Highland Avenger

by Julie Johnstone

  “We’ll give ye a moment,” Ross said, to which Grant nodded.

  As the two men walked away, Grant pulled Eve back from the dead men so that she’d not have to look at them. Once they were a fair distance away, he turned his still-mumbling wife to him. “Eve, did they hurt ye?”

  She shook her head, and he released a breath he’d not realized he’d been holding, but then she nodded. He froze. God’s teeth, what had they done to her? “Did they—” He swallowed, trying to form the words. “Did they take yer innocence?”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Why do you care? Because you want to be certain that you are the one to take it? So our marriage is true?”

  “God, nay, Eve.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I swear to ye it’s nae that. Ye are my wife truly in my heart now, though I ken ye dunnae wish it. When I said my vows to ye, it sealed me to ye for life. I’m supposed to protect ye, and I failed.”

  “I’m supposed to be able to protect myself,” she sniffed, and to his surprise, she pressed her forehead against his chest. Her body trembled, and a physical ache to wipe away her hurt sprang up in his gut. He brought one hand to her back and the other to her freesia-scented hair, and as she cried quietly, he gently rubbed her back while running his hand through her soft hair.

  “I stabbed him,” she said. “I stabbed him just as I’d been taught, but he deflected my blow well enough that it did not kill him. I cannot defend myself as I thought.” Another sob escaped her.

  “Shh.” He gently brought both hands back to her face. His fingers rested against her silken skin, moist with her tears. “Ye did defend yerself,” he said, realizing instantly that he could have used this moment to get her to relinquish the notion of defending herself. If he agreed with her that she could never protect herself against her enemies, then she’d not try. But that, he thought with shock, would not make her safer but put her in more danger. He saw clearly now what his guilt over his mother’s death had clouded. Her knowing how to wield a weapon had not killed her. Foolish choices had. Eve was his to protect, and he would, but her knowing how to protect herself was also a good thing.

  He let out a ragged breath, feeling as if he was releasing a torment he had long harbored within him. “I imagine if ye’d nae stabbed the man, he would have defiled ye before I found ye. I will work with ye and teach ye how to be the best fighter ye can be, but I will have yer vow that ye’ll nae go looking for trouble.”

  Eve’s eyes went wide. “But you said you did not want me to wield a weapon.”

  “Aye,” he acknowledged. “And I still dunnae, but if ye need to, if danger comes to ye, I’d have ye ken the verra best way to defend yerself.” There was a great pressure in his chest and a need to say more, to try to put him and Eve on a good path. He’d meant what he’d said, that they were bound now for life. “Eve, I ken ye were fleeing to yer uncle to try to dissolve our marriage. I’ll nae stop ye if it’s what ye really wish.”

  “You’ll let me go?” she asked, and he thought he heard dismay in her voice—or he hoped he did.

  He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, and then lightly brushed his lips to hers. “Nay, lass. Nae without a fight.”

  “Because of Linlithian,” she grumbled.

  “If ye’d asked me that yesterday, I’d have said aye,” he admitted, guilt hitting him in the gut. She stiffened, and he prayed the proper words to show her what he was feeling would come to him quickly. She was rapidly coming to mean something to him, and he didn’t know how to tell her. So he did the only thing he could think to do. He captured her soft lips with his and tried to make her understand his burning desire, growing need, and burgeoning wish to discover what they could be together.

  His kiss lit a fire in her veins as it had done before, but it also filled her chest with warmth. His words about working with her, his acknowledgment that he’d been a fool, rang in her mind for a moment, but then all thoughts fled as his featherlight kiss coaxed her to let him in. She did, and their tongues twined slowly, exploring each other and learning each other. She quivered at the sweet tenderness and dreamy intimacy of his kiss. As her own desire for him grew, she pressed her hand to his chest, and his heart thundered against her palm. She groaned at the realization of just how much she excited him. And when she groaned, he growled, and his kiss became a forceful domination of her mouth that left her weak-kneed and clinging to him.

  When he pulled back from her, regret painted his face. He slid his strong hands to the back of her neck, as if they belonged there, as if there was nothing so right as him touching her. And it did feel right.

  “We need to see to the dead men,” he said.

  Her brow furrowed. “Do you mean bury them?”

  “Aye. They dunnae deserve it, but if others come looking for them, it’s best the bodies are nae found. They dunnae need a reason to chase us.”

  She glanced toward the bodies silhouetted in the moonlight. An odd numbness descended upon her. “The man who wished to ravage me,” she said, swallowing, “he was a lord. He said King Edward gave him impunity to do as he wished.” She huddled close to Grant, needing to feel his strength for a moment. Without words, he cradled her in his arms, and his uneven breathing whispered across her cheek as he waited silently and patiently for her to speak. Unexpected hope sparked inside her. The encounter with de Beauchamp had not only left her with questions regarding her uncle but it had changed what she thought she wanted in regard to Grant.

  “The man, de Beauchamp—”

  “De Beauchamp!” Grant cut in, clearly shocked. “I did nae recognize him in the darkness!”

  She looked up at Grant’s face, his strong profile making her itch to trace a finger over his jawline. “Did you know him?”

  “I met him in London, the day my brother was killed. De Beauchamp is one of the king’s favorites,” Grant said with such clear disgust that Eve felt it, too.

  She shook her head. “If that man is a favorite of King Edward, then the King of England is no king I can support.”

  “What are ye saying?” Grant asked, and though she could not see his gaze clearly, she could feel his eyes upon her, searching.

  She gripped his arms, the hard muscle under her fingertips flexing. Her heart began to pound as she thought about what she was about to not only accept but support with her words. “I wish to learn more about your king and the fight for the throne between him and King Edward. Will you tell me?”

  “Aye, lass,” he said, brushing a kiss to the top of her head. It was an innocent gesture, but also intimate, and her heart squeezed at the tenderness he was unknowingly showing her. He’d been taught not to show his emotions, and she knew he’d tried to abide by his father’s wishes after his mother’s death, but part of him was a deeply caring man, and that gave her more hope than anything.

  When he started to pull away from her, she grabbed his arm. “De Beauchamp said that the king needed his coin and would not dare deny him. He said if he wanted to ravage and pillage his way across Scotland and England, and let his men do so, as well, the king would allow it as long as de Beauchamp continued to provide warriors and coin to aid King Edward in crushing the Scots. Is that true, Grant?”

  “It is, my lady,” came Ross’s voice from behind Grant. She peered around Grant to find Ross and Kade standing there. She had not even heard them come up, but Grant did not look at all surprised that they were there. She’d have to ask him later if he had a special trick for hearing people who were trying to sneak up on him.

  Grant moved to her side and took her hand in his, squeezing it. “We’ll let Eve decide for herself what she thinks about King Edward,” Grant said. “After we bury the bodies, we’ll tell ye what we ken of yer king.”

  “Not my king!” she said reflexively, distraught by the image of women being ravaged by English knights.

  “I do believe my wife may be a Scot at heart,” Grant said proudly.

  My wife. Eve rolled the words around in her mind, allowing them to sink in. That trut
h did not bother her nearly as much now as it had that morning.

  Eve yawned and leaned her head against Grant’s shoulder when he patted it. Just as she got comfortable, he slid his arm around her waist and brought her into his side. The man was a veritable source of heat all by himself. She marveled at that fact for a moment before scooting closer to him. Though Ross had lit a fire for them to cook the rabbit Kade had killed, it was not a big fire, and the temperature outside had dropped considerably. Still, with the logs crackling pleasantly and her belly full from the rabbit, Eve could almost have imagined them sitting and exchanging lovely stories—except the tales Ross and Kade had told so far had not been pleasant.

  They’d been recounting horrific acts done by King Edward. She now knew the fight for the Scottish throne had begun with the death of the Scottish king Alexander III, though no one had realized it at the time. It made Eve’s heart squeeze to think of the king dying because he was so impatient to get to his new bride. His eagerness drove him to ride out at night in great fog, despite his men warning him not to, and he apparently rode his horse off a cliff. She thought then of his young, innocent granddaughter, Margaret, who was his only surviving descendant.

  She inherited the throne at the tender age of three, and because she was so young, a body of men known as the Guardians of Scotland had been appointed to rule Scotland until Margaret reached twelve summers, and then she would rule with their guidance. But she, too, died on the way to meet her affianced, who it seemed had been King Edward’s young son. Eve sniffed thinking upon someone so young having a marriage contract made for them to a stranger. She knew it happened all the time, but she disliked it, nevertheless.

  It seemed it was the young girl’s death that was the final catalyst for the war they were now in. Many men, Scottish and English, vied and argued that they had the best claim to the Scottish throne, and ironically, King Edward had been called upon by the Guardians to decide which contender had the best claim and should rule Scotland.

  Eve sat upright, and Grant released her. “What did you say the process was called when Edward decided who would rule your country?”

  “The Great Cause,” Ross replied. “In the end, the two men with the strongest claim were John Balliol, who the Comyns supported, and Bruce’s grandfather, who is now dead. I believe ye ken the rest of the history.”

  “Well, I’ve recently heard that your king killed a Comyn, and that the MacDougalls support the Comyns, which is why they are your enemies.”

  “That’s stating it simply, lass,” Grant stepped in, threading his fingers through hers. She liked the way her hand felt in his larger, protective one. She looked over at him, and he was staring ahead into the fire. He’d not told her any tales of King Edward yet, and she suspected he had remained quiet so she would not think he was trying to convince her one way or another.

  “Tell me what you know of King Edward,” she said.

  He focused on her, a grim look upon his face. “He long ago chose Balliol over Bruce because he recognized instinctively that Balliol was a weak man, a man he could bend to his will, and Bruce was nae.”

  “Do you think it was King Edward’s intention all along to eventually take the Scottish throne?” she asked.

  Grant let out a long, slow breath before he answered her. “I think when King Alexander died, King Edward recognized the opportunity and began to plot. Do ye ken what the English call yer king?”

  “He is not my king,” she repeated and squeezed Grant’s hand. “Of this, I am now certain.”

  He nodded and squeezed her hand back. “They call him the Hammer of the Scots. They call him this,” Grant said, “because he did not simply turn a blind eye to the atrocities his men have committed, King Edward ordered most of them.”

  She felt her mouth slip open. “Why would he order the rape, pillaging, and murder of the very people he wants to rule?”

  “Because he is nae a benevolent ruler. He is a tyrant. He wishes to control a land and a people that dunnae belong to him. He dunnae care about the Scottish people. He wants more land and more vassals so he can put more coin in his coffers. Every promise he has made he has broken.” He stopped and shook his head before continuing. “When this all started, he vowed to give back to Balliol and Bruce, the two main contenders in the end, control of their kingdoms and castles within two months. When the time came to do so, he demanded they pledge loyalty to him or he would destroy their homes. He has burned entire villages when they attempted to defy him. He’s ordered his soldiers to cut down women and children. Women and children!” Grant repeated, his voice so full of agony that tears sprang to her eyes.

  Tension crackled around the fire, which she felt with every beat of her heart. “He swept into our land—ours!” Grant pounded his fist against his chest. “We did nae seek this fight, Eve, but we will nae back down from it. We kinnae. If we do, he will bend us until he breaks us. He will work us tirelessly and tax us endlessly, even more than he’s already done, so that he can fight his wars to control even more lands with our coin and our men. He dunnae care about Scotland. He covets power. He has stripped our country of its treasure and has tried to destroy every last thing that symbolizes Scottish pride.

  “He took our king’s crown and his throne. He took our crown jewels. But he kinnae take our will to fight him; he kinnae take our loyalty. It must be given, and it will nae ever be given to him!”

  Kade and Ross both offered hearty and loud agreement, and Eve found she wished to shout an agreement of her own, but she did not think Ross and Kade, and perhaps even Grant, would believe her. Instead, she leaned closer to Grant and said, “I wish to go to my uncle tomorrow and tell him that I am good and truly wed to a Scot.” Her belly tightened with her words, and her breath caught in her throat in anticipation of what Grant might say.

  He inhaled sharply, and then his warm breath fanned her face as he let it out. His hand came to her chin as his lips came to her ear. “Are ye telling me that—”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Grant did not love her, nor she him, but there was hope between them and so much possibility. In the short time she had known him, he’d shown her his honor, his strength, and his hidden tender side. And the world had shown her the peril she was in. She’d been taken hostage and then nearly ravaged. She could very well never make it to her uncle, never have the chance to choose her own husband. She’d thought herself safe since she knew how to wield weapons, but she’d been wrong. She was not safe. But she’d be a lot more protected as Grant’s wife than she would otherwise.

  “I will make our marriage true this night,” she said low so only he could hear, “but first I will have your vow to help me find my sister and to allow me to not simply win the favor of the men of Linlithian but to help you lead them.”

  His answer was to take her hand and tug her to a standing position. “Eve is tired,” he announced.

  Her cheeks burned suddenly, as she was certain Ross and Kade must suspect something. But the men simply nodded, for which gratefulness filled her.

  Grant led her away from the fire and down a short path through the woods to a shelter he’d set up earlier after he, Kade, and Ross had buried the men. The shelter, made of Kade’s and Ross’s plaids stretched on thick sticks, was a good distance from the fire, but near a stream, and set back in a little circle of trees. He pulled one side of the plaid up and waved her inside. The space was small, but it was big enough for the two of them to lie down. She shivered suddenly with both anticipation and fear of the unknown.

  When he entered the shelter, he swallowed up all the room with his massive height and build, and when he dropped the flap of the tent, nearly all the light from the moon was extinguished. Her vulnerability pricked her awareness, but she inhaled a breath to calm her nerves. With him, she would be safe. As if he sensed her burgeoning trepidation, he drew closer, a swish in the darkness. His heat invaded her space before his warm fingers touched her hands and then slid up her arms like a whisper to cup her face.

 
“Ye are certain ye want this? Want me?” he asked.

  If there had been any lingering doubt, the fact that he’d asked her the question, even as need threaded his tone, wiped away any doubt that might have remained.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He released his hold on her, which surprised her, and then a rustling sound filled the small space. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Settling my plaid on the ground for ye. ’Tis bad enough that there is nae a bed for this night. I’ll nae have ye stuck rolling in the dirt.”

  She grinned at him, though she knew he could not see her face. “You’re very thoughtful.”

  “I’m nae!” he protested, as if she’d said something horrid about his person.

  She swallowed her laughter. Grant’s natural tendency was to be thoughtful, but he’d clearly been raised to bury the gentler side of himself, to rarely even acknowledge its existence. She did not fault his father for bringing Grant up that way, for the man likely had been trying to raise strong sons to lead his clan. Yet, she felt the thoughtful side of Grant would help him be a better leader. She’d have to think on ways to prove this to him.

  “Well, I do appreciate not having to lie in the dirt,” she finally said.

  When he stood, he was so near her that his bare chest touched her breasts, and all at once, her heartbeat exploded. His hands came to her back and ran the length of it ever so gently, and then again, lingering on the curve of her waist before his fingers trailed lower to her hips, then upward once more, gently skimming her taut breasts and coming to her collarbone.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice no more than a husky whisper of need.

  “I’m memorizing ye, mo bhean mhaiseach.”

  “What does mo bhean mhaiseach mean?” she asked, wincing at her slaughtered pronunciation.

  “It means,” he said, roving his hands from her collarbone to her heavy breasts, “‘my beautiful wife.’” His fingers brushed her nipples, which became instantly hard, and then he brushed them again, circling them, and ripping a moan from her lips.