Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “You’ll need to rest and stay off the leg if you want it to heal properly,” she said firmly, but Burke and Garrick exchanged a look that made it clear that they wouldn’t be following her instructions.

  “We’ll rest and let the horses catch their breath for a few hours at most,” Garrick said flatly.

  He pinned her with those intense eyes again, and she found that even though annoyance bubbled up at his refusal to listen to her, she couldn’t seem to find her tongue.

  Garrick withdrew from the shelter and turned to see to the horses. When his back was to her, she suddenly remembered his wound, which also needed to be tended.

  “Your back!” she called to him as she scooted out of the lean-to and stood. “I can stitch it as well.”

  He half-turned back to her. “Nay, lass, I’m fine. It was only a scratch.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest in exasperation. Why did men so often insist that they were invincible? “At least let me look at it.”

  He quirked an eyebrow, likely at her tart tone, but she wasn’t going to back down. Finally, he took a step toward her.

  Suddenly she felt like he was a hunter and she was in his sights. He moved slowly, deliberately, but with deadly grace. She had to will herself to keep her feet rooted in place rather than take a step back from his powerful frame as he drew closer. When he was standing directly in front of her, he slowly turned on his heels so that his back was facing her.

  Now that he wasn’t bearing down on her like some perfectly honed warrior-god from a nightmare—or dream, she thought fleetingly—she let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She prodded around the slit in his leather vest and shirt, but there was too much dried blood to be able to see the extent of the cut.

  “I can’t see it very well. Perhaps I could wash some of the blood away.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder for a moment. “I was going to take a dip in the creek anyway. You can look at my back there if you’d like.”

  Though his words were innocent, something in his tone held a dark invitation—and a promise. She felt her cheeks grow hot and her stomach flutter. He would be naked, bathing in a woodland creek, and he wanted her to come along so it would be just the two of them?

  “N-no, I’ll stay here and watch over Burke,” she said in a rush, her voice shaky.

  He raised a dark eyebrow but shrugged, not commenting on her uneven voice or the blush she was sure currently reddened her face.

  “As you wish, lass. But you know where to find me.” With that, he strode away in the direction she assumed the creek was in, leaving her to stare after him, red-cheeked and longing for something, but she didn’t know what.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Garrick needed a cold dunk, and fast. And it wasn’t just because the smell of horseflesh and battle clung to him, or because he wanted to wash away the blood that had dried on his back.

  It had started with having Jossalyn seated in front of him in the saddle as they rode through the night. Hell, if he was honest with himself, it had started the moment he had laid eyes on her outside of Dunbraes, but it had gotten much worse over the last several hours.

  Just like on their ride from the safe house back to Dunbraes, he had felt her slim shoulders and back pressing into his chest, her soft bottom wedged against his groin, their hips moving in unison. It had felt good—too good, considering he needed to be on high alert, making sure they weren’t being followed and guiding them northeast through the tangled forest. The importance of the task at hand, plus his worry over Burke, had forced him to keep his mind on task and away from the feel of her pressed against him.

  Then as he had watched her work on Burke’s leg, he had been caught off-guard again. Her golden head had been bent over, her brow furrowed in concentration, but her hands had been steady and swift. He had never seen a lass operate so calmly under pressure—or operate at all, for that matter. In all the time he had spent in Robert the Bruce’s war camp, they had never had a real healer, someone trained and tested under pressure. Mostly, the men just saw to themselves and each other. Witnessing Jossalyn work made him realize just how valuable real healing skills were. He had stared at her in fascination, amazed at her calm cool-headedness.

  But his real undoing had been when she had offered to help him, and he had thought about taking off his shirt in front of her again and having her slim hands skimming over his skin exploratorily, as she had done back at the smithy. Despite his exhaustion, that thought had made his cock jerk under his kilt.

  Then she had crossed her arms in annoyance at him, which caused her breasts to be pushed together and up, and he thought he might have to adjust his kilt to hide his overeager manhood. When he had approached her, he watched as she let her eyes run all over his body. He doubted she knew what she was doing, but he caught the light of hunger that flickered in her eyes, and noticed that her lips had parted slightly, her breathing just a touch more shallow than normal.

  He knew he shouldn’t have, but he had let his words about bathing be an invitation. It was neither the time nor the place, and even if it were, she was an English lass—and Raef Warren’s sister. He couldn’t just dally with her for a few hours and enjoy some shared pleasure, then move on like he normally did with the lasses. He had a mission to complete and a rebellion to return to.

  And what the hell had he been thinking when he had rescued her? Even thinking the word “rescue” brought on an internal grimace.

  He was no hero, and it was ridiculous to indulge in the idea that he was. Aye, he had gone mad with rage at the sight of Warren about to hit her, and he never tolerated any man raising a hand against a woman, but what did he hope to accomplish by taking her with them? He had been right when he told the lass that Burke needed her. The wound was bad, and left untreated, Burke could die from it. He still wasn’t even out of the woods yet. They had several days of hard travel ahead of them, and infection could set in at any time.

  So he had hacked his way through a dozen English soldiers and thrown her onto Fletch’s back because Burke needed her healing skills?

  That wasn’t the real reason, he admitted to himself as he reached the bank of the wide, slow-moving creek. He felt protective of her. And possessive of her. He couldn’t stomach the idea of her brother beating her into submission like a dog. It had been gut-wrenching to decide to return her to Dunbraes despite her begging to go north with them, and it was only made harder in light of his knowledge that her brother controlled and abused her. But now that he knew that her brother was Raef Warren, he would never put her in his grasp again.

  As if his own experience fighting against Warren in the battle of Roslin four years earlier wasn’t enough, Garrick had heard from his brother how Warren had attempted to first abduct and then murder Robert’s new wife Alwin. Warren was a base and cowardly bastard.

  Not that Garrick was in a position to dole out judgment. He had done despicable things in his life, but he would never involve women or children in his violent duty to the Scottish rebellion. Aye, he had killed, and done it in cold blood too, not just in the heat of battle. That was what it took, and he would do the jobs that no one else could or would do. He would hunt and watch commanders of the invading English army until he had the perfect shot. He would track and kill Scottish power players who had secretly aligned with the English and who were spying and selling their knowledge to the enemy. He had done it before, and once he could figure out what to do with Jossalyn and get back to the Bruce’s side again, he would do it again. But he hoped that he would never be as lowly and dishonorable as Warren.

  Garrick shed his leather vest and shirt, then unbelted his kilt and let the material slide from him. He tugged off his boots, and then took a moment to let the early-morning air cool his flesh and his mind. He would have some serious sorting to do regarding this mess he had put himself in, not only in terms of dragging Jossalyn with them, but also with the way the sight of her, the feel of her, the smell of her fired his blood, making him
want to forget everything and sink into her.

  Pushing the thought away, he stepped into the creek, which was almost more of a river considering how wide, deep, and slow-moving it was. Despite the fact that it was the heart of summer, the water was surprisingly cold and refreshing around his legs.

  He waded further in, then crouched and dunked himself so that he was completely submerged. He let the water block out all the noise in his head about Jossalyn, Warren, Burke, the Bruce, and his mission.

  He vaguely registered that the water stung the cut on his back slightly, but he wasn’t worried. He could tell it had already closed itself and wasn’t serious. Not like Burke’s injury. No matter how long he stayed underwater, he realized, he couldn’t escape or fully block out everything that was going on. Reluctantly, he reemerged. He blinked his eyes open, but cursed at the sight before him.

  Jossalyn stood frozen on the bank, her eyes locked on him and her lips parted in surprise.

  She hadn’t meant to see him bathing. That’s what she kept telling herself as her eyes devoured the sight of his water-slick, muscular torso. It was just that a moment after he had walked toward the creek, she had realized that she would need to gather more yarrow, since Burke would likely need several more bandages with fresh yarrow crushed into them in the coming days. And yarrow grew near water.

  So she had carefully made her way toward the creek, but kept her head down, both so she could keep an eye out for the distinctive feathery leaves and white flowers, and also, she had admitted, so she wouldn’t see Garrick changing or getting into the water. She spotted the plant and plucked it, tucking it into her bag, then saw another a little farther ahead, then more of them clumped together, and she knew she must be close to the creek.

  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, a
lbeit 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.