A Knight to Desire

by Gerri Russell

  "Perhaps someday I'll tell you what happened between us, but not now."

  He nodded and offered her a gentle smile. "We can both focus on the 'between now and then' moments for a while."

  "Agreed." The pressure in her chest eased and she leaned her head against Simon's chest once more.

  "Rest for a few moments, then we will prepare to ride out." He settled her beside him and drew her into his arms. A breeze that was cool but not chill swirled through their private shelter, touching her cheeks and tugging at her hair, bringing with it the heady scent of greens and rich damp earth. Instead of pain, she suddenly found herself filled with hope — the hope that they would triumph over de la Roche and his army, that she could put her father's anger behind her, and for a future with the man who held her so tightly in his arms — if only her dream of Simon's death did not come true.

  Simon!

  Brianna's eyes flew open, her heart pounding with terror.

  Blood. Simon. Death.

  Nay!

  Then as she came fully awake, a shudder of relief ran through her. A dream. It was only a dream.

  Simon lay cradled to her in the small shelter, breathing the deep, even cadence of sleep. His arms were around her in a loose embrace as she stared into his face. Peaceful. Calm.

  Then the image came again. Simon dropping to his knees. De la Roche standing over him, his sword held as to strike. The sword coming down toward his neck…

  She drew in a harsh breath. Her dreams did not always come true. She'd only had the dream because she'd been thinking of Simon before she'd slept as well as her father and her brothers. 'Twas her own pain and anger that had no doubt tricked her into this nightmare.

  But what if these images were a true vision? What if Simon were to die in such a barbaric manner?

  The pain that tore through her was unbearable. She gasped.

  Simon's eyes flew open. "Brianna?"

  Her trembling hands reached out to touch his face. Warm, vibrant, filled with life.

  His gaze filled with concern. "What is it?"

  She did not want to speak of it, to give it any hook into either her or his reality. She had to forget the images. Bury them deep inside her.

  "Was it another dream?" he asked.

  She nestled closer to his warmth. "Aye, but it's gone now."

  "By your trembling, I'd say it still lingers. Do you wish to discuss it?"

  She nestled deeper into his shoulder. "Nay. The dream is gone."

  He chuckled. "Because you willed it so?"

  She looked at him then. "Exactly. If I give it no merit, it will never come to pass."

  "You dreamed of my death again. Didn't you?"

  "Nay," she lied. Destiny could be fought just as any other battle. The things she saw did not necessarily have to happen, not if she were careful. Had she not changed her own fate once before? Her father had sent her to the forest to die. That had not come to pass because she had refused to die. It had been her strength of will that had taken her from the forest and the dangers lurking there, to Abigail and the home they'd shared together.

  She would meet fate head-on this time as well, not for herself, but for Simon. Simon would be safe. She would give him everything she had inside herself — her strength, her determination, her love.

  She startled at the thought. Love. She did love him, had loved him for years. Joy cascaded through her, rippling, forming circles of radiance. It didn't matter what horrible darkness had brought them back into each other's lives. Simon made her forget all that and see only the good things, remember the good times.

  Love.

  She bit down on her lip, studying Simon. Should she tell him? Not yet. It was too soon, too fresh in her own heart. And she didn't want to discuss anything that might bring forth even more of Simon's already over-protective instincts. She had to stay beside him as they confronted de la Roche. It was the only answer to changing the fate she had envisioned.

  They had to stay together.

  Blood. Simon. Death.

  He would not die at de la Roche's hand. Not if she could still hold a sword in either one of hers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They were still half a day's travel from Pennyghael Abbey. But he wanted this conflict to happen here, deeper in the forest where no one could help Lockhart if they witnessed his time of need.

  No Templars could help him. No Highlanders could intercede. The man was all his.

  De la Roche pulled the hood of his monk's robe up around his face as his nervous horse danced beneath him. The beast could sense his anticipation. His prey was so close now. The horse he recognized as Lockhart's and a rider crested a hill, emerging from the trees, before the land dropped away into the valley.

  Simon Lockhart was concealed within the folds of those mud brown robes. De la Roche knew that bastard anywhere.

  Satisfaction warmed his chest as he clutched the sword hidden within the folds of his robe. He'd managed to ride ahead of the Templar under the cover of the forest and appear at the head of his army, ready to take the Templar down — a hundred soldiers to one. The Templar would never survive. The conflict was hardly a fitting test for the power of Joyeuse, de la Roche admitted to himself with a flicker of regret. But it would have to do until the rest of the Templars arrived to avenge their fallen brother.

  De la Roche rubbed his pitted cheek and watched the man on the lone horse ride closer. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He would be the one to sever the man's head from his body. He'd send the head back to the Brotherhood as a challenge; then he'd burn what was left of the body.

  The Templars would rise to his challenge. They always did.

  Lockhart came closer. He could hear the footfalls of the fool's horse against the damp earth.

  He paused as another sound came to him, a soft rumble, growing in intensity with every heartbeat. Suddenly, the sight of a hundred men rose above the ridge behind the Templar. Fury seethed inside him at the sight of additional men. How had Lockhart managed that feat? Had he gathered more forces to him while de la Roche had maneuvered around him in the forest?

  Fury shot through de la Roche. Lockhart had been told to come alone. "Philippe!" de la Roche yelled to his captain.

  "I see them, Your Excellency. What are your orders?"

  Frustration and rage churned within de la Roche and he desperately fought to keep his temper. "My orders are to attack, you fool! What else? Attack! Leave not a one of them alive. But Lockhart is mine. Understand?"

  Philippe nodded and returned to the men.

  De la Roche narrowed his gaze and leaned forward on his horse. With a supreme sense of satisfaction, he drew Joyeuse from his robe and leapt forward to greet his prey.

  Iain had felt his enemy even before he cleared the ridge. Looking down on de la Roche with his army fanned out behind him like a blanket of evil only proved it. They had come for Simon. A hundred Highlanders would meet the French army instead. Iain felt his muscles go taut and he reached for his sword, careful to keep his hood in place until the very last.

  Death was inevitable in this life. That his own death would spare another's brought him a small sense of justice. He might live if he were very lucky. The odds, however, appeared to be against them. A thousand trained warriors, armed with France's finest weapons would greet a rag-tag group of Highlanders that he'd managed to scrape together as he rode toward the fate that awaited him.

  He prepared to engage his enemy. "For Scotland!" he shouted as he surged forward.

  So quickly the enemy came. The violence of their charge left carnage in its wake as the first volley of arrows found their targets in the bodies of the first charge. A barrage of men came at them with swords draw, flashing in the sunset at their backs.

  Iain had eyes for only one such warrior. De la Roche bore down upon Iain on the back of a white horse. The beast appeared as fearsome as the rider with its mouth agape, eyes bulging, shod hooves striking sparks against the granite of the hillside. The hood of the man's r
obe slid back, revealing Iain's enemy — enemy to all the Templars.

  De la Roche.

  "I'll have your head, Simon Lockhart!" the Frenchman cried. "I'll have it off your shoulders and delivered to your precious Templar brothers, you bloody savage!"

  Iain released a harsh breath along with a prayer as he met the whoosh of the man's sword, feeling the power of the strike clear to his bones. He tumbled over the back of his horse and to the ground. He clenched his fist around his hilt. With his other hand he clutched the hood of his robe against his face and prepared for another strike.

  De la Roche turned his horse and came at him again, bearing down on him with furious speed. Iain was up on his feet in time to duck beneath the whistling slice of de la Roche's sword as it passed over his head. The blade dipped further down. Iain threw himself against the earth to avoid the blow and came up instantly, his feet planted against the earth he loved. He drew breath and prepared himself as de la Roche came off his horse.

  There was no speech between them. No sound but the screech and clangor of steel as their swords met, as Iain tried to hold his own, but de la Roche's strikes were too powerful, as though something aided him.

  The Frenchman's sword sparked in the setting sun as it came down at him again and again, draining him of strength. De la Roche held his ground, forcing Iain back, further and further into the melee around him. He slipped on the bodies of the fallen Highlanders and their blood as it turned the green grass red. Time slowed as he countered de la Roche's strikes. Around him he heard the cries of the dying, saw the blood-stained faces and bodies of his countrymen, and smelled the acrid taste of blood, fear, war, and death in the very air he breathed.

  His lungs were afire and pain riddled his body. He retreated further into the fighting, staggered, stumbled. His hood came down.

  De la Roche's eyes went wide as he stared at Iain's face. Iain took advantage of the man's shocked disbelief and thrust his sword into the Frenchman's abdomen. A deep red stain blossomed like a hideous flower across de la Roche's lower half. De la Roche's eyes bulged and his face paled, but he did not fall. Instead, he drew back, freeing his body from the weapon.

  "Damn you, Lockhart!" he growled to his non-present enemy. "Damn you to hell!"

  Fear fluttered in Iain's stomach as a look of hatred darkened de la Roche's face.

  "You'll pay for his insolence!" De la Roche charged, wild and undisciplined, fueled by his rage. He brought his sword up then down against Iain's, slicing his weapon clean through.

  Iain tossed the blunted weapon aside and drew his dagger. He tried to toss the blade at de la Roche's chest, but the man struck it away with a clean, sharp blow of his own sword, sending the smaller weapon spinning to the ground.

  De la Roche charged.

  Iain struck out with his fists, connected with the man's nose a heartbeat before the man's weapon sank into his chest. Flame bloomed near his heart. Blood spilled from the wound, drenching his robe. Iain staggered, went to one knee. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, to fill his damaged lungs with precious air.

  He bled. He hurt. He prayed it would be over soon. If he could not win, he wanted to die swiftly and with honor. He straightened his back and forced his gaze to his enemy's.

  De la Roche's face twisted with triumph. "I'll take down every last one of you before I'm done. Joyeuse is too powerful a sword, and with it I am invincible."

  "No one is invincible," Iain forced the words past his pain.

  "We'll see about that." De la Roche's sword came down, arcing out of the red sky of sunset; a blinding slash of steel bit deep into Iain's neck.

  A wild rustle of wings shivered through the air as birds suddenly left their trees for the sky.

  Brianna stared into the sunset over the water of the Firth of Lorne. Something didn't feel right. There was an emptiness suddenly that filled the fading night sky, as though some form of goodness had been taken from the earth. Her throat tightened as a soft gasp escaped her.

  "What is it, Brianna? What's wrong?"

  She shook her head, still staring out at the sky. "Did you feel anything different a moment ago?"

  "Different how?" Simon came up to stand behind her and looped his arms around her waist.

  "I can't say exactly." The birds returned to the trees, she noted with a sigh. The odd sensation lingered, but she brushed it aside and pressed her head back against Simon's shoulder. "One more day and we will be at Pennyghael Abbey where we will meet up with Iain and the others."

  Simon turned her to face him. "It will be good to put all this behind us. De la Roche has been terrorizing this land for far too long. Perhaps we shouldn't stop here for tonight, but ride for the clans MacDougall and Maclean of Mull. We'll need as much help as we can get to take back Joyeuse."

  This time a sensation of rightness came over her as she met Simon's gaze. "Gathering the clans, involving them in what happens next, gives all of us, Highlander and Templar a chance to protect the country and the people we love." At the word, an aching, loving tenderness filled her heart.

  "Are you ready to ride out before we lose the light?"

  When she nodded, he leaned down and gave her a long, slow kiss that spoke the words he did not say aloud. It was enough for now. Perhaps someday in the future he would tell her what she longed to hear.

  The horses were saddled and ready in the distance. Simon waved her ahead of him, then joined her, matching his longer stride to hers. A giggle worked its way up inside her as they strode toward the horses.

  His stride grew longer. She matched it.

  He glanced at her and a mischievous grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He walked faster and faster. Brianna kept pace until they were both running for the horses. A leap and they were both on their animals' backs, sprinting forward into the hazy light of dusk. As they raced across the open land, their laughter merged, floating upward, once again sending the birds from the trees.

  Brianna smiled as a bittersweet joy filled her. Their situation was dire, their destiny unknown, but some things never changed no matter what. And she and Simon would battle it out with swords or sticks or on the back of a horse for the rest of their lives.

  She looked to the sky and said a silent prayer that their time together would be longer than just a few more hours. If they survived the coming conflict, then they could look forward to many heated battles in the future.

  Nothing would make her happier than to battle it out with Simon for the rest of her life.

  The next morning, De la Roche led his men onward, along the shoreline toward Pennyghael Abbey. He rode at the front of his army. His men would follow him wherever he led, and they would give him his dreams.

  Last night he and his army had set up camp after they'd killed the false Lockhart and his band of men. De la Roche had needed Philippe to attend his wound. The Scottish knight's sword had pierced his flesh, but not his organs. Oh, how he wished he still possessed the Holy Grail. With the artifact, he would have healed in no time, and not had to endure the pain that riddled him now.

  Angered by the ordeal he'd had to endure, de la Roche had sent a powerful message to Lockhart along with one of the Macleans that he'd left alive. The Highlander headed for Duart Castle, his home — a home that would not be his for much longer. Now that the Highlanders were involved, de la Roche would show no mercy to anyone. Lockhart's deception and his involvement with the Highlanders had only strengthened de la Roche's resolve to succeed, to conquer.

  He could feel victory like a fire in his bones. In that moment, de la Roche felt the hand of destiny close about him. He would take Scotland. Scotland would become a warrior nation, his warrior nation. He would lead those who followed him through England, France, and through the entire continent, until he had gained the empire he deserved.

  He would build an empire such as the world had never seen. He who had begun his life as an insignificant bastard tossed away with all those who carried the pox. He would show them all.

  His ar
my had not been marching long when smoke rising from a village greeted them. De la Roche narrowed his gaze on the site. His men would strike the sleepy little village. He had no illusions that this would be a worthy battle, but his men needed something to whet their appetites for what was to come. He needed them to feel the same hunger that burned in his soul. They would feel the power and the rewards of being his army.

  He drew his sword, raised it. Behind him the others did the same. They charged. They slaughtered, until the smell of blood was heavy in the air.

  When they were through, they moved on toward Pennyghael Abbey, leaving a conquered country in their wake.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Simon and Brianna reached Duart Castle, home of the Clan Maclean, at dawn the next day. Deep into the night, growing as weary as the horses, they'd stopped for a few hours' rest. Simon knew he was pushing Brianna hard, but they had to keep ahead of schedule if they were to gather the men they needed and arrive as he'd arranged with his men.

  Outside the castle walls, Simon announced Brianna and himself, and the gates came up to allow them access into the bailey. Lachlan Maclean and five of his men waited there with swords in hand. If the stony looks on their faces were any indication, the Macleans were not eager to see them. "Brother Simon," Lachlan greeted them with a slight bow as they dismounted. "What can the Templars want from us now?"

  Simon frowned, puzzled by his strange words. "Why do you say such things? What has happened?"

  Lord Maclean's gaze narrowed. "You do not know?"

  Simon's anger rose. "We just arrived. What am I to know?"

  The head of the Macleans signaled his men to sheath their swords. "Your man, Iain, stopped here two days past, searching for warriors to help him. Over a hundred of my men left here with him."

  Simon relaxed, pleased to hear Iain had already been so successful in gathering the forces they needed. "All is well. Iain is waiting for me to arrive on the morrow before we go into battle."