing how you fare. How do you feel?”
It was an odd question, but it gave him pause, because the fuzz was starting to clear from his mind, and the more it cleared the more the ache in his skull increased.
He felt as though he’d been thrown from his horse, dragged through the mud, and then stepped on repeatedly.
“I’ve felt worse.” And it was true enough.
He struggled to make sense of why he was lying abed with Brodie in his chamber. Beyond Brodie he saw Geoffrey and one of Brodie’s men, Deaglan, standing at the end of the bed.
It was a regular gathering in his chamber, apparently.
When he tried to maneuver onto his side, at least, his chest protested and it felt as though someone had driven a thousand tiny needles into his flesh. He glanced down to see a fresh wound, jaggedly cut across his chest.
It was stitched tightly and looked clean. The stitches were close together and had sealed the flesh completely closed. Whoever had performed the task had done an excellent job.
“What happened?” Bowen asked, still rubbing bleary eyes.
His head was a vast void of nothingness, and trying to think only made it ache more vilely. His mouth was overdry, and his tongue felt large and thick. Almost as if he’d consumed far too much ale and suffered in the aftermath. Only, he knew he had done no such thing.
Brodie frowned. “We were attacked. Do you not remember?”
Rapid images flashed in Bowen’s mind. It all came in one giant bombardment until he was dizzy.
“Tell me all,” Bowen said curtly. “I want a full report. How long have I been abed? What of the rest of the clan. Did we suffer losses?”
Brodie held up his hand. “Your brother has arrived. It would be far simpler if I only give an accounting once, and he’ll want to hear the whole of it.”
“Teague? What the hell is he doing here?”
“Genevieve sent for him,” Brodie said evenly. “The lass roared the order, in fact. She sent three of your men to intercept your brother. But I’ll explain all when Teague arrives. I expect him at any moment. He was dismounting just moments ago.”
Bowen simmered with impatience, but he fell silent, nodding his agreement that they would discuss all when Teague was present.
He remembered his confrontation with Genevieve on the bank of the river. He certainly remembered seeing her bathing, and how stunningly breathtaking she was. He also remembered well how pale she’d gone when he’d asked her if all he’d heard about her involvement in Eveline’s abduction was true. The lass hadn’t needed to say a word to confirm his suspicions. It was all there to see on her face and in her eyes.
But then he also remembered staring at her in the heat of battle and being convinced she was about to fell him with an arrow, only for her to take out a McHugh warrior behind him who’d been prepared to plunge a dagger into his back. And then she’d rushed to his side, refusing to let him fall to the ground.
After that, everything was a blank. He had no recollection of any of the events that had followed. And he still didn’t know long he’d been in bed out of his senses.
“How long has it been since the battle took place?” Bowen demanded.
“Two full days,” Brodie said.
Bowen swore. ’Twas certainly long enough to be abed with an injury as paltry as his.
The corners of Brodie’s mouth turned up into a slight smile. “If it makes you feel any better, you were abed for so long because we held you down and forced a sleeping draft down your throat.”
Only a little mollified, Bowen leaned back and then pushed himself upward to a sitting position.
They didn’t have long to wait, as Brodie had suspected. Only moments later, Bowen’s chamber door burst open and Teague strode in, his face drawn into grim, worried lines.
His expression lightened when he cast eyes on Bowen, and he hurried to his brother’s bedside.
“Are you all right?” Teague demanded. “I came as fast as I could. We were nearly to Montgomery Keep when your men overtook me.”
“Aye, I am well. ’Tis a paltry wound. Not worthy of two days abed. I’ll be up on the morrow.”
Teague turned to Brodie. “What in God’s name happened?”
Brodie pulled up a chair, turned it backward, and then straddled the seat, resting his arms along the back.
“Patrick McHugh attacked, along with the McGrieves. We beat them back, but not before Bowen was injured. There was an attempt by a McHugh who’d remained behind and sworn allegiance to the Montgomerys. He snuck up on him and nearly stabbed him in the back as he did battle with another warrior.”
Teague quirked up an eyebrow. “And yet he didn’t.”
Brodie shook his head. “Nay. Genevieve felled him with an arrow.”
Teague did an instant double take. “Wait. Genevieve did what?”
“She put an arrow straight through the man’s forehead, and then she finished off the soldier Bowen had been doing battle with. The lass was fierce in battle. And she has good aim.”
Teague glanced at Bowen, his eyebrows drawn together. “What say you about this, Bowen? And what of the matter we discussed before I left?”
Bowen sent Teague a look that instantly silenced his younger brother.
“I’m more interested in the fate of Patrick McHugh. I saw him not in the heat of battle. Is he still lurking out there, hiding in some dark hole? And what of the other members of the McHugh clan. There was one traitor. Were there others?”
Brodie grimaced. “Aye. We found at least three. They were executed at dawn. They aided Patrick and the McGrieves, as well as their kin who rode with Patrick.”
“And Patrick?” Teague asked. “What of him?”
Brodie took in a deep breath. “This is rather interesting. Patrick is dead.”
“Dead? How? And who killed him? Find me the name of the soldier who ended Patrick’s life so he can be handsomely rewarded,” Bowen said.
“Well, that’s the thing,” Brodie hedged. “We found two arrows in Patrick McHugh. One in his leg and one right through his neck. Both arrows belong to Genevieve.”
Bowen and Teague gaped at Brodie and then looked at each other in astonishment.
“Are you certain it was the lass who killed him?” Teague asked skeptically.
“I saw her shoot the two men in defense of Bowen. It’s not a stretch for me to believe she felled Patrick as well. The lass is calm under pressure. And she’s lethal with that bow of hers.”
