by Tanya Wilde
“She is, is she not? And it wouldn’t surprise me if Adair has spies to keep watch over us,” Honoria grumbled.
“You might be right,” Isla said, stepping up to the canvas to examine Honoria’s work. “But what need do they have for spies when they have Hugh?”
“Hugh will be verbally flogged along with us.”
“True,” Isla said and pointed to the painting. “You haven’t captured much of his likeness.”
Honoria pulled a face. Of course she hadn’t. Had her brothers granted her wish to visit the city and study great artworks, she might be more accomplished. “I never do.”
“Have you considered what the stranger may have done to prompt such an attack?”
“I reckon he stood quite still.”
“You don’t say,” Isla remarked dryly.
With a reluctant sigh, Honoria tore her gaze away from the stranger to glance at her sister. “Vagabonds and highwaymen attack for lesser reasons than having been prompted to do so.”
“The man is colossal,” Isla murmured. “And he was not stabbed in the back.”
“Perhaps he was tied up?” Honoria suggested, her eyes doing their minute sweep over his features.
“Aye, they stabbed him and he ran away, still bound.”
Lawd, Honoria had forgotten her sister could be every bit as mocking as she. Her eyes returned to the stranger, brushing once more over the dragon tattoo on his chest.
“Perhaps another giant stabbed him.”
“You are impossible.”
“Better that than hasty. The man who hurt him could still be out there. Hugh believes he is trouble.”
“We should be so lucky,” Honoria muttered.
Isla flashed her a wicked grin. “We could always get a tattoo engraved on us. That would stir up a full pot of trouble.”
“Aye, it would be quite amusing to see what pitch Adair’s voice would hit when he saw them.”
“Bloodcurdling, I imagine.”
Honoria gave a throaty laugh. “Boyd would surely launch through the roof in primal rage.”
“Callum’s face would distort into comical horror.”
“Falcon would raise a singular brow and give Adair a look that says ‘See what you have done with your indulgence?’” Honoria mocked in her brother’s low baritone.
“Aye, Gregor would cross his arms over his chest and intone a lengthy lecture about reckless women and the unavoidable consequences of their behavior.”
Honoria clucked her tongue. “Not to mention Lachlan would browbeat us for the name of the scoundrel who spoiled our skin and go looking for a fight, Kieran not following far behind.”
Isla grinned. “If only to make sure Lachlan did not drown the poor fellow in the loch.”
“Then we shall have to find a woman to do the deed,” Honoria proclaimed.
“And I shall take both of you over my knee and beat you within an inch of your lives,” Hugh’s surly tone interrupted their banter from the doorway.
Honoria rolled her eyes. “We were jesting, Hugh.”
“We were?” Isla said with undue sweetness and a smile to match.
Honoria pressed her lips together as Hugh marched into the chamber, growling, “That right there is why we men cannot trust women. I cannot tell whether you are jesting or being wretchedly serious.”
“’Tis an unspoken rule for ladies to keep men on their toes,” Honoria murmured, her eyes returning to the stranger. “And the man is harmless in his condition, Hugh. We Scots must stick together.”
“He doesn’t look like a Scot I’ve ever seen,” Isla murmured, peering down at the stranger.
“That’s because he is a barbarian,” Hugh griped, reclining his heavy frame against the wall.
“Most Highland men are considered barbarians,” Isla pointed out.
“Not with those features,” Hugh grumbled. “We Highland men are . . .”
“Gentler?” Isla provided.
“Refined,” Hugh snapped.
“Refined Highlanders? Now there’s a story for the papers,” Isla taunted.
“Honestly, Hugh,” Honoria admonished, but paused. Her brows drew together in thought. Isla was right. The stranger did not look like any Scot she’d ever seen, either. And while Highlanders were often referred to as barbarians for their wild natures, this man’s wildness seemed to eclipse even them.
Her gaze flicked between her brother and the stranger. Refined, Hugh had called himself? It looked rather as though he had battled with a bog and came out on the losing side. His hair stuck out in all directions and the front of his loose-fitting linen shirt hung free from his belted plaid.
There was nothing refined about her brother.
The stranger, however, while not as muddy and only sporting some growth of stubble on his cheeks, appeared much more untamed and savage. In truth, Honoria’s conviction increased that the man was from some exotic faraway land.
“The English are refined,” Isla continued her taunts. “Even the lowliest of peasants have a delicate quality about them. But then, how would I know since I’ve never met a posh English lord or an English peasant, for that matter. So tell us, Hugh, how are you refined?”
A low growl erupted in the back of Hugh’s throat.
“Perhaps he is French, and a privateer,” Honoria suggested, hoping to divert their bickering.
“Come now lass, don’t be saying such things,” Hugh responded with a groan. “Not with the war raging on.”
“Aye,” Isla said. “Do not jest, Honoria, I can feel my hide redden at the very thought.”
They all turned to stare down at the unconscious man who appeared to be resting peacefully, without a care in the world.
“The blame is mine if our brothers learn of his presence,” Honoria murmured. “But I doubt it’s as bad as that.”
“Let us hope he is Irish,” Isla said, chewing her bottom lip. “He looks as though he could be Irish.”
Hugh snorted. “Tricksters and charlatans, the lot of them. His coloring is too dark to be Irish.”
“You are such a snob, Hugh,” Honoria said, a note of frustration creeping into her voice. She leveled him with a stern look
He shrugged. “Since you are purposefully ignoring my orders to send the barbarian to the village, let us hope he is gone by the time the others return home. It’s one thing for Adair to know you aided a questionable character but another for him to see it.”
A pained groan interrupted their conversation and their gazes whipped to the bed. Honoria rushed to the stranger’s side, lowering the back of her hand against his damp forehead.
“Hand me the water,” Honoria instructed Isla who hurried forward with a flask. “The fever has returned.”
Another groan left his lips.
“You poor beastie,” she cooed as she grazed the brim of the flask against his lips, coaxing a response. “Drink some water; it will cool you down.”
Behind her, Hugh scoffed. She ignored him, and to her complete surprise, the man’s lids fluttered open, revealing a set of bottomless green eyes clouded with pain and instant mistrust.
“Drink,” she urged and pressed the flask to his lips more firmly. “I am Honoria, your healer.”
Another snort from Hugh, this time accompanied by a slap and a grunt.
“That is Isla and Hugh,” Honoria said dryly, her eyes never leaving the stranger. “In these parts, Hugh is the showpiece of Scotland’s gloomy skies and Isla the breath of fresh air.”
“Kill me,” Hugh muttered.
The stranger said nothing, but his eyes never left her face as he swallowed the offered water. When he pulled away, Honoria retreated to allow him space.
“Do you have a name?” she asked, just above a whisper, but already his lashes drifted shut, and he was unconscious again.
Honoria blinked down at him, her pulse racing. Heavens! One glimpse at his piercing gaze had been enough to set her heart aflutter.
Who was this man with the mistrustful green eyes?
>
More than ever, Honoria was certain he would never permit to be set upon by bounders. Plus, she could not imagine who, in their right mind, would dare cross such a formidable man. He seemed larger than life, as though with one look, he could crush legions of his enemies. Whoever hurt him must have been someone he had known. A friend turned foe? Jealous lover? Or merely arrogance? Honoria was beside herself with curiosity.
“Now that he has opened his eyes send him to the village.”
“What then, Hugh?” Honoria challenged. “He has no belongings, no money. Do we leave him at the mercy of the villagers?”
“The man is not our responsibility,” Hugh insisted.
“I disagree, he was found on our grounds,” Honoria countered.
“I agree with Honoria,” Isla said.
“You have both lost your minds,” Hugh said, scratching his head.
Honoria lifted her chin. “Nevertheless, he remains in our care until he regains his strength.”
“Then he leaves.” Hugh’s sudden flinty voice left little room for argument.
“Aye.” And Honoria would leave with him.
A bold thought, indeed, but one she was determined to set into motion. She had always felt slighted that she’d been born in a world where men ruled. The timely arrival of this stranger, whoever he was, must be a sign. They were meant to cross paths. Honoria was sure of it. She had been meant to save him.
And she refused to be boxed in by Hugh, or any one of her brothers. She was ready to be swept up by adventure.
This one, he was the one to do just that.
And she was certain, since she saved his life, he would welcome the opportunity to sweep her off on an adventure.
“Do not get too attached to this man, lass,” Hugh warned before he stalked from the room. “He leaves once he is strong enough to walk.”
Hugh needn’t have bothered with his warning. Honoria was already attached. But not the way he might think. Not by romantic ideals such as true love and soul mates. She wasn’t about to trade nine browbeating brothers for another means of confinement. Though if she thought about it . . . One man was more manageable than nine. Nay, she was attached to the idea of escape.
“I can see your brain working on mischief, Honoria,” Isla muttered. “Please don’t include me in any of your mad scheming.”
“I did not plan to include you.” Honoria flashed her teeth. “And just because I’m thinking, does not mean I’m scheming.”
“Och, you are scheming, I can tell.”
Honoria grinned. “I promise I shall not drag you into my schemes.”
“Thank you. I will, however, aid you in healing the man, if only to ensure he does not perish on our watch.”
Honoria scoffed. “He will not die. He is a fighter, this one, I can sense it.”
“He would have to be,” Isla said, stretching out her arms. “Especially if our brothers return and he still inhabits Callum’s bed.”
Honoria raked a glance over the man’s powerful arms and shoulders. “I reckon it won’t be a fair fight.”
Chapter 4
Lash Ruthven came to awareness in a burning haze of pain. His entire body felt as if someone had lit a match to it and then shoved him down a cliff. Had death claimed him? No, he would be at peace and not in so much agony if he were dead.
His first instinct was to open his eyes, but the same instinct warned him first to take stock of his environment. Pushing the pain aside, he focused on his surrounding elements. No biting cold nipped his skin, and his back molded into softness. His senses reached out more, and he inhaled the scent of charred wood, heard the light crackle of a fire.
His entire body stiffened in high alert.
Lash cursed his luck. He was in a bedchamber, comfortable—a gadjo’s home. He would have been better off shoved from a cliff.
They must have found him after he collapsed from his fever.
Danior.
His brother.
The pain of his betrayal throbbed almost as much as his wound. How could he look me in the eyes and stab me? They were familia. Their troubled past aside, some lines ought never to be crossed. Danior had crossed them all.
Oblivion beckoned once more.
“What do you mean to do when he wakes, Honoria?”
Wait! He pushed at the darkness, fighting his way back to awareness. The softly spoken words were so unexpected, they reached into his chest and clamped tightly over his heart.
An angelic voice answered, “I mean to nurse him back to health, Isla. Hugh is under the idiotic impression that when his eyes open, his legs march out the door.”
“And when the man is healed?” The other woman asked. “He still needs to be gone by the time our brothers return.” There was a pause. “What do you hope to gain?”
“Best not ask questions you do not want the answer for, Isla.”
The gentle burr of the angel’s voice stroked over his skin like rippling water. A whisper of a memory hovered at the back of his mind, so close and yet still unreachable. He was fairly certain he was trapped in the home of a privileged gadji.
“I don’t intend to ask.”
Lash’s heart skipped a beat as he waited for the angelic voice to caress his senses. Like a flare of light, the soft drawl of her words beckoned him.
Say something, anything.
But her murmur was muffled by a dark veil as he lost the battle with darkness and sleep overcame him once more.
When he next woke, Lash managed to open his eyes. He was alone. He sensed it before his eyes adjusted to the warm glow of the chamber, a solid wood canopy suspending above him. Twisting his head, he took in the bedchamber with great care.
Plush rugs decorated the floor, he noted with unease, his gaze flicking over the interior. Oak paneling covered the walls with the exception of the fireplace, matching the single chair and writing desk. Numerous quilts of rich fabric were strewn over the bed, another sign of wealth. A huge stag head mounted on the wall above the door.
Distaste left an acid taste in his mouth.
He did not believe in killing animals for sport and instantly disliked the chamber. He felt caged, as though he too would be slaughtered and mounted.
A sudden image of a woman with long, flowing black hair entered his mind, her eyes wide with sadness.
Syeira.
His eyes shut against a new pain spreading across his chest. She was the reason he had come to Scotland. He had almost lost everything by underestimating Danior. But someone had saved him and brought him here, wherever here was, and kept him from death’s clutches.
He lifted his hand to settle over his bandaged wound.
He owed his life to a gadji.
A sudden urgency gripped him. He did not like being confined to this chamber with the stag head mounted like a trophy. He had to leave. He had to find Syeira.
Lash fought to sit upright.
“Mierda,” he growled in Spanish as tiny stars danced in his vision and pain tore through his chest. He fell back against the bed, out of breath. Exhaustion pulled at him. His last vision was of the door cracking open a woman entering the chamber.
A soft voice lured him back to consciousness a third time. Angelic. It was her, the angel he had heard speaking earlier. How long ago had that been? Days? Hours? Minutes? Her voice flowed over his skin, and he drank it in, like sweet honey soothing the aches and pains of his body. Had she been the one who found him? It did not seem like such a hardship to owe her his life.
The voice stopped.
Instant protest rose inside him. Where had she gone?
Lash blinked open his eyes. And blinked again.
Jewels of amber peered back at him.
“Och, you are awake. I’ve been wondering the color of your eyes for days now. They are green, aye, but I couldn’t recall if they had flecks of gold in them or not.”
Lash stared nonplussed as she leaned closer and squinted to peer deeper into his eyes. His first instinct was to rear back, but his head cou
ld burrow into the pillow only so deep. The woman was invading his space with no care. He didn’t know whether to be fascinated or horrified.
Her soft lips arched into a tender smile and tiny wrinkles appeared at the corner of her eyes. No shadows veiled her soft, heart-shaped features—they were open, innocent, curious. Her hair was the color of earth laced with locks of sunset. Tiny freckles covered her nose.
“And they are rimmed by an even darker outline of green. How refreshing.”
Refreshing?
“I am Honoria MacCallan. I found you on the hill gravely injured.”
She said nothing more as she stared at him, waiting for a response that would not be forthcoming. He dared not speak to her.
A small frown creased her brows. “You were stabbed. Do you recall what happened?”
Lash clamped his jaw tight. Her curiosity was bothersome. What concern was it of hers? His heart skipped a beat. He could think of only one reason—they wished to alert the authorities—if they hadn’t already.
What blistering luck.
The urgency to leave increased tenfold.
“Do you know who stabbed you?”
He bit down on his teeth.
“It was someone you trusted,” she stated, eyes imploring. “Was it not?”
Lash stiffened. She could not possibly know that. A wild guess?
“You are a big beastie,” she went on to say as if reading his thoughts. “And not a man, I wager, to let someone take a jab at you. Not in the chest.”
Except when he did not see it coming.
Impressed, though nonetheless wary, Lash pursed his lips. The angelic creature was intelligent and saw far too much with her amber eyes. And for some unfathomable reason, he felt drawn to her. To converse would be a mistake. One which he did not wish to calculate the consequences. Better not to speak to her at all.
“Do you have a name?” she probed.
He stared at her.
The furrow between her brows deepened, and Lash inwardly cursed. He disliked the confusion that entered her expression. He liked less that he had put it there.
What was wrong with him?
Caring what a gadji thought was not like him. And yet, even though he knew the moment he opened his mouth he’d be lost, he opened it anyway. “Lash.”
