Elizabet

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Somehow, she managed to find her aplomb. “What danger could I possibly be in?” she asked. “I traveled with my brother and my father’s men. What reason could they have to harm me?”

  It was a fitting question. One she fully expected him to answer if she was to believe him.

  “How should I know,” he allowed, still glaring at her. “I know only this. I stood looking directly at that bowman, and he did not see me at all. His gaze was trained upon you.”

  Elizabet blinked. “What bowman? Why should I believe a word you say?”

  He let fly a string of curses in frustration. “The one I tried to tell ye about, woman! You were his target. I have no reason to lie to you.”

  Elizabet straightened but said nothing. He made no further advances, and she had the terrible feeling he was speaking the truth.

  Neither of them said a word for the longest instant, merely stared at each other. Elizabet studied him, trying to discern the truth.

  The anger seemed to drain from him even as she watched. “Och, lass, I wanted only the opportunity to tell ye privately what I saw.” His tone was calmer now. “If ye dinna believe me, leave.” He waved her to the door. “Go.”

  She lifted both her brows. “Truly?”

  “Aye, but before ye do, remember that I made no move toward you in the forest, not until the bowman presented himself.” To prove he meant what he said, he stepped out of her way, leaving the path clear to the door. “Though if I were you, I’d watch my back, lass.”

  Elizabet didn’t move, didn’t seem to be able to lift her feet.

  “Well, what are ye waiting for?” he asked. “You’re free to go.”

  She merely stared at him.

  He didn’t owe her a single thing, Broc told himself.

  She wasn’t his responsibility.

  If she wished to leave, so be it. He wouldn’t stop her. He couldn’t make her accept his help—except that someone was trying to kill her, and the only thing Broc knew for certain was that it wasn’t him.

  He hoped she would stay.

  If she would let him, he would be her voice and shield her from harm.

  She started toward the door and hesitated, though she didn’t look at him.

  He made no move to stop her, save to say, “I promise to help if ye choose to stay.”

  Still she hesitated, staring hard at the door. She peered over her shoulder at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

  Broc crossed his arms, letting her make up her own mind. He sensed her strength, her need to be in control. If he begged her to stay, she would go. If he tried to stop her, she would await an opportunity to escape. She must remain of her own accord.

  Their gazes held.

  She tilted him a strange look, one he couldn’t quite decipher, and then turned around and started walking slowly toward the door.

  He waited patiently.

  She kept walking, but slower.

  And then she halted abruptly and turned. “You truly do not mean to stop me?”

  Broc shook his head. “I said what I wished to say. The rest is up to you.”

  She turned again and contemplated the door. She was very near it, and he’d yet to move. She took another step toward it.

  “I know without doubt,” he told her, “that someone out there is trying to kill you.”

  She stopped and cast him a questioning look over her shoulder. “How do you know it was not you the bowman wished to fell?”

  “Because the man’s eyes never met mine—not once—though I stared directly at him. He was watching you and only you.”

  She screwed her face as though she could not believe him, as though she didn’t wish to, but her gut was whispering the truth and she couldn’t deny it.

  “And ye didna see it,” he continued, “but his arrow did strike the tree you were standing near. In fact, had I not brought you down, he wouldna have missed. His aim was true.”

  She shook her head, struggling with his revelation. “I-I saw no arrow,” she contended.

  “Och, lass, I would have taken time to show ye, if only I could have. Your brother assailed me, and I made the best decision I knew to make.”

  She cast him a resentful glance. “My brother was defending me.”

  “As I would have, were you my blood,” he assured. His arms remained crossed, and he had still yet to move.

  He could tell the instant she began to believe him, because her shoulders slumped, and she turned around, pondering his words.

  “Judas,” she exclaimed, and returned to the table and sat, looking confused. “I cannot fathom why he should wish me dead,” she said low.

  Elizabet tried to recall the incident clearly.

  Could this man possibly be speaking the truth?

  They had been talking in a harmless manner. And truthfully, at the time she hadn’t felt the least bit threatened by his presence, merely annoyed that he was trying to steal her dog.

  “My dog!” she said with a gasp, springing up from the chair in alarm. She hadn’t even thought about Harpy in all this time. “She’ll be lost!”

  “I’m certain they took care of her, lass, but I’ll find out,” he reassured her. “I gi’ ye my word. And I’ll bring her to you if I can.”

  Why was he being so nice to her? Why did he care what happened to her? Elizabet was so confused. And growing more so by the instant. She sat again, her thoughts muddled. Her gut said trust him, though she knew him not at all.

  She nibbled at her lip, contemplating the possibilities. It must be Tomas. Who else could want her dead but him? He was also the only one not present when John was felled.

  She peered up at the Scot, studying his expression, trying to read his thoughts. In truth, why should he lie to her? What had he to gain? And if he’d intended to take advantage of her, he would never have ended his kiss. Nor had he harmed her, in truth. He had stolen a kiss in anger and then had set her away from him. Her cheeks burned with the memory of his embrace. She had been keenly aware of his body’s reaction to her. She was not so naive that she didn’t understand how a man’s desire manifested itself. She didn’t dare even look at him while her thoughts were centered there. He swore that her brother was unharmed, and she had to believe him.

  She wanted to believe him.

  But why would Tomas wish to kill her? Her father couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it. Had Tomas escorted her all this way only to murder her in cold blood?

  Nothing made sense.

  She wasn’t close with her father, but he was a kind man who’d felt terribly that he had no means to support all his children. And he may not have loved Elizabet, precisely, but he cared about her, and he certainly seemed to love John.

  He’d wed Margaret to fill his coffers with gold to replenish his estates, but still there had not been enough to support his youngest son and bastard daughter. Nor had her dowry been adequate to find her a suitable husband— not in England. And it had pained him deeply to send John away with her. He had done so with tears in his eyes. She could not conceive that her father would plan their demise.

  Nay.

  Margaret, then? But why? What reason could Margaret possibly have to want her dead? And in truth, Margaret’s brother had been nothing but kind to her the entire journey.

  Still, this man standing before her seemed to be telling her the truth—at least, the truth as he believed it. And something about the look in his eyes begged her to trust him.

  “Who is your cousin? I will go and speak with him on your behalf.”

  The entire predicament left her reeling.

  Piers had no idea they were even coming—nor did he know who she was. John carried the letter from her father, begging Piers’ support.

  And it stood to reason that if Piers didn’t know they were coming, he couldn’t possibly be the one to wish her harm. Then again, neither was he obligated to champion her. Still, it seemed her best course of action was to go to Piers and ask for sanctuary.

  She sat again, the enormity
of the situation making her legs weak.

  “Piers de Montgomerie,” she confided, and peered up at him hopefully. She took a tremendous risk in trusting him, and she prayed to God he spoke the truth. Then again, she prayed he didn’t. How could she bear it if her own father meant to kill her?

  She relayed to him the rest of the tale, explained everything that was pertinent, omitting her precise relationship to Piers. He didn’t need to know that. Nor did he need to know that Piers did not know of her. By the time he had the opportunity to speak with Piers, hopefully John would have found him as well, and Piers would certainly know her father’s handwriting. That was enough. The letter John carried would make clear the rest. She explained about the letter her father had written and named the men she’d traveled with, all the while praying she’d made the right decision in trusting this man.

  He stood before her, listening calmly, hardly speaking a word, only nodding as she gave him her account, and she sensed his sincerity.

  “And ye have no inkling who might wish ye dead?” he asked .

  Blinking, Elizabet shook her head. “None. These men were commanded by my father to see us safely to our destination.”

  “What about Tomas?”

  Elizabet shrugged. “I never sensed any animosity from him at all.”

  He nodded. “Well, lass, if ye will trust me and remain here safe from harm, I swear I will go directly to Piers with all that you have told me.”

  Elizabet scrunched her nose in disgust. “here?” The place gave her the shivers. She peered about to find that the shadows had grown deeper. Night had fallen. “Nay,” she said. “I will come with you.”

  “I can travel more quickly alone and it is far safer for you to remain here,” he insisted. “I promise to return at once with help.”

  Elizabet swallowed as she studied his face. His blue eyes were filled with such compassion that she knew in her heart he meant everything he said.

  Those blue eyes, as he looked at her, were like those of an angel. He was her guardian angel.

  The thought took her breath away.

  “I will only stay if you will not lock me in.”

  He smiled warmly. “I never intended to, lass. If ye will look,” he charged her, “there is no lock on the door.”

  She would have liked simply to trust him, but good sense told her to check. She did and found that he spoke the truth. She turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “And leave me unfettered as well.”

  He lifted his brow at her, seemingly amused by her dictates. To show her they were empty, he held up his hands. “I seem to have forgotten the chains.”

  She sighed heavily, feeling suddenly weary. “Very well, then. I’ll remain here on the understanding that if you do not return anon, I will leave here and go to Piers myself.”

  His brow furrowed. “I would not advise leaving, lass. These woods are not so peaceable as they seem, and the way is long and perilous from here.”

  “Nevertheless, I will only remain if I am free to leave,” Elizabet persisted.

  “There will be no one to stop ye.”

  “Very well, then I’ll stay.”

  With that settled between them, he stood and looked down at her a long moment, and then he reached out and brushed the hair from her face. “Och,” he said, “I canna imagine who would harm a hair on that lovely head.”

  His hand lingered, not touching her, though very near her face, and she lowered her gaze, torn. His words both thrilled and disquieted her.

  But men never did anything without promise of reward, and thinking he meant now to claim his, she readied herself to defy him. Never had a man spoken so huskily to her and not wanted something in return. If he chose to abandon her after she refused him, then so be it. She would find her own way to Piers.

  “There is a blanket in the corner,” he surprised her by saying. “The night will grow cold.”

  She looked up at him, swallowing the sour retort she had readied. A gentle giant stood before her with a smile so warm it squeezed her heart.

  “I will return soon with Montgomerie,” he promised, and then simply left her seated at the crude little table without saying another word. He never even looked back as he shut the door behind him.

  Elizabet pursed her lips as she stared at the closed door, contemplating her dubious savior. The man confused her more than any she had ever met.

  “Surely he wants something,’ she muttered to herself.

  Later he would try to claim his prize, she decided. Later he would offend her—after he returned. She could not believe any man would be so selfless as to expect nothing for his trouble. And yet, nothing was precisely what he would get—aside from her gratitude and a simple thank you very much. Elizabet’s affections were not for sale, and she didn’t want a man in her life.

  Freedom was too near at hand.

  Chapter 7

  He might have guessed Montgomerie was her cousin.

  It made perfect sense, the two of them being English, but it might have been easier to deal with a Scot. Piers was reputed to be a fair man, but he was a Sassenach first, and that hadn’t changed simply because he’d wed himself to a Highland lass.

  From what he recalled of the dispute Montgomerie had had with the Brodies, Montgomerie was a hard man who gave no quarter. Known as King Henry’s lion of justice, he was rumored to have a fearful temper, particularly when defending his territory. It was said he’d gone with sword in hand to claim Meghan Brodie from her three brothers and that none of them had dared move to stop him, so fearsome was his wrath at finding Meghan gone from his home. He had stolen her, stolen her heart as well, and claimed her for his bride. Broc knew the Brodies well enough to know that none of them feared any man easily. Three more stalwart brothers he’d never met. But Piers had been ready to do battle for the woman he loved, and in the end they’d let her go.

  Piers was a formidable man, but Broc knew Meghan would defend him to Piers. And if Meghan loved Montgomerie, as Colin said she did, Montgomerie must be a good man at heart, Sassenach or nay. And Elizabet was Piers’ own flesh and blood, after all. He shouldn’t have to argue her position. Montgomerie would surely champion her of his own accord.

  Och, but his little harridan was lovely... though that was certainly not why he was intervening on her behalf. It was simply the right thing to do.

  Only a year ago he would have loathed her for her Sassenach blood, and in truth, he might have abandoned her to her fate, but much had happened to soften his anger. He still did not trust the English, and he thought King David of Scotia a fool for dealing with Henry, for the English would stop at nothing to bring Scotia to its knees. But neither could Broc any longer justify his once blind hatred. He was wary of men like Montgomerie, to be sure, but he could no longer despise them simply for their birth.

  And anyway, some good had come of Piers’ settlement here. A tentative peace had come to their clans. No longer were ancient feuds, such as that between the MacKinnons and the MacLeans, nursed. No longer did Montgomerie and Brodie war upon one another. Marriage had brought unity to their peoples. Together, the MacLeans, MacKinnons, Brodies and Montgomerie had stood against Page’s horrid da.

  Broc made his way quickly through the woods, telling himself that she would be safe until his return. Though the night was almost too dark to travel, he didn’t need much light to make his way. He knew these border woods well.

  He heard the voices before he saw them as he broke into the clearing near Montgomerie’s manor, and he retreated into the woods to assess the scene before continuing.

  In the courtyard, two men on horseback sat their mounts before Montgomerie. Another man stood talking to Piers, and beside them, stretched out upon the ground, lay two bodies. Huddled together on the steps with the newlyweds, Colin and Seana, Broc spied Meghan, with her hand covering her mouth.

  Montgomerie held in his hand a parchment, reading from it, and Broc awaited Montgomerie’s reaction.

  Two men were dead, he realized. He had ve
ry likely killed one of them, but not two.

  John had been alive when he’d fled with Elizabet. He was certain of it. He hadn’t even used his blade upon the lad, only the butt of his dagger. There was no way he could have killed him. No possible way.

  His first consideration was for Elizabet; he had promised her that her brother was alive and well, that he would suffer no more than a headache. How could he return and tell her that he had been mistaken? That he had killed her brother, in truth?

  Or had he?

  If someone had meant Elizabet harm, then so too could he have intended the same for John. Broc must have given the bowman a perfect opportunity.

  Remaining at the forest’s edge, he moved closer to the party, trying to listen to their discourse, keeping to the trees. But he couldn’t get near enough to hear what they were saying, and he grew frustrated.

  Who were they blaming?

  Deep down, he knew.

  This did not bode well for him. They would band together, he realized.

  Were they all in league together?

  A million questions hammered at his brain.

  Montgomerie finished the parchment and rolled it very deliberately, fury evident in his gesture. One hand fell to his side, and he clenched it, forming an angry fist.

  Broc moved closer, his heart hammering within his chest as Montgomerie spoke sharply to the men mounted before him. One of them rattled off an explanation that Broc could scarce hear—bits and pieces only.

  “Came from nowhere,” he heard. And then, “Took us unawares... stole Elizabet... killed John and Edmund.”

  Broc’s gaze fell once more to the bodies lying upon the ground.

  Liars!

  He moved nearer, as close as he dared without risking discovery.

  “Fetch my horse!” Montgomerie shouted, his tone fraught with anger. “Gather men at once! Meet me before the stables!”

  He spun toward the manor as his men scattered to heed his command, leaving Elizabet’s traveling companions to await his return. When he was gone, the three of them spoke in low tones to one another, though at this distance, it was impossible to hear what they were saying.