Wicked Highland Heroes

by Tarah Scott

  “You will have to push harder than that to shove me out of bed.”

  His deep voice, gravelly from sleep, startled her, and she froze, her feet still flat against his back.

  “What are ye doing in my bed?” she demanded. “You gave me the scare of my life.”

  “A bigger scare than the night I grabbed you from your horse as you fled your convent?”

  Ire flared. Rhoslyn shoved at his back with all her might, but it was as if she pushed a stone wall. She grunted with the effort.

  “A little lower, Lady Rhoslyn. You were right. This bed is too small. I have a kink here.” He shifted his hips.

  Rhoslyn gave a frustrated growl and shoved harder—to no avail—then shoved the curtain aside on her side of the bed and leapt to her feet. “Are ye insane?”

  He rolled onto his back and shoved his hands behind his head. Her breath caught at sight of his chest. Feather light hair trailed from his belly button to disappear beneath the blanket at his hips. Even in the shadows of the curtained bed, she could discern the ripple of muscle across his stomach. Alec hadn’t looked like that.

  She yanked her gaze onto his face. “I thought ye were going to sleep in your own bed.”

  “I did. But early this morning I crawled into bed with you. It will not do for the servants to talk about how we spent our wedding night apart.”

  Her mind whirled with the thought of a true wedding night with this man. The long, hard length of him beneath her bottom when he’d held her on his lap at the inn was just a hint of what she could expect. He would be nothing like Alec. Her husband had been kind, gentle, and...and what? Not young, like St. Claire, that much was certain. Guilt and shock dropped in the pit of her stomach like lead.

  “Ye didna’ say anything last night about getting into my bed,” she said.

  He shrugged and Rhoslyn was torn between wanting to box his ears and wanting to stroke the markings on his arm again. She hadn’t forgotten how the muscled arm felt beneath her fingers. Her gaze shifted of its own volition to his right arm where his sister’s face was visible above the blanket.

  Then her mind came to a screeching halt at the realization that his sister’s face reminded her of someone.

  They rode out of Castle Glenbarr two hours later, a company of forty-five people and two hounds. A company befitting a king. Twenty of St. Claire’s guardsmen surrounded them. Six spearmen, five archers, one kennel master, her grandfather, eight guests, Andreana, St. Claire, and Rhoslyn. The dogs barked excitedly and the guests called to one another above the tramp of horses’ hooves.

  She had never been on so fine a hunt, and wished she wasn’t on one today.

  She, St. Claire, and her grandfather led the hunt, along with Lord Kinnon, riding at St. Claire’s right. She cast a furtive glance at St. Claire, who talked in low tones with the earl. He sat straight in the saddle as if born to it, which he probably had been. The chevaler strapped to his side and the bow slung over his back seemed almost a natural part of him. She could easily envision him pulling an arrow from the quiver tied to his saddle and felling a large buck before her grandfather could let fly his own arrow.

  Years of training had refined his lean frame into a wall of muscle so that his shoulders looked impossibly broad in his red and gold jerkin. His shirt sleeves couldn’t hide the play of muscle in his arms. Rhoslyn unexpectedly recalled the strength of those arms around her when she rode with him on the way home from Stonehaven. Heat rippled through her at the memory of her bare bottom across his thighs—and his hard length flush against her thigh. He hadn’t acted upon his lust, as too many men would have.

  A mental picture of Dayton St. Claire poised over her intruded upon the recollection. Her stomach knotted. Lust hadn’t driven him, at least not lust for her. Greed was what hardened his cock. A wave of revulsion pitched her stomach.

  Rhoslyn gazed left, at trees that blanketed the hills ahead. St. Mary’s lay east, beyond the trees. How she longed to return. Frustration surfaced. The herb garden at the convent was Abbess Beatrice’s pride. There, Rhoslyn could find pennyroyal in abundance. Shame caused her to lower her head. God would surely punish her for thinking of using anything at the convent to end her child’s life. And if Abbess Beatrice could read her thoughts...

  “Is something amiss, Lady Rhoslyn?”

  Rhoslyn started at the sound of St. Claire’s voice. The baying of the dogs and murmur of conversation brought her back to the present and she looked at him. He stared, brows drawn in concern.

  “Nay,” she said. “Should something be wrong?”

  “You appeared deep in thought.”

  She shrugged. His gaze sharpened and she felt certain he thought she was mimicking his annoying habit of shrugging when asked a question. Her mouth twitched with an unbidden smile, but she managed to restrain the impulse. He lifted a brow. Rhoslyn shrugged again, then returned her attention straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw him study her for a moment before returning his attention to Lord Kinnon.

  “I hear the rebellions in Wales are spreading, Lord Kinnon said. “Does Edward plan another campaign there?”

  “Edward does not confide in me, but I doubt it,” St. Claire said. “The uprisings are not serious.”

  Lord Kinnon grunted. “I suppose he is busy enough as arbiter and Sovereign of Scotland.”

  “I imagine so,” St. Claire replied. “He has no easy task in that regard.”

  “Edward knows what he is doing. He will choose wisely.”

  Her grandfather snorted, but said nothing. Rhoslyn easily read his thoughts. By ‘choose wisely’ Lord Kinnon meant ‘John Balliol.’ Lord Kinnon was a supporter of Balliol, and she suspected he hoped to become one of St. Claire’s newest and closest friends in order to ingratiating himself into Edward—and Balliol’s—good graces.

  “What think you of Edward as Sovereign of Scotland, Lady Rhoslyn?” St. Claire asked.

  She jerked her head in his direction. He stared, eyes intense—as always—but she detected something in his expression. Rhoslyn blinked. Was that mischief? It was. What trouble did he intend to make? Then the truth dawned. He, too, suspected Lord Kinnon was a Balliol supporter, and he knew she wasn’t.

  “I think Edward would be wise to stay in England and leave Scotland to sort out her own problems,” she said.

  “A dream, Lady Rhoslyn,” Lord Kinnon interjected. “Our leaders quarrel amongst themselves to the point that we canna’ decide who will lead in a single battle.”

  “I imagine Wallace or Bruce would decide that without hesitation,” she said. “And our squabbling doesna’ mean an English king should be dictating to us.”

  “Have ye a better idea?” he asked.

  “Anything would be better than English interference.” She thought of Duncan and was glad he wasn’t here to hear her echo his words.

  “Anything?” St. Claire interjected.

  She met his gaze squarely. “Aye.”

  “I suppose, then, I should be thankful my mother was Scottish.”

  Rhoslyn couldn’t believe her ears... Everyone knew he never spoke of his mother, and considered himself every inch an Englishman, not a Scot.

  “No’ Scottish,” her grandfather corrected, “a Scot. Ye didna’ say anything about being a Scot when Edward gave ye Dunfrey Castle. You flew the English banner—even at the Highland Games.”

  “Where I believe I won every match I competed in,” St. Claire replied mildly.

  Rhoslyn hadn’t attended the games that year, for Andreana had been ill and Rhoslyn refused to leave her side. But for months afterward, stories were told of St. Claire’s prowess as a soldier and his loyalty to his king...and, she recalled, the fact that he didn’t dally with the Highland women.

  Luck eluded them that morning, and St. Claire called a halt in a small clearing three hours later when they hadn’t sighted a single deer. He was at Rhoslyn’s side as she brought her horse to a stop. He startled her by grasping her waist and lifting her from the saddle. She br
aced her hands on his shoulders and his eyes locked with hers as he lowered her. Her knees felt as weak as apple pudding when her feet touched the ground.

  His fingers flexed on her waist and she suddenly realized her waist wasn’t as trim as it had been when she’d been Andreana’s age. Birth and the passage of time had rounded her curves. St. Claire couldn’t miss the difference between Andreana’s youthful beauty and Rhoslyn’s fuller curves—especially given how dazzling Andreana looked today in her dark green linen dress.

  Rhoslyn couldn’t halt the flush of embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. St. Claire’s gaze sharpened. He hadn’t released her, and her embarrassment grew more acute when she glimpsed Lady Isobel glancing their way. The kennel master knelt, tying the hounds to a tree near a large boulder to their left and the rest of the party had moved a discreet distance away.

  “Seward insists there is game aplenty here in Buchan,” St. Claire said.

  Rhoslyn nodded. “My grandfather always returns home with game.” Why didn’t he step away?

  “Did you lay a wager that he would beat me?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then you wagered that I would beat him.”

  She shook her head. “Nay.”

  “If you wager on me I will work doubly hard to win,” he said.

  “I think you had better work doubly hard not to lose your horse.”

  “I do love that horse,” he mused. “If you will not lay a wager on me, would you give me a favor?”

  She frowned. “We are no’ at court in London.”

  “True, but I am an English knight and you are my wife. It would please me to carry something of yours.”

  “I have nothing.”

  “The scarf in your hair is perfect.”

  She had forgotten that scarf. Was Lady Isobel still staring? How could she not be? How could all of them not be staring? St. Claire stood so close she almost tasted his breath. If she gave him her scarf everyone would talk. Wasn’t that what he wanted? He released her and before she could step away he began unfastening the scarf from her hair.

  “St. Claire,” she protested. “My head will be bare if you take the scarf.”

  “This is the first time I have seen you cover your hair,” he said, his attention on the scarf. “You have beautiful hair. Why hide it now?”

  He freed the scarf and she froze when he brought the fabric to his nose and breathed deep, eyes closed. Her heart began to pound. There was no way their guests could have missed a single thing that passed between them, and this...

  He opened his eyes. “I will treasure this small gift, my lady.”

  Rhoslyn tamped down on the urge to yank free. Gossip would follow if she were seen fleeing her husband. St. Claire grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. His mouth, warm and soft against her flesh, sent a prickle of awareness up her arm. He released her, then slipped the scarf between his mail shirt and shirt.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she replied, though she didn’t think she could swallow a bite.

  He tied the horses’ reins to a nearby bush, then slid an arm around her waist and turned toward the rest of the party. Some guests sat on rocks, others on fallen branches and the ground. They talked in low tones and ate the bread and cheese that had been packed for them. Rhoslyn wished she didn’t have to face them. Alec had been attentive, but other than a chaste kiss to her hand and the occasional endearment, he didn’t make public displays of affection. Affection? Nay, what St. Claire did wasn’t affection. It was to forestall any questions about the kidnapping.

  They reached the picnickers and Lady Isobel called, “Lady Rhoslyn, sit with us.” She patted the large rock upon which she and Andreana sat.

  Isobel was the last person Rhoslyn wanted to sit with, but she smiled and said, “Thank you, Lady Isobel.”

  St. Claire released her and she joined the women. He gave her some of the bread and cheese. She accepted and couldn’t prevent her gaze from straying to him as he lowered himself onto the ground beside Lord Kinnon and two other guests.

  The sun warmed Rhoslyn’s face. Her heart had slowed and the food had revived her so that she felt that the remainder of the day might not be so bad, after all.

  “Will you walk with me?” Isobel asked. “We face several hours in the saddle, and I would no’ mind stretching my legs.”

  “Aye.” Rhoslyn looked at Andreana. “Will you come?”

  She shook her head. “I will stay here.”

  Rhoslyn stood with Isobel and they strolled toward a cluster of daisies growing at the edge of the clearing. She squatted to pick a few while Isobel continued on. The horses nickered and Rhoslyn glanced up. Her palfrey skittered away from St. Claire’s horse and whinnied. The stallion snorted and shifted restlessly.

  St. Claire rose and strode to the horses. He ran a gentling hand along the mare’s neck and she stilled. He turned to his horse and—the dogs began barking. Rhoslyn jerked her gaze onto them. They strained against their leashes, snarling. Then Lady Isobel screamed.

  Rhoslyn surged to her feet as a large blur shot from the trees. Andreana’s screams mingled with the men’s shouts. The boar charged Isobel as she scrambled up the high rock near where the dogs strained against their leashes, snarling and growling. The boar bellowed and turned toward Rhoslyn.

  She couldn’t reach the rock Isobel had climbed. Rhoslyn fell back two paces, scanning wildly for another rock. She spotted the kennel master racing past toward the dogs. The boar veered toward him. The man skidded to a halt, then whirled back toward the group as Rhoslyn stumbled toward a tree fifteen feet away.

  An arrow whizzed past her. She glanced over her shoulder. The boar suddenly turned her way again. A spear sailed through the air and grazed the boar’s back. Blood spurted from the wound. He bellowed, lowered his head, and charged.

  “Duck, Rhoslyn!” her grandfather shouted. “We canna’ shoot him with ye—”

  Her toe snagged on something and she crashed to the ground. Pain splintered through her shoulder. She rolled onto her back, the snarls and growls of the hounds deafening. The boar leapt into the air. Rhoslyn screamed and brought her arm up. An arrow pierced the beast’s heart. He squealed. Another arrow tore through his hind quarters as he dropped like a stone onto her legs. His hooves scored the ground and he growled low. Two more arrows whizzed over her, stirring the hair on the boar’s neck and disappeared into the grass.

  Rhoslyn started to push up, but movement in the corner of her eye jerked her gaze to the right. St. Claire stood, bow aimed as an arrow jettisoned from the weapon toward her. She jammed shut her eyes. The boar jerked and she snapped her eyes open. The arrow protruded from the creature’s skull, a hair’s breadth from her thigh.

  Her grandfather dropped down beside her and shoved the boar off her legs. He seized her and pulled her upright. Her legs gave way beneath her and St. Claire caught her and swept her into his arms. Rhoslyn buried her face in his chest and the tears fell as if a dam had broken.

  Warmth enveloped her and a low, deep voice whispered incomprehensible words. She went limp in St. Claire’s arms and cried until, at last, her sobs subsided and she became aware of the low murmur of voices, as well as the hilt of the sword pressing against her leg. St. Claire breathed deep and the solid wall of warmth her cheek rested against rose and fell with the action. Rhoslyn released a stuttered breath.

  “Rhoslyn. Rhoslyn. Are ye all right?”

  Rhoslyn recognized Andreana’s voice, and the tremor that made it sound as if she hovered on the verge of tears. Rhoslyn couldn’t find her voice, so simply nodded. The shock had worn off, and embarrassment set in.

  “If you can ride, we will return home.” St. Claire’s voice reverberated through her.

  “We need not return home,” she spoke against his chest.

  “Nay, lady. I would prefer you return home.”

  Her shoulder ached and she realized she did want to go home. Rhoslyn nodded He gathered her closer and started to stand with
her in his arms. She pushed upright. As expected, everyone surrounded them. Her cheeks burned.

  “I can stand, St. Claire.”

  “Let him carry ye.” Andreana said.

  “Andreana—”

  “Please?” Tears shimmered in her stepdaughter’s eyes.

  Rhoslyn sighed. “Aye, he can carry me.”

  Andreana grasped her hand and pressed it to her cheek. A lump formed in Rhoslyn’s throat. How lonely and scared had Andreana been all those months Rhoslyn deserted her? Andreana released her and St. Claire stood. He called out an order for one of the men to pick up the boar while the rest prepared to leave.

  “There is no need for everyone to return,” Rhoslyn said. “The day is young. Send a few of your men with me, and the rest of you continue the hunt.”

  He shook his head. “Our guests may continue, but you ladies will return with me and my men.” They reached the horses and St. Claire lifted her onto the saddle. He turned and said to Lord Kinnon, “What say you, my lord, would you prefer to continue the hunt?”

  A hard gleam appeared in his eyes. “I suddenly have a taste for wild boar—lots of wild boar. If you can spare your spearmen, I would see if there are any of that boar’s kinsmen in the vicinity.”

  St. Claire nodded. “I will leave the archers with you, as well.”

  Lord Kinnon smiled.

  Minutes later, the party split up, and Rhoslyn rode alongside Andreana and Lady Isobel surrounded by fifteen of St. Claire’s guardsmen with him at the lead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I was so afraid,” Andreana told Rhoslyn after they’d been riding for a short time. “The archers could not get a clear shot of the boar because ye kept getting in the way.” She glanced at Rhoslyn. “I couldna’ bear to lose you.”

  A lump lodged in Rhoslyn’s throat. How selfish she’d been. She lost a husband and son, but Andreana lost father and brother. Then Rhoslyn left her. She grieved just as Rhoslyn did. Rhoslyn had told herself she was going to the convent just long enough to clear her heart of grief, but if not for King Edward’s command to marry she would still be there. Perhaps her betrothal was God’s punishment for deserting her family. She started. If marriage to an Englishman was divine justice, how much more was her punishment to bear a child conceived in violence?