When a Scot Gives His Heart

by Julie Johnstone

  “Release me,” she demanded, frustrated that his touch on her arm stirred feelings of desire that she’d rather forget.

  He did so at once, and she slowly turned to him, gasping at how close he was. He must have taken a step toward her without her hearing it. She tried to put distance between them, but the brambles stopped her. She craned her head to look at him, very aware that his presence was every bit as commanding and overwhelming as it had been three years ago when they had first met.

  “Quit following me,” she demanded, his answer a snort and his brother’s a snigger. She ground her teeth as she continued to stomp through the forest. Twigs and dry leaves snapped underfoot as she went. After a short bit, she started to worry that she could not actually find her way back to Maria. She stopped and called to her friend, but no response came.

  From behind her, Callum said, “I can locate her for ye.”

  She absolutely did not wish for his aid, but she did not see another choice. Maria could truly be hurt. “Then get on with it,” she barked, not caring how ungrateful she sounded. The man deserved her ire.

  He and his brother moved past her and bent low to the ground. She could not see what they were doing, but she heard them.

  “Up ahead,” Callum said.

  “Aye. And to the right,” his brother went on.

  “Ten paces.”

  “Give or take a pace,” Brice replied.

  Both men stood and started walking. Marsaili had to triple her strides to keep pace with them. But within a few minutes, they led her to Maria. Marsaili dropped to her knees and gently shook her friend.

  “Oh!” Maria moaned. “My head. It feels as if it might split in two.”

  Marsaili hovered over Maria and rummaged through her satchel. “Tell me what to give ye.”

  “A pinch of the brown leaves,” Maria instructed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Where’s Satan’s son?”

  “Dead,” Marsaili replied.

  “Ye killed the Grant laird?” Maria gasped.

  Marsaili winced, and from behind her, she heard Brice chuckle and then say, “Did ye hear that, Brother? They refer to ye as Satan’s son.”

  “Callum lives,” Marsaili snapped. “I thought ye were referring to Godfrey. Callum killed him.”

  “I presumed ye would manage that,” Maria chided.

  “I would have,” Marsaili insisted as she handed Maria the brown leaves from one of her medicine pouches. “But the man jolted when I tried to stab him, and I hit his shoulder instead of his heart. Come on, then. I’ll help ye up.”

  “Nay,” Maria replied. “I feel dizzy from the hit to my head. I need to be carried to a bed for sleep.”

  “But—”

  “I’m happy to oblige.” Brice stepped forward, bent down, and scooped up Maria. Before Marsaili could form a proper protest, he was striding away. She stood and brushed her skirts, aware that Callum was looking at her. She could not see his eyes upon her in the dark, but she could feel his gaze, just as she always had before.

  A tingling began in the pit of her stomach, and something intense flared through her. God’s bones, the man was disturbing to her in every way. She hated him, yet it was painfully obvious to her that her attraction to him had not dulled, despite his betrayal. She didn’t want to contemplate what that said about her nature, for she would not give in to such base desire again. She needed—and wanted—to flee him immediately, yet she could not go without Maria, and Maria obviously needed rest. Plus, if it could be managed, it would be wise to gather some provisions for the road, weapons, and coin. She’d not ask him for these things again, as she’d done in the heat of her earlier anger, so she needed to discover a way to get them. First, though, she needed to ascertain if he would be amenable to her and Maria staying at his home for a few days.

  She cleared her throat. “It seems Maria and I may need shelter for a few days while she recovers.” She refused to ask, but if he offered…

  “Of course,” he said immediately. “I’ll have bedchambers readied for ye.”

  “If ye think to make me yer leman—”

  “I dunnae,” he said stiffly.

  “But ye said—”

  “I lied in an effort to release ye from Cedric’s possession without causing strife for my clan.”

  She snorted. “I see ye are still an expert liar.”

  His answer was stony silence, which for some reason unnerved her more than if he had given a sharp-witted response. “Will nae yer future wife dislike me ensconced in yer home?” she asked, shamefully wishing to needle him.

  “She dunnae have cause to worry; therefore, she dunnae have true reason to dislike my sheltering ye and yer friend. I have given my vow to Coira to marry her, and I will nae break it.”

  Hurt streaked through Marsaili, which she masked by saying, “As if a given vow makes a difference to ye, ye foul beast. As far as I can perceive, it’s a habit of yers to make vows to women and break them. Did ye nae promise to wed Edina Gordon? Oh wait,” she growled, sensing her anger was getting the better of her but simply not caring. “Ye pledged yerself to three women. I forgot to include myself. Unless Edina died before ye could wed her?” She honestly had not heard a mention of Edina and Callum since the day Helena had told her of their promised union.

  When Callum stared at her in unnerving silence, she said in a purposefully sarcastic tone, “I suppose if Edina Gordon died, then the breaking of that particular vow was nae yer fault—well, the marriage part anyway—as ye did break the vow with me. Ye ken, the part that says ye will be true.”

  “I ken,” he said, his voice rigid. “I have to wonder”—he sounded almost angry now—“why ye are so vexed with me. One minute ye say ye dunnae need or want my guilt, and the next ye seem angry, as if ye were betrayed by me somehow.”

  “I—” She clamped her mouth shut, belatedly wishing she would have kept it closed and controlled her anger. She tried to think quickly of a plausible explanation for her behavior. “I must admit that even though I used and lied to ye at the Gathering, I did nae care to find out ye had done the same to me.”

  He frowned. “Ye used me? Ye lied to me? Do ye care to explain?” he asked, his tone full of disbelief.

  She shrugged, her stomach dropping to her slippers. “Ye did nae mean a thing to me. Ye were but a game I played to entertain myself. I forgot ye the day ye left.”

  “I see,” he said evenly. “Well, ye certainly were an accomplished liar when I met ye at the Gathering, then.”

  How dare he act self-righteous! He was the one who had lied, but she supposed he now thought she had lied, as well, which was what she wanted. “Aye,” she drawled, a physical ache rolling through her. “I suppose that’s why we were drawn to each other—one deceiver recognized the other.”

  She heard his ragged intake of breath. How strange that it disturbed him so to be called a liar when he had admitted it himself. “I—” He paused for so long that she decided he had changed his mind about finishing his sentence, so she started to walk away.

  Suddenly, she found her arm in his grip. He whirled her around to face him before she could protest, and then he pulled her so close that they were merely a hairsbreadth apart. His warm breath fanned her face, and the heat his body radiated enveloped her. “I wish I could I have forgotten ye. Ye have haunted me as a ghost would.”

  “A ghost?” she asked, a strange, warm, delicious heat spreading from where his hands now gripped both her arms to her entire body.

  “Aye,” he replied, the word a rumble from his chest.

  “That is a strange compliment to give. I have nae ever been compared to a ghost. I believe to call me an enchantress would be a much finer compliment.” Her heart beat viciously at his nearness.

  “Ye are certainly that,” he bit out, “for I find I still desire ye even now.”

  “Desire all ye wish, but ye will nae ever have me.”

  “Nay,” he agreed, sounding almost desolate, but that could not be. “I will nae have ye, but, God
’s bones…” With that, he pulled her to him and his mouth captured hers in a ravenous kiss that stole her breath.

  She could not think beyond her leaping senses. It was as if a part of her that died had just been resurrected against her will. Her heart hammered, and a pulsing knot formed in her stomach as his tongue gently slid into her mouth and his heat invaded her. Her limbs ached to touch him, and she found her fingers suddenly tangled in his thick, wavy hair. His tongue swirled around hers, inviting her to let down her guard, encouraging her to forget. She felt like clay to be molded by only his hands. He left her lips to kiss her neck, her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. His hands cupped her face, uneven breaths flowing over her.

  “Mo chridhe,” he whispered.

  It was as if she had been dropped into an icy loch where she was pricked with painful reality. With a cry, she shoved away from him, angry at herself for her weakness and angrier still at him.

  “Yer heart,” she ground out, pleased her words vibrated with rage. “Dunnae tell me I am yer heart!” She was about to say he did not have one, but she bit down on her treacherous tongue until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She itched to slap him, but she refused to reveal how he had once hurt and humiliated her. Instead, she shoved past him with a growl and marched blindly into the woods, not caring at the moment whether she reached his castle or not.

  Six

  She hated him. Her voice revealed it, even if her words did not. Her words confused him, actually. He pushed branches aside that Marsaili had let swing toward him—purposely, he was certain—as she charged angrily through the woods. Mayhap she simply felt guilty upon seeing him about changing her mind and not wishing to marry him. But that explanation did not even make sense. She had said they had lied to each other, but he had not lied to her about how he felt, and he could have sworn she had not lied to him. He was a fool when it came to her, though, as he had been since the day they had met.

  As they passed the stream where he often watered his horses as he was leaving on a trip, he blinked in surprise. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts, he’d not realized the lass was headed in the wrong direction. “The castle is the other way,” he called out, positive she’d not be pleased to hear him speak and even less happy to learn she was going in the wrong direction.

  “I’m nae a clot-heid,” she snapped, then turned and marched past him in the other direction. Her chin was tilted stubbornly, and her gaze shot daggers at him as she passed by. They’d have to talk before they reached the castle because once they were there, it would be impossible to do so without prying eyes and ears around, and he wanted answers, though that was foolish, as well. He should let the past die.

  As she strode ahead of him, back straight, and shoulders stiff, he knew she needed a moment longer—or more likely a lifetime longer—before her anger would cool, but he did not have a lifetime to wait. But a few minutes would hurt nothing. His eyes were drawn to her backside. In the tattered dress she wore, he could see the curve of her perfect bottom. His fingers twitched with a flood of memories of cupping that round bottom. Desire instantly hardened him, and he jerked his gaze to the safer area of her shoulders.

  Except even that was not safe. A recollection of feathering kisses along her creamy shoulder heated his blood. He thought of the kiss from moments before, and he tasted her then, sweet like honey. God’s bones, it had been foolish to kiss her. He’d stood there looking at her, with her mahogany hair in wild disarray, her blue eyes lit like a fire, and her full mouth stoking a flame that had never died in him, and all the yearning, aching, and longing he had worked daily to repress had overcome him. He’d forgotten how powerful the emotions were. They had become like a dull pain that was simply part of his day-to-day life, but with her there, in the flesh, stubborn, prideful, and so breathtakingly lovely, the feelings for her he held within him threatened to drive him to his knees. And he’d wondered if mayhap he’d spun memories that were more powerful than the reality of her. One kiss, and he could know. One kiss, and he could forget her.

  But he would never forget her. That one kiss had proven his memories of her, and her ability to elicit desire in him, perfect. She stopped suddenly at the fork in the woods and glanced to the left and right. When she started to go left, he said, “The castle is to the right.”

  She surprised him by swinging toward him. “Why did ye kiss me?”

  It would be useless folly to tell her the truth. “The memory of ye overcame me,” he said, getting as close to the truth as he dared.

  She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do nae kiss me again while I am at yer castle,” she said in a threatening tone.

  “And if we are nae at my castle?” he replied, unable to quell the urge to banter with her, even after what she had revealed about using him and not caring for him.

  Her eyes widened and then grew flinty. She poked him hard in the chest. “What we did together will nae ever be repeated. Do ye ken me? Dunnae try to force yerself on me.”

  “Might I remind ye that I did nae ever force myself on ye. I am not so dishonorable.”

  “Ye lied to me,” she bit out.

  He frowned. “Did ye nae say ye lied, as well?”

  She bit down on her lip. “Aye,” she said slowly. “I did say that.”

  He was struck suddenly with the feeling that she was hiding something. Perhaps it was simply his male pride that had been wounded, or perhaps since he hid the truth himself, it was making him doubt her. But the doubt tugged at his mind. “Tell me,” he said slowly, watching her carefully, “are ye the mistress of the Earl of Ulster now?”

  Vivid, unmistakable hurt flashed in her eyes and twisted his insides. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line, and for a moment, he thought she would not respond. “Nay,” she whispered, the pain in her voice like a lash against his skin. She was hiding something from him, and he had to know. Years of mourning her and loving her demanded he know. Reason be damned. Self-control be damned.

  “If ye were simply entertaining yerself with me, why ye did nae become the earl’s mistress?”

  “I…I kinnae say,” she responded, her voice tight and most definitely fearful.

  “That’s a shame,” he said, struggling to keep his own voice from revealing the depths of his feelings for her. “I will hear the truth from yer lips, and ye will nae leave my home until I do.”

  “What?” she gasped. “Nay! Ye kinnae keep me here.” The panic rioting in her voice confirmed that she had been—was still—lying to him.

  He took hold of her arms, his blood racing through his veins. “I will keep ye here until I believe I have the truth.” He heard the coldness, the utter finality in his tone. What he was doing was folly, but he would at least have the truth, if he could not have this woman. And she was hiding it from him. He would wager his life upon that.

  When she tried to wrench free, he gripped her tighter. “I have a verra comfortable tower I can lock ye in for months and months.” He would not, of course, but she did not know that.

  “Callum, nay! Ye must nae do such a thing.”

  “Tell me the truth,” he replied. “Nae spun lies.”

  “Ye tell me the truth,” she bellowed, tugging and pulling to be freed. “Did ye ever feel bad about the lies ye told me? Was Edina here and waiting for ye the day ye came home from the Gathering? Did ye tell her of yer unfaithfulness? Is that why ye are nae yet married?”

  “Ye cared for me,” he heard himself say. The things she had said before had been to protect herself, to hide that she had cared. He was at once grateful to know and made miserable by the revelation.

  “Aye,” she growled. “Are ye satisfied to ken ye hurt me?”

  “Marsaili, nay!” He could not allow her to believe that. “I did nae ever want to hurt ye.”

  She turned her face from his. “I was young, foolish, and naive, and I believed the things ye told me. I am nae such a fool now.”

  Frustration gripped him in an iron hold. He felt he would ex
plode with it. She had cared for him. She had. Maybe she had sent word that she was dead after believing he was promised to another? He wanted desperately to tell her that he’d not acted dishonorably toward her. He wanted to explain how he had broken with Edina before traveling to Marsaili’s home and meeting her. He could tell her how he’d returned to Urquhart with every intention of obtaining his father’s blessing to marry her. He could relay how he’d chosen her over his clan’s needs. But what good would it do for her to know he’d plunged his clan into war for her, lost his father because of his choices, and that he and his clan still suffered greatly for his selfish choices.

  It would not serve her to know these things. They could not wed. He needed an ally, and her father was his enemy. The truth burned his mouth like fire. It clawed his throat, desperate for release. He would need to take care to guard his words and emotions when Marsaili was around him, but he intended that to be as little as possible while she was at the castle. “I did not believe it honorable to marry her after what had occurred between us,” he said, forcing himself to not say more.

  “Dunnae expect me to praise ye because ye discovered a sliver of honor within ye,” she bit out.

  “I’d nae ever expect it,” he replied. “But it is that sliver of honor which compels me to insist ye take the protection I can offer.”

  She pursed her lips. “I dunnae need yer protection,” she growled.

  “Nay?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Ye seemed to need it nae long ago when the English swine was chasing ye. And exactly who was that swine?” Callum asked, all his questions coming to him at once.

  “That is nae any of yer concern,” she snapped. “Now release me, if ye please.”

  “Shortly. I’m afraid I need a few more answers, whether ye wish to give them or nae. I must ken if more people will be pursuing ye and bringing more strife to my home.” He needed to know in order to protect his clan and her.

  A long silence stretched, in which she inhaled several times as if to speak but fell back into silence. He was trying to think of how else to force her to tell him what he needed to know when she said, “The man ye killed was Godfrey of Antwerp, knight to the Earl of Ulster.”