His fists clenched. How could she think such a thing? “Nae.”
She was safer if she didn’t know where he’d been disappearing to, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking he’d been with Nora. He was going to have to get her to trust him before he could start questioning her on her uncle’s allegiance and why Argyll might want her. Returning his stare to hers, he admitted, “Nora is married to my brother. There has never been anything between us. I dinnae ken what ye saw, but ye were wrong.”
Her gaze softened. “Why should I believe ye?”
“Och, if ye cannae give me yer trust, ye can ask anyone back home.”
“Then why would ye lie to me about where ye were?”
“There were things I had to do. I cannae even remember them now. ’Twas so long ago.” That wasn’t true; he remembered every one of his missions, but he couldn’t trust her with the details. “But I promise, I wasnae with any other when I was with ye.”
She nodded, seeming to believe him, then looked away and reached into the basket to pull out their much overdue meal.
A short time later, he tore off a bite of bread and popped it in his mouth. Smiling inside as she relaxed and took a piece of meat, he picked up their only flask of ale and offered it to her first.
She took a sip and handed it back. “Do ye remember the time we had too much of father’s ale and got lost in the woods.”
“Aye. ’Twas the day I discovered one of my favorite pastimes.”
She grinned. “I just remember laughing and ye chasing me.”
“Dinnae tell me ye forgot.” She bit her lip and peeked at him through long, thick lashes as she struggled with the memory. Heaven help him, despite the way she’d treated him, he wanted to kiss her.
And what was wrong with that? They would have a few days together before they reached Kentillie. If intimacy helped her relax, and trust him enough to answer his questions about her uncle and Argyll honestly, why not? He’d learned how to separate himself and his emotions from the Raven’s activities, so he’d have no trouble letting her go. The more she could tell him, the better the Raven could keep her safe, which was the most important thing he could do for her, and maybe she could provide the answers to help the Royalists and their clans.
Before he knew what he was doing, he’d inserted the cork back in the flask and tossed it to the side. His hand slipped to her side, and his fingers danced along her ribs on top of her gown.
Skye fell back onto the ground, laughing as she wriggled to get free. He leaned in over her as the world around them disappeared.
He froze. Skye’s bonny flushed cheeks and heated emerald eyes captivated and called to him. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to rein in her breath. Her gaze darted to his lips, and she licked her own in an unspoken invitation, and he wasn’t sure if he saw longing or fear in the depths of her eyes. If it was distress, she was paralyzed with it, because she made no move to free herself from her position pinned beneath him. Her touch on his arm became a faint whisper, a feather light caress that pulled at him, while at the same time, her eyes dilated. Her lips parted in an invitation he couldn’t ignore.
His head dipped toward hers, and he could smell the smoky apple undertones of the ale they had shared, and knew it would taste even better on her lips.
She closed her eyes and tilted her chin to give him better access. As his mouth made contact with the soft velvet of hers, he gave in to the fierce need to claim what she was offering. His tongue darted into her mouth, and he scooped a hand under her back and drew her body to his. Pleasure spiked and raced through his limbs when her tongue reached out to dance with his.
Horses’ hoofbeats and men’s laughter reached him. Pulling back, he sat and whirled around to check the road. Hell.
A caravan with several men, a couple of women, and one small child rode by, innocent. But he couldn’t lose control like that again.
Chapter Seven
Brodie kept watch on their surroundings but at the same time studied Skye. Spine stiff and shoulders straight, she broke a piece of bread and ate as delicately as if she were a lady in a castle.
Springtime of his seventeenth summer had been the last time the MacDonald had come to visit her while her father was still alive. Brodie had spent the whole day plowing the fields, making up the work his brothers had slacked on. Covered in filth and the mud left by days of relentless rain, he smelled of muck, sweat, and other things he didn’t care to think about.
He and his brothers were almost home when Skye trotted up to him on the proudest mare he’d ever seen, all smiles in a new plaid of the deepest green, which matched her bonny eyes. Her shiny blond hair billowed around her shoulders as if she were a goddess straight out of the myths her father used to read to them.
The horse, which had been a gift from the MacDonald, had taken one sniff of him, snorted, and backed away, but Skye didn’t seem to notice the insult, or that of her uncle’s as he nudged his horse toward hers as if to shield her from the common farmer blocking their path.
“Brodie, where were ye last night? I was expecting ye to come by,” she asked.
“I kenned ye had guests and didnae want to intrude.”
“Ye have to come with us to Kentillie. The laird has ordered a feast for Uncle.”
“Nae,” her uncle interjected as he nudged her to keep going. “Looks as if the lad has put in a full day and needs to clean himself and rest. The dinner is a small one, for family only.”
Brodie didn’t know what to say, just gritted his teeth. His uncle was the Cameron laird, and although he had that connection, he felt anything but regal in that moment.
Skye’s lips pinched as if she would protest but then said, “I will see ye tomorrow, then.”
He just nodded as they rode past, and his thoughts turned to how he would discover the truth about the man who looked down upon him and wished to give Skye to another.
Kerk, his oldest brother, sidled up next to him. “Did ye see that horse he gave her?”
“Aye,” was all he could manage as he watched them ride toward the castle.
“’Tis plain he thinks ye arenae good enough for her.” Brodie looked down at the calluses and new blisters forming on his hands. There was truth to the words. He turned to go, but his brother’s next statement cut even deeper. “Ye ken ye will never be able to give her what she is accustomed to.” His brother’s voice held sympathy instead of the usual taunt, which made it even worse, so he kept going without looking back.
Kerk was correct. He would never be able to give her the luxuries her uncle could. She deserved someone better, but despite that knowledge, he couldn’t let her go.
“I’ve heard the MacDonald laird is already planning a match for her,” Kerk called to his back.
Vowing he would redeem himself, he’d decided then to take his uncle up on the offer to become a spy and work with Alex Gordon and the Royalist Resistance to prove to the MacDonald laird he was worthy. And if he found out that her uncle was a traitor to the Royalists, so be it.
That night, he became the Royalist Raven.
Skye didn’t come to see him the next day or the several after that. Not until her uncle had gone did she find the time to seek him out, but by then, he’d been on his first mission. Because of its success, his resolve and his self-worth strengthened, minimizing the insecurities her uncle’s visit had dredged up.
But his brother had been right, and all his efforts toward redemption didn’t matter after Darach died. He’d been spying in Inverness when everything was taken from him.
The MacDonald had whisked her away, and when he’d tried to see her, he had near died from the beating. Then, he’d been given the news Skye was to wed a MacLeod. The union had never materialized, but it was enough for Brodie to realize Skye’s infatuation with him had ended. Still, he’d always wondered what had broken her betrothal.
A soft hand touched his leg and brought him back to the present. Skye’s. “Are ye all right?”
He nodded and s
hook off the memory.
They finished eating in silence, packed up, and were back on their way to Cameron lands shortly after. It would soon be time to find an inn and stop for the night. Still weary from lack of sleep and spending last eve in and out of the cold, he wanted to find them a place to stay before the nighttime chill settled in. He thought he heard rustling as they made their way through a narrow path between the trees, but an early evening mist had descended, and it was hard to distinguish anything in the trunks and brush.
An unfamiliar male voice ordered, “Halt right there.”
Every muscle in his body tensed as his gaze darted around to take in the threat. Five men caked in filthy, frayed gray coats emerged from behind the trees at the side of the road. He felt Skye shudder.
Scanning the mounted men for weapons, he was happy to notice what they did have were rusted and far inferior to his own. The horses looked almost as pitiful as the men, with coats dull from illness, or lack of nourishment and care.
He wasn’t sure whose land they were on, but he was fairly certain the men did not belong here. The ragged crew appeared as if they didn’t belong anywhere, possibly exiled from some clan. “Are we on yer land? What clan are ye?”
All were thin but one, and each appeared haggard, as if they had been scavenging for a long time and had not been very successful at finding much during the harsher than normal winter.
“Campbell,” the fat one with no hair shouted.
The leader cut his gaze toward the man with a threatening glance and put his finger up to his mouth as he shook his head.
The tip of a black flag with yellow writing hung from one horse—the standard of the Argyll’s Regiment of Foot, the force responsible for the massacre on Rathlin Island. Men capable of unspeakable cruelties, who had pushed hundreds of Catholic MacDonald women, Skye’s kin, over the cliffs to the rocks and surf below.
But this lot looked under-equipped, so perhaps they had been exiled from the Campbells. They must have done something fair awful if Argyll would let them go—the earl was desperate to hire whatever able-bodied men he could find so his Covenanters could wage war on the Royalist Resistance.
One man and a small lass probably looked like defenseless prey, but these scoundrels were going to be sorely disappointed. Aye, he appeared to be a rogue and simple farmer, but Brodie knew how to fight. Many nights he’d trained in secret, joining his cousin in the lists to learn the skills of all the Cameron guards.
Squaring his shoulders, he spoke with measured authority. “We are Camerons on our way home. We only seek to travel through.”
The man in the middle, the obvious leader, stepped forward. He was larger than the rest, but still almost half Brodie’s size. He wouldn’t be a threat; it was just the number of them that concerned him.
The man’s gaze traveled from him to Skye and raked across her as if the arse thought to claim her. When a shudder racked her, his blood started to heat, and he drew her closer.
“I’ll be takin’ the lass with me,” the man lisped, and smiled to reveal a jagged row of stained, yellow teeth with a large gap, leaving the impression of a soulless ghost in the darkness.
Along with the grime on his face, he had a jaundiced appearance and large bulging eyes that reminded Brodie of a rat. Those reddened eyes skimmed up and down Skye as if she were a piece of meat and he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Brodie went into high alert. His fingers unconsciously dug into Skye’s ribs as his arm tightened around her.
“She is my wife.”
The arse laughed, a cavernous, guttural sound that raked Brodie’s nerves. “She’s worth a purse of gold. Leave her here and be on yer way, Cameron drunkard. I’ll even give ye the money for a pint, and ye can find another wench.”
Brodie muscles tightened as the men laughed. His breathing became heavy and measured when he realized there was more to the bandit’s interest in Skye than to spar beneath the sheets with a comely lass. This blackguard would die before he touched her.
“We ken who she is.” The man’s eyes darkened as he turned a gaze filled with malice to Skye then spit in challenge. “Argyll wants her. ’Tis up to ye if we take ’er alive or dead.”
Isobel had been correct.
“Nae, ’tis no’ me.” Skye was truly surprised.
The rat explained for him. “The order went out last night. Ye are Skye Cameron, niece to the MacDonald laird, no mistakin’ that hair o’ yers. ’And ’er over, wastrel, and we’ll see you have coin for the closest tavern.”
Now that Brodie realized she knew nothing of why Argyll wanted her, he wondered what Skye’s uncle had done to cause the earl to set a bounty on her head. What would these bandits do if they knew he was number two on Argyll’s infamous list of most wanted?
“Mayhap ye didnae ’ear me. We’ll take the bitch, and ye can be on yer way.”
Primitive fury exploded deep from his chest. It ignited a flame that could only be put out by destroying this threat to his woman. His only regret was that the man would not live long enough to grovel at Skye’s feet with the apology she deserved.
“What does Argyll want with her?” If he found out why the arse wanted her, he might be better able to protect her. Staring the rat down, he kept the other men in his peripheral vision as they fanned out around them.
“He didnae say. Only said deliver the wench alive or dead.”
“Ye willnae be taking her.” Scenarios played out in his head of what they would do to Skye before delivering her into the devil’s hands. He didn’t even want to think on what the earl would do to her. What the hell had she become involved in?
Brodie could almost smell the man’s fetid breath as he sneered through rotting teeth, “Draw yer sword, then. We cannae let ye pass.”
The group had surrounded them, cutting off their path ahead and any chance of retreat. His only shot would be taking them on in hopes they would scatter and give Skye the opportunity to maneuver around the motley group. If he could do that, his horse would outrun them, and she would get to safety.
Without taking his eyes from the circling men, he whispered in Skye’s ear, “If I fail, take off to Cameron lands and seek out Lachlan. This horse will get ye there. Dinnae stop anywhere.”
Brodie dismounted then pulled the sheath from his back. In one solid movement, he drew the sharp glistening blade his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday from its case. It pierced the silence that had fallen and gleamed despite the dim.
He sorely wished he’d spent more time training in the lists; he was skilled with a blade, but out of practice since he had to train by night and feign ignorance by day. The squat, balding man on his left lunged first, wielding a sword that looked as if it had never seen the winning side of a battle.
It was the prideful man who wouldn’t deny his clan. The man’s strike was no match for him, and he deftly evaded the blow. The man was not patient, nor overly skilled as he returned to swing wildly, missing his mark every time. Argyll had been desperate, indeed, to enlist such men in his army.
“Take him, Hog,” shouted one of the men standing by. Wheezing and snorting, the “Hog” was obviously out of practice as well.
Hog charged at him and raised his pitiful weapon, but instead of darting, Brodie stood his ground. He blocked the blow with a strong strike of his own. Under the force of his superior claymore, Hog’s blade broke. The man’s eyes widened and Hog hesitated. That split second allowed Brodie to swing again and strike just under the man’s ribs. Hog froze, his snorting turning to a gurgling as he stared at the wound then collapsed to the ground.
Squaring his shoulders, Brodie stood his ground to face the next man foolish enough to make a move. He glanced over to see Skye still on the horse and covertly maneuvering around the melee to make her way up the road. Smart lass.
A red headed brute stepped up. “Yer goin’ te die.” This man was hardiest of the sickly bunch and looked to be the only one who would give him a fair fight. Brodie took up a defensive stance w
ith knees slightly bent and sword held by both hands in front of his torso. The redhead’s sword was polished and well cared for, and the man mirrored his stance, demonstrating skill and training.
“If ye go now, ye willnae meet his fate,” Brodie said as he bounced slightly on his knees, preparing for the coming assault. Flexing his fingers, he shifted his superior sword back and forth from hand to hand.
“Hog saved me life.” the man fumed through clenched teeth.
“Then dinnae let yerself be killed for his ignorance. I just want to take my wife and be gone,” Brodie countered, knowing he was dealing with possibly the only sensible one of the group.
Hog gurgled again. Both their gazes shifted to the bandit writhing on the ground.
“No,” screamed the redhead as Hog appeared to take his last breath.
Hog’s friend turned cold eyes and rage on him. Strangely, he picked this time to notice the man’s brows and hair were singed as if he’d been in a fire. The brute stomped forward to attack with a strong blow from the right. The strike was meant to hit just at Brodie’s shoulder, but he was able to inch back in time to avoid the impact.
His angry opponent had not been able to control the swing of the blade, and when he stumbled on the follow through, Brodie swung over and came down with his blade on his opponent’s back.
Doubling over and clenching his side, the man turned pale. Brodie recognized it as a killing blow and was surprised at how quickly he had taken the man down. He inhaled sharply to stay calm and keep a level head before facing the next challenger.
“Take him,” the leader ordered, waving an overly ornate knife. Skye’s gaze followed the amber encrusted hilt as if she were enthralled by it. It did seem a pricey piece for a bandit to possess, even if he had stolen it; he’d have thought they would have sold it for food. The scoundrel smiled triumphantly through his misshapen mouth as the other two men approached Brodie with swords drawn.
Molten fury coursed through his veins and quickened his pulse. He swung and cut the one on the right down in one blow, while the other man stared in horror at the blood spurting from his companion’s shoulder and midsection.
Highland Redemption Page 5
