“We came upon—” He cut himself off before he could say slaughter. Jesus, she was in for a shock. “Your men were under attack.”
For the first time since he’d so impulsively embraced her, Greyson pulled back. Her cheeks, so perfectly flawless earlier, were now splotchy with tears. Her vulnerability, so evident, made him forget about his own predicament. And she still had no idea what awaited her back on the road.
“We saw it happen, so we came forward to help.”
Reaching down inside her coat—no, Uncle Ross had called it a mantle—she took out a handkerchief. A cotton one, the embroidery so fine no one in his century would dare to actually use it. Wiping her cheeks as prettily as if she were taking afternoon tea and not standing with a stranger in the middle of the woods, she backed away from him. It struck him that she seemed embarrassed.
“We saw them riding toward us in the distance,” she said. “So fast. James told me to run—” Her eyes widened. “Sir James. Is he well? He is the strongest of knights but has been unwell as of late. Please tell me he is unharmed?”
Shit.
“He is, I mean, your men . . .” Since when did he fumble for words? Since never. But how exactly did a man go about telling a woman her entire riding party was dead? In his time, it would be called a massacre, but his uncle had shrugged it off as if a slew of dead bodies were an everyday occurrence.
Probably because it was an everyday occurrence here.
Double shit. He was in way over his head.
“I can walk you back,” he said lamely.
“Your speech. ’Tis quite odd.”
If only she knew.
“Where are you from?”
Did the U.S. even exist now? He might have gone to Yale, but Greyson had never been great with remembering dates—it was the only part of his English minor he’d struggled to master.
“Abroad.”
Apparently the word was pretty odd. Her brows furrowed, drawing his attention. Like every other feature on her face, their expressiveness captivated him. Just like when she’d ridden past him earlier. Everything about this woman pulled him toward her. Long blond hair, streaked with light brown, framed the face of an angel. Not dainty, like she’d break any minute, but serene. Her eyes, the color of caramels, had a lovely depth to them. He’d never met another woman like her—then again, she wasn’t of his time.
His time. The thought of it was still nuts.
“There’s something about you . . . ,” she started, then shook her head as if to banish an inappropriate thought. “I’m relieved that James is well. Are any of them hurt?”
She began walking back to her horse. Thank God he’d thought to tie them both up. And for his mother, who had taught all four of them to ride. At least now he understood her small quirks, which actually weren’t quirks at all. Had she actually been preparing them for time travel? Or perhaps she’d just wanted them to learn things from her time out of nostalgia.
More importantly, how had he given Marian the impression that none of her men had been hurt?
Just say it, Greyson. Beating around the bush makes people think you’re insincere.
Rhys had never needed their father’s lessons. It was like he’d been born a carbon copy of the self-made man every New Orleanian admired. Not so him. But at least he’d listened.
He waited until they’d mounted, Greyson not sure if he would offend her by asking if she needed assistance. But she’d solved the problem by hiking up her gown and doing it more skillfully than him. Greyson supposed she rode more often than his once or so every year.
“I am sorry.”
Clearly not fully recovered, she looked at him, her eyes too sorrowful for such a young woman. Was she even twenty-five?
Just say it.
“None of your men survived. If it’s any consolation, none of the others did either.”
She didn’t believe him. One minute, she was looking up at him, shocked. Horrified. The next, she was riding ahead so fast Greyson could barely keep up. The clearing alongside the lake gave way to a thicket of woods. He hadn’t survived his first battle just to break his neck falling from a damned horse.
“Hold up.”
But she didn’t hear him, or she didn’t listen, so Greyson kept following her, doing his best not to make a total schmuck of himself. He made it to the road just as she launched herself from her horse, showing an enormous amount of agility despite her massive gown. She went straight to the body of the leader. Sir James, she’d called him.
Fenwall’s marshal, according to Ross.
Of course, he had no idea who Fenwall was, but his uncle seemed to know just about everyone. An English earl, Ross had told him, and the woman who’d fled into the woods was his daughter.
As she threw herself atop the dead man, Greyson watched his uncle’s men drag the bodies off the road.
“What will you do with them?” he asked one of the men, who threw him a suspicious look.
The men didn’t know what to make of him. Ross had introduced him as a relative after warning him not to admit to being his nephew. They were much too close in age. Clearly the men didn’t trust him yet, not that Greyson blamed them.
“We bury the Englishmen. The marauders can rot in hell.”
When the guy’s companion looked at him in shock, as if he’d said the worst sort of curse, Greyson took note. So apparently rotting in hell was the same as saying fuck in his time. Or maybe worse, judging by the second guy’s expression.
The fact that they already had a couple of shovels with them had been an alarming discovery. So burying bodies was as par for the course as stopping to roast up some freshly caught rabbit?
Greyson didn’t know if he should wash the blood from his hands, thankfully not his own, go to the woman, or help bury her friends. So he stood there for a moment, at a complete loss. Tough negotiations in the boardroom? Nothing compared to this.
He was out of his element. Big time.
And judging from the look on his uncle’s face, it was only going to get worse.
7
This morning, Marian had little to recommend her.
Besides her horse, she had nothing but her gowns and the remainder of her dowry. The Scotsmen had saved that, at least, but it wasn’t hers anyway—it belonged to the man she was supposed to marry, a man who cared as much for gold as he apparently did about a connection to the English king. Few were closer than her father to King Edward’s inner circle, and though Marian was not privy to her betrothed’s political leanings, she did know the Scotsman was keen to forge this alliance.
But material belongings mattered nothing to her. James was gone. Besides Gilda, he was the only person who’d ever shown her love. A good, kind man, he’d helped her navigate around her father.
One moment he’d been shouting for her to hide in the woods. The next, he was gone—his body as still as those she’d needed to step over to get to him.
They were all dead.
And if it weren’t for the timely intervention of her new “friends,” likely she would be dead too. Unless, as she’d overheard someone suggest, the reivers had targeted their group so they could kidnap or rob her. That possibility only made her feel worse.
Had this all been her fault?
Living so close to the border, she’d heard tales of the men who scourged the countryside, serving both northern and southern masters. Stealing, kidnapping, and murdering—taking advantage of the tumultuous and imaginary line between Scotsmen and Englishmen. But until now, it had never touched her life. Now, she felt unmoored. Lost.
“May I assist you, my lady?” asked the leader of the men.
Only then did she register they’d all stopped in front of an inn.
The leader of these men, despite his ever-present scowl, was as courtly as the most refined of Englishmen. He’d been attentive to her, assuring her she would find safe passage with them, though none knew where that passage should lead. Back to her father? To her betrothed? She’d be asked to make a decision soon.
<
br /> That they had turned south after crossing the bridge had not fazed her. Marian could think of nothing except those bodies. And of James’s still face, his eyes closed forever.
As the leader helped her down, Marian let herself glance around, trying to find him. Every so often he rode next to her. Once he’d asked her if she wished to speak about it. She’d shaken her head, and he had not spoken since. She often caught him watching her, though, and he’d likely seen her do the same. Sometimes Marian didn’t even realize she had been staring until she caught herself and looked away.
There was just something strange about him. Something more than his unusual hairstyle or the way he spoke. More good-looking than most, but with a bearing that reinforced his claim of being a foreigner to this land . . . Marian stopped herself, feeling guilty for thinking in such a way after what had happened.
Despite herself, she glanced at the man leading her horse into the stables. Mayhap the foreigner was in there too? Marian was unsure of how long she stood there as the others scrambled around her.
“She’s in shock.”
Marian knew that voice already, despite having only heard it a few times. Deep and reverberating, it soothed her. She hadn’t even seen him emerge. But darkness had fallen, the only light coming from above, the moon bright and full.
“Shock?”
That from a man named Alban, the long-haired warrior whose hauberk was still smeared with blood.
“Surprised,” the foreigner clarified as Alban moved on. “Come inside with us.”
She didn’t move. Her men, all dead.
“We’ve not been properly introduced. Greyson McCaim, at your service.”
At your service? What did that mean precisely?
“Never mind,” he said with a shrug, “just my lame attempt to acclimate.”
More unfamiliar words. “Do you speak Latin? Or French?”
She slipped into the latter but quickly realized he was unfamiliar with the language.
“Unfortunately, only English.”
Finally gathering her wits as the others moved inside, the horses evidently stabled for the night, Marian remembered her manners.
“Lady Marian, daughter of the third Earl of Fenwall, if it pleases you.”
He made a most ungentlemanly sound, something between a laugh and a snort, and then promptly apologized.
“Sorry. Lady Marian. Like in Robin Hood. Or was that Maid Marian?”
Cocking her head to the side, Marian attempted to make sense of his words.
“Robin Hood?”
“It’s a story. Evidently I’m too early though.”
He was talking nonsense, but she found she did not want him to leave. At least he didn’t expect her to speak of what had happened that day. She couldn’t bear to do that. Not yet. “Will you tell me this story?”
“Greyson?” The leader waved for them to come into the inn. His tone rivaled that of her father, a man accustomed to being in command. She immediately began to comply.
But Greyson didn’t move. “We’ll be right there.”
Marian stopped. “He is your leader.”
“Yep. His name is Ross.” He acknowledged Ross with a nod, and to her surprise, the big man followed the others inside, leaving them. The inn was a two-story wooden structure with light streaming from the open shutters. Up until now, she had rarely left Fenwall and stayed only twice at an inn, her father preferring the hospitality of others instead.
She should follow him inside. The last thing she should do was continue speaking to this perplexing, vexing, and very tempting man. And yet, she found herself asking him another question.
“Ross,” she repeated. “He is from the mountains?”
Did she mean the Highlands? So much for Scottish nationalism. From what he’d gathered, the Lowlanders disliked the Highlanders almost as much as they disliked the English. The English disliked all Scots but the “mountain and island people” least of all. And his own family? Greyson wasn’t even sure if they liked each other. They certainly had anger issues—ones that had likely saved Marian today.
“He’s from the north.” Kind of. Perthshire was at least north of Edinburgh, from what he remembered of his dad’s maps. But he had a feeling Marian didn’t really care about the answer. She hadn’t spoken all day, and now wanted to talk about everything but what had happened. She was in need of a distraction. He’d felt that way often enough himself. He understood and would play along.
“Where I’m from, we have the same kind of divide. It’s been years since the two sides fought, but sometimes there’s still a lingering sense of being from the north. Or the south. We’re different in a lot of ways.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “And where, precisely, is that?”
He’d walked into that one, but he could only deflect.
“I will tell you. But only after you’ve eaten. Ross said he was getting rooms. Come inside.”
Pulling up the hem of her gown, she followed him into the squat building.
He sucked in a breath as he stepped inside. Although he’d been in the past for two days now, it never failed to surprise him. It looked exactly like a scene from a movie.
Candles lit up the room from rough tables—planks of wood propped on top of barrels—and men feasted on huge bowls of what looked like oatmeal. The only woman besides Marian was a waitress, make that two of them. No bar or hostess stand.
Greyson chuckled to himself. What the hell else could he do? Had to keep a sense of humor or he’d go crazy.
“Have you not seen the inside of an inn before?” she asked curiously, taking note of his reaction.
Ross lifted his hand in greeting. They’d stopped along the way to wash in a freezing-cold river, but he’d give his right arm for a hot shower and one for Marian too.
Preferably, one for them to share.
“I have, of course. But I didn’t see a village or anything nearby, so I guess I wasn’t expecting much. This is . . .”
“The Bear and Bull. It’s almost as well-known as The Wild Boar. Everyone crossing the border knows of it.”
He stood in front of her, using his shoulders to cut a path to the others. It was like his favorite bar, The Dungeon, on a Saturday night. Only with more weapons. And no mixed drinks.
But Greyson didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole of thinking about New Orleans and his life there, or what his brothers were doing back home. He was here, and that was a start. He’d find Rhys and their mother, no matter how long it took. Which was just as well because he had no idea if he could ever get back anyway.
At least he’d had the great luck to find Ross. After he’d proven himself to his uncle, Ross had simply said, “You are with me now.”
Somehow, he’d found Greyson clothes that fit, a bow and quiver, and a horse. He had no idea how Ross had paid for them, nor could he hope to pay him back. Greyson didn’t have a dime to his name. All he had was a phone that wouldn’t have service for hundreds of years. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
You are with me now.
He’d clung to those five words for the past two days to keep himself from going insane. Only the knowledge that he had help, that he wasn’t alone, had kept him from obsessing over what had happened.
And then it occurred to him.
Turning just before they reached the table, he looked Lady Marian straight in the eyes. God, she was beautiful.
“You are with me now.”
Hopefully that didn’t have some hidden meaning, like they were suddenly married or something. But thankfully, she didn’t look alarmed. Instead, his words had the effect he’d hoped they might. She actually smiled for the first time that day.
“Thank you,” was all she said. But it was enough.
8
Marian cupped the fast-running water into her hands and drank from it. She hadn’t expected much time to herself, but the sound of a cracking branch behind her meant her solace was at an end. A quick glance told her that her visitor was Greyson, however, and her
reluctance shifted to eagerness.
When he was near, she felt better. Her preoccupation with trying to understand him kept her mind from the events of yesterday. From the sight that had greeted her on the road and the realization that she had narrowly missed the same fate, or worse.
“You never did tell me where you’re from,” she reminded him. Greyson crossed his arms and leaned against a tree just next to her. “Nor did you tell me the tale you promised.”
“Tale?”
She stood, shaking her hands to dry them.
“Of Robin Hood? And Maid Marian?”
Though he appeared relaxed from a distance, the pretense slipped away as he came closer. A tic in his jaw, something she’d noticed before, was on display.
He was as troubled as she.
“Does something have you worried?” she asked before thinking. “I apologize, ’twas impolite to ask such a thing.”
He appeared genuinely confused. “Impolite? I do not consider it so.”
Suddenly, she remembered something. “Yesterday in the woods, when you called to me. You used my given name.”
She distinctly remembered him calling Marian rather than Lady Marian. But that was not the only occasion he’d shunned formality. “You are more . . . familiar than I am accustomed.”
“You don’t typically hug strangers?”
“Nay, I do not.” Which is when she realized he’d said it in jest.
“Lady Marian”—he emphasized her title—“when I searched for you, I worried for your safety.”
“And I thank you for your concern.” He didn’t appear inclined to offer further explanation. “The men are ready?”
“Almost. Ross wants to talk to you.”
Her shoulders sagged. Marian knew what he would ask her, and she had no answer for him.
Something about her expression must have roused Greyson’s curiosity, for he cocked his head, studying her, and asked, “Do we take you back to Fenwall? Or will you continue with us to Quinting Castle and then Pittillock when we return?”
Not for the first time Marian wondered what business these Scotsmen had at Quinting. She’d heard them talking at supper, something about speaking with Edward’s regent, but she knew precious little else. Of course, she had not been very forthcoming either, saying only that they’d been headed to Pittillock before the attack. If she told them, there was a risk they might leave with the remainder of her dowry, which was being carried on a packhorse, treated as no different than her chest of gowns.
Sexy Scot (Highlander's Through Time Book 2) Page 4