The Rebellious Red

by Rosamund Winchester

  Catching sight of Barton, MacDougal regarded the man as he sparred with his second-in-command, a man named Aubrey McGillivray. The McGillivray clan were allies with the MacDougals, though, they too, had seen much loss over the last several decades. With both of their clans dwindling in numbers, they’d shared their resources; men, harvests, and information. It was one of the McGillivray’s that had overheard the cocky bastard MacPherson announce that he wouldn’t marry until he’d found his long-lost betrothed. MacDougal had laughed at that, knowing full well the woman was long dead on a Welsh beach, her bones picked clean by scavengers.

  He smiled at the thought, his cheeks aching from the unfamiliar stretching.

  Shouts and grunts from below brought his attention back to the battle playing out before him. As expected, Barton was victorious; a vicious, deadly warrior who owed his life to MacDougal.

  Barton looked up, spying MacDougal watching him. He inclined his head to his laird and MacDougal gave him a curt wave.

  As a soft breeze slid over his cheek, MacDougal chose to believe that his darling Bruce were there with him. And he smiled again.

  Chapter Four

  The goddamn Scottish moors in a downpour

  Maybe somewhere near Kinloch Rannoch, Scotland

  Rose huddled beneath her cloak, cursing the sky for the near constant downpour over the last two days.

  “Who the hell would live here voluntarily?” she groused, kicking a clump of mud out of her way as she hurried to a cluster of trees. Pulling her horse, Martle, behind her, she looped the steed’s reins around a branch and patted him on his withers.

  Martle nuzzled her hand and she smiled at him. “Not much farther, lad, then I will give you all the apples you can eat.” At least she hoped it wasn’t much farther.

  It had been two weeks since that night in the Bearded Lady, where she met those two strangers.

  William and Munro MacGuilliam. Two men who’d docked their cargo ship in the harbor and were looking for a little shore leave before they headed north along the west coast. She’d listened to them, asking questions, and the more they told her, the more she couldn’t tear herself away. They were like bearded sirens with thick necks.

  They’d told her what they knew about the crest on the locket, which wasn’t much, but it was enough to stoke the fire that had been slowly dying to embers in her belly. The fire that had once driven her into recklessness before Ioan Rees, her “grandfather”, put a leash around her neck. A leash made of purpose, a purpose she’d taken on as an oath she couldn’t break.

  But now…she was far from the home she knew, in a damn mud patch, trying to keep herself from dying of a chill before the sun rose again. If it ever did.

  “What a godforsaken country,” she mumbled to herself as she made her way under the thickest part of the branches, hoping they would keep off at least some of the rain. She shivered, sliding down the trunk to hug her knees, keeping the warmth as close to her body as possible.

  Laying her cheek against her upright knees, she fought the urge to close her eyes.

  Tired. So tired.

  After that night of revelations with the MacGuilliam brothers, she’d gone straight upstairs to her room, packed a satchel, and then boarded their ship. She paid them for passage north, of course, but once the ship anchored in Loch Leven, she disembarked and didn’t look back. She’d brought her horse with her, and once Martle had regained his land legs, they were off. It had taken several days to get a feel for the Scottish, but once she’d had a drink with a few of them, she realized just how much she liked them. In Wales, no one could hold a tankard to her iron stomach, but here…she’d nearly died during a drinking game with a Scotsman and his woman, both who’d come into the town she’d been passing through to celebrate their nuptials.

  She bade them good tidings, and then wallowed on her own, in the stable where she’d taken refuge from yet another rainstorm.

  And now…she was out in the elements, hoping that the village of Kinloch Rannoch wasn’t more than another day’s travel. She didn’t have much food left, and she’d never learned to hunt. Animals, anyway.

  As Martle grazed in the rain, Rose let her mind wander. What would she do if she discovered the truth about what happened to her parents? What would happen if she stumbled upon a family she’d never thought to find? What would the Rees think of her leaving them without so much as a “fair sailing”? She knew the Rees would worry for her when she didn’t return within a month, that they would, more than likely, come looking for her. But, before then, she hoped to learn more about her past. The past mired in missing memories and feelings of…not belonging.

  Aye, the Rees had always welcomed her, making her one of their own, but she’d always know she wasn’t truly a Rees. She remembered when Ioan Rees, the elder and former brenin, had found her on the beach, where she’d been wailing in confusion and fear. She couldn’t remember what had happened to her, only that she was on a ship and then she wasn’t. Ioan had promised to look after her, folding her into the family to be raised alongside his other grandchildren.

  As her thoughts drifted into her past, her eyes began to droop.

  So tired. When was the last time she’d slept through the night? When was the last time she could lie in bed, close her eyes, and not dream of black, suffocating, pounding water?

  Something stirred her from her semi-slumber; the loss of sound. The rain had stopped.

  Her eyes snapped opened, widening in her surprise at having fallen into slumber while sitting under a tree, in the pouring rain and brittle cold.

  Shaking the drops of rain from her hair, she trembled as the water slid down the back of her neck and into the back of her shirt.

  “Damn,” she groused. “I’ll never be dry again.”

  After the silence, there was a murmur and then a shout of laughter.

  She held her breath, bending her ear to listen deeply.

  Men. Maybe within several yards of where she was hunkered down.

  Obviously, the loud pounding of the rain had drowned out the sounds of other people.

  Swiftly gaining her feet, she continued to listen. Whoever they were, they weren’t trying to hide their presence. They were loud, talking and shouting and practically drawing a target on their backs. A target in the shape of a red R. For Rose Red.

  The corner of her mouth lifting into a sneer, she moved along the thick trunks of the trees, through the shadows, and right up to a line of trees just before a very small clearing.

  In the clearing, there were five men, seated in a circle around a struggling fire. At least they were warm, at least they could get dry.

  The men were wearing kilts, their swords strapped to their sides, and legs stretched out before them in a pose of ease… These men had no idea how close they were to danger.

  Leave them be, Rose, they are none of your concern. She wondered, though, who they were. Their kilts were all of the same pattern; varying blues, reds, black, gold and white. She’d heard of tartans before, but she’d never seen one with her own eyes. She knew that tartans designated to which laird or clan they swore allegiance.

  Who did these men owe their allegiance to?

  “…MacPherson has finally given up his quest for his missing bride,” a man, second from the right, announced, and the other men mumbled their displeasure.

  MacPherson? The name struck Rose like an arrow to the chest. The very same name the MacGuilliams had told her about; the clan with the symbol of the rose wrapped around the thorn as their crest. Tense, she continued to listen, her heart racing.

  “Aye. There’s rumor he is set tae marry his house wench.”

  “I’ve heard tales o’ her, and how she’d been pinin’ after MacPherson since she first grew tits.” The man scowled, his lips curling. “She’s a sight better than those whores who’ve been comin’ in, claimin’ tae be his long-lost betrothed. Those women are nae better than the tavern whore I bedded just last night.”

  “Wasnae that yer sister, Brand
on?” the one closest to the fire quipped.

  A man, apparently, Brandon, spat at him.

  “Shut yer gob, Willy,” Brandon sneered, leaning forward to give Willy a glare that looked more maniacal than menacing.

  Rose bit back a chuckle. These men were no threat, but they could certainly give her information she’d been without since leaving the ship and finding her own way in a new and rugged territory.

  Straightening, Rose placed a hand on her sword hilt, pasted a grin on her face, and stepped into the ring of firelight.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she drawled, and nearly fell into a heap of laughter at the looks of utter astonishment on their faces as they turned at the sound of her voice and stopped dead. “Can you kindly tell me where I can find Kinloch Rannoch.” She sidled closer, her grin growing as the men blinked up at her, all of them caught up in the vision that was all Rose. “It seems I’ve lost my way.”

  Chapter Five

  Thorn removed his boots, kicking them to the end of his bed where his two other pairs of boots were slumped. With his feet free of their confines, he wiggled his toes, thankful for the coolness of the stone floor.

  He’d never liked wearing boots, had spent years of his life running amok in the woods outside Cylldon barefooted and carefree. And his foster father, the wise and patient Lord Lloyd Owains, had allowed it, not because he didn’t care but because he understood that a man should be comfortable when facing down his fears. And Thorn had feared those woods…at least in the beginning.

  When he’d first arrived at Cylldon as a lad of fourteen, preparing for his twenty years in another man’s care, he’d gazed upon the dark woods surrounding the tall stone castle as if it were crawling with death. It had taken years before he braved the tangled veins and thick, low-hanging branches, but once he had…he’d tasted freedom for the first time.

  For the last time.

  A knock on his chamber doors pulled a sigh from his chest.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he knew he couldn’t ignore her…the woman he’d invited into his life. Permanently. The woman he had committed to marrying. The woman whose scent was strong enough for him to smell even through the door. Also, her knock was singular; two loud knocks and then a single soft tap. He’d gotten used to hearing it, but never on his own bedchamber door.

  “Come,” he called, beckoning his future wife into his private chambers, knowing full well what she was coming to ask him. Since offering for her, she’d become a whole new woman, brazen and possessive, and shrill.

  Dear God, what have I gotten myself into?

  He turned to watch as the thick oak door swung open and Briar glided through. Catching his gaze, she dipped her head, offering him a coy grin that, over the last several days, had begun to turn his stomach.

  For the eighth or ninth time in the last week, he asked himself: Was this all a mistake?

  And it didn’t help that every time he pictured himself vowing to bind himself to Briar forever his stomach flipped, twisting.

  God, if there were any way out of marrying at all, he would take it. But it was his duty as Laird MacPherson to wed, sire heirs, and provide a solid future for his people.

  So, Briar MacPherson was his only choice, unless he wanted to marry one of the many women who’d lied to his face.

  Nay.

  “Why have you come, Briar?” he asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

  Unbothered by his tone, she continued forward until she was within inches of him. Her scent, nigh overpowering, billowed up from where her breasts were heaving up and nearly falling out of her bodice. When he’d first seen her after having been gone so long, he could admit that his body responded to the sight of her large, plump breasts. But now…

  “I have come to bid ye goodnight, husband,” she drawled, raising her hand to run a finger along his naked chest. He was a large man, his muscles honed by hard work, sparring, and lack of idleness. He knew he was a fine specimen, a man every woman fawned over, but this one…her fawning felt forced.

  It all felt forced.

  What the hell has come over me? At one time, before his father’s death and his subsequent rise to laird with all those damn duties, he’d looked forward to settling down with a good woman, siring a brood of strapping sons, and dying in old age with his family around him. But his father’s death had rushed him headlong into something he couldn’t fight against.

  ’Tis because I have no control over my own destiny.

  Why had he ever thought to put off marrying by promising to only marry a woman who was probably long dead?

  I am a fool beyond comparison.

  “I can hear ye thinkin’, lover,” Briar muttered, her pout firmly in place. Since her rise to mistress-to-be of Gleneden, her façade of a submissive yet jealous spirit had slowly slipped away. In less than a week, Thorn had discovered the true Briar, one that used all her wiles to try and get him into her bed, or his. She’d purred and pouted, protesting that she’d waited long enough to have him for her own, but he’d rejected her advances, his flesh willing but his mind revolting. But it was too late to change his mind. What was done was done, and now he could only hope that things would work out in a way that would benefit them both. He’d have a wife to put a stop to the flood of faux fiancées, and she’d have his protection and…him.

  “Why think when ye can lie with me…husband?” she said, pouting, her eyes dark with hunger.

  “We are not married yet, woman,” he snapped, and she narrowed her eyes, her pout turning from an attempt at sensual into a poorly disguised sneer.

  “’Tis only a matter of a week, me love, and then I will be all ye will ever need,” she said, her voice taking on a hard edge. “Remember, husband, ye asked me.”

  He stared down at her, into eyes blazing with arrogance and greed.

  ’Tis what you wanted.

  Planting his hands on his hips, he waited for her to continue, though he already knew what she was going to say.

  “Ye and I are tae be wed in a week’s time…” Her finger returned to his chest, her fingernail flicking the flat head of his nipple. “And I cannae wait tae become Lady MacPherson.”

  “I do not suppose you can,” he practically sneered, hating how his thoughts and emotions were in constant motion, never settling on one thing or another. It was exhausting.

  “’Tis only a week, my love…” She dropped her hand, reaching down to cup his bollocks, and squeezing.

  He stiffened and she grinned, believing his response was one of arousal. It wasn’t. It was vexation. Thorn was a healthy man with a healthy appetite for sex, and aye, Briar was a beautiful, sensual woman. He would bed her, often, but on his terms.

  Take, appease her, slake your own lusts… What man would deny himself such a lush offering? Again, his thoughts and emotions wavered, and he snagged the most immediate emotion, one that needed.

  He allowed the need for physical pleasure to override all else.

  “You wish for pleasure, my dear?” he asked, his arms snaking out to wrap around her waist. She gasped and then purred, leaning into his embrace. Her breasts pressing against the hardness of his chest. Immediately, his manhood stiffened, his body responding though his mind wasn’t engaged.

  As an animal would. He forced down the indignation that notion ignited. He was no better than an animal anyway, seeking his pleasure despite all that felt wrong about it.

  Father would be ashamed of me.

  Growling—angry at himself—he leaned down to take her lips, burning with a new need to numb all higher reasoning, but a pounding on the door made him jerk to a stop.

  Briar hissed at the interruption, but Thorn dropped his arms, taking a step away from her, and then called, “Come,” for the second time in fifteen minutes.

  The door opened quickly, and Garrick stepped inside the room, his knowing gaze flicking from Thorn to Briar and back.

  “What is the meanin’ o’ this interruption?” Briar snarled, her practiced comeliness g
one in a blink.

  Garrick didn’t apologize, not that he ever would, and his eyes remained hooded and yet all-seeing.

  “There is a…commotion,” he answered—to Thorn. The man knew his loyalties were to his laird, and not to Briar. Not yet anyway.

  Stepping around Briar, Thorn intoned, “Commotion? What do you mean? ’Tis late, Garrick, I care not if the men are making fools of themselves.”

  Garrick’s expression didn’t change. “Five o’ the men on patrol were attacked, my lord—”

  That snapped Thorn from his already fleeting thoughts of returning to what he’d been doing before Garrick arrived. “Attacked? By who?” he growled, wrath snaking through his spine.

  “Most likely MacDougal men, but I cannae know for sure. I think it best ye speak with them,” Garrick remarked, moving aside to allow Thorn to stride past him and through the door.

  Behind Thorn, Briar followed, her belligerent gaze poking holes into his back.

  They made it down the stairs and to the door to the great hall quickly, Thorn’s heart pounding, his chest heaving, as his anger grew.

  Who would dare attack his men on his land? Whoever they were, they would know the brutal and merciless hand of justice.

  Storming through the door, his mouth opening to command answers, but the breath leaving his body stole all the words he meant to speak.

  There, standing in the midst of bruised and bloody men, was a woman more stunning than he had ever seen in his lifetime.

  Long red hair was confined to a thick braid that hung over her shoulder to just under her plump, pale breasts. The shirt she was wearing was open enough to only give him a glimpse of what was hidden beneath, but it was enough, because as soaked as she was from the evening’s rain, he could see the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric. As if by instinct, the need to suck those same nipples into his mouth made his tongue flick against his teeth.

  Damn.

  Forcing down the urge to suckle her, he continued his perusal of her. Her face was the color of toasted cream, and her eyes were a brown that brought to mind the decadent desserts he’d favored.