“Halt!” the Scot boomed.
Rois whirled.
Blast it! Griffin jerked her gag free. “Keep going. Do not turn back.”
“I willna leave you here alone,” she rushed out. “’Tis my foolishness that endangered us both.”
However impressed by her admission, at her taking responsibility for her actions, now was not the time to argue.
“Run,” he said, “I will catch up!”
She shook her head.
Limbs snapped, this time closer.
God’s teeth, ’twas too late now for her to run. Whatever the cost, he must keep her safe. “Whatever I say agree,” Griffin whispered. “Understand!”
“Aye.”
Sword raised, Griffin faced the rebel. “I have no quarrel with you.”
The stocky Scot halted several paces away, a dagger firm in his grip, his claymore secured in his sheath on his back. He eyed Rois, and appreciation warmed his gaze.
Griffin silently cursed.
The Scot’s gaze shifted to him. “Who is the lass?”
Distant footsteps grew louder.
But moments remained to escape. Griffin gave her hand a squeeze. “My wife.”
The Scot grunted with disbelief. “By her garb, the lass is a Scot.” He sheathed his dagger and withdrew his claymore. “What say you, lass, are you indeed wed to the Sassenach?”
Her hand trembled in Griffin’s. “’Tis true.”
“You lie, but I understand,” the Scot replied, “’tis self-preservation. Do nae worry, lass, about the bastard’s threats.”
“He has threatened me naught.” Fear rattled her voice.
“Nay?” the Scot asked, “Then why are you with an Englishman when our country is at war?”
Shielding Rois, Griffin slowly stepped forward.
The Scot’s eyes narrowed. “I believe your presence is forced.” “Rois, run!” He caught his attacker’s hand, but the Scot rammed him. Griffin slammed to the earth, his breath hissing out in a rush.
“Bloody bastard,” the warrior spat as he dove atop Griffin. His free hand shot out.
Pain shattered Griffin’s head. Vision blurry, he made out the Scot again raising his fist. He jammed his boot against the warrior’s gut, kicked.
The Scot fell back.
Griffin dove, pinning the knight to the ground. One of the man’s comrades called out from nearby. He drove his fist into the man’s face.
Eyes rolling into his head, the warrior slumped back.
On a groan, fighting to focus, Griffin pushed to his feet. He touched his jaw where he’d taken a fist, pulled away. Blood smeared his fingers. After a glance toward the direction where the man’s friends approached, he turned and ran.
At the crest of the hill, he spotted Rois crouched amongst the brush. As he neared, she stood.
She reached to touch the gash on his jaw.
Griffin caught her hand and pulled her with him toward where he’d hidden his horse. “Go!”
“You are hurt.” Her words rattled between breaths as she ran at his side.
“It matters not.”
“I am sorry.”
“No time to talk now,” Griffin stated.
But there would be, Rois silently finished. The cut on the side of his brow would need stitches. And his eye had already started to swell.
A soft rain began as they sprinted into the thick of the forest. The ground rich with soggy moss thankfully muted their steps. With a curse, he made a sharp turn.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To my horse, but he is still too far away. Until the men leave, we must hide.”
Around the next bend an enormous fallen tree lay nearby. A tangle of vines strangled the weathered bark in a hideous display.
Griffin tugged her to the weave of roots exposing a large hollowed-out trunk, stepped back. “Inside.”
The rich tang of decaying wood filled the air as she stared at the cobwebs adorning the darkened entry. Memories of being trapped as a child in a cavern flooded her.
Pulse racing, Rois stepped back. “I canna go in there. There could be—”
He shoved her inside, followed. “Crawl. Now!”
Rois fought for calm as she inched forward, the mulch of tree rot and dirt clinging to her fingers like a macabre nightmare. She swallowed hard, climbed deeper.
Sodden footsteps hit the ground nearby.
Griffin reached out for a limb cluttered with dying leaves, propped it against the exterior of the opening, then shifted his body to block the meager light.
Blackness encased her, a smothering darkness that threatened her fragile hold on her composure. Thick moments passed, inciting the terror of her youth, the nightmares that as a child often scared her awake. Eyes adjusting to the bleak setting, she began to make out details.
Through the breaks around Griffin and the entwined brush, the vague outline of the forest came into view. Splotches of rain increased to a downpour, the lash of water brutal as gusts beat against the trunk with merciless violence.
The suck of a boot sinking in mud echoed nearby. “Where the bloody hell did they go?”
Another man cursed. “They are nearby.”
“Aye,” the Scot shouted against the whip of wind. “Go north. I will circle round and meet you on the other side of the ben.”
“What of Rogier?”
A grunt. “He should have awakened by the time we finish with the English bastard.”
“And the woman?”
Crude laughter echoed. “Once I have had my fill, you can have her.”
Rois swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. Griffin reached back, took her hand, and gave a gentle squeeze. Tears misted her eyes. She’d believed the Scots would nae harm her. Thank God she’d hesitated; more, that Griffin had saved her. If the men had caught them . . .
She shuddered at the horrific thoughts. Overwhelmed by the events of the past two days, and the deep-seated fear she never would see her da again, tears rolled down her cheeks. She slowly began to rock, the ball of terror inside growing.
“Rois?”
Griffin’s soft whisper stoked her guilt. “I was a fool to believe the men safe.”
In the dismal gloom with the thunder of rain pounding against the hollowed-out trunk like a drum, he turned, drew her against his chest. His pulse, strong and steady, calmed her.
“You saw the Scots as but countrymen, those who shared your beliefs, your values.” He pushed away several strands of hair from her cheek. “If only ’twas so easy. ’Tis war, the fear, the terror ahead can twist the thoughts of many a man, including those normally guided by honor.”
When Griffin should be angry, frustrated by her impulsiveness, he offered support. Moved, she lay within his protective hold. Damn him for making her care for him more. He was the enemy, a man who had threatened to expose her father to the English king, a man who asked nae for the mire she’d dragged him in.
And, he was her husband.
She swallowed hard. Heaven help her, but she’d made a muck of it.
The rain pounded in time to the steady beat of his heart. Rois shifted, unnerved by her complete sense of contentment. “Now what?”
“We wait a little longer, then retrieve my horse and return to the hideout. We will remain there until your father’s return.”
Her father. She rubbed the dull ache building in her brow. Had the battle begun? Were the Scots fighting at this moment? Was her father en route home? Or dead? She shuddered.
“You are cold?”
“Nay.”
“Rois, look at me.”
She kept her head against his chest.
In the murky light, he lifted her face, his breath soft upon her cheek. His mouth pressed against hers, his kiss a soft reassurance.
Griffin lifted his head, his breathing uneven. “I will protect you.”
“Nay,” she replied, needing truth. “You will try.”
He nodded. “If need be, with my life.”
&n
bsp; “So dramatic.” She fought to keep her words light, but with her emotions fragile, they crumpled into a rough whisper.
“Dramatic?” He shook his head, the shadows against his face somber. “No, a promise. You know me not. Yet, I ask that you give me your trust.”
A denial rose to her lips, then she hesitated. “You saved me because you gave your word to my da to protect me, did you nae?”
Long seconds passed. “I did.”
His agreement left her empty, aching inside. She was a half-wit to want him, to believe there’d ever be more.
Silence fell between them, broken by the thrum of rain, the sweet scent of dampened earth and decaying tree filling her each breath. She took in the man who, if allowed the time, might break her heart.
Nay, surely she confused her feelings of gratitude for more because he’d rescued her. “My thanks for saving me.”
Quiet echoed around them.
“Griffin?”
He released her and stared at the wind twisting the leaf-sodden limbs shuddering against their shelter. “You have thanked me. There is naught more to say.”
Guilt edged through her. “I have offended you.”
A rough laugh fell from his mouth. “No, clarified my thoughts.”
At the angst in his voice, hope ignited. Could he be coming to care for her as well?
“What do you mean?”
Her soft inquiry poured through Griffin in a disarming slide. Never could he explain that the threat to her life, more than his promise to keep her safe to Lord Brom, had guided his actions. It was her, the feelings she inspired. The past had taught him that when one tossed emotions into the mix, it muddled clear views, trampled upon common sense.
With her body but a touch away, exhaustion and worry caused his mind to wander—a dangerous act. He refused to allow her to become important in his life.
“We will wait a little more,” Griffin said, his voice blunt, “then we will depart.”
“I see.”
He doubted she did. If indeed she was aware of how she affected him, he didn’t need confirmation. Their time together would be challenging enough without her knowing how much he wanted her. Memories of how close he’d come to consummating their marriage haunted him. God’s teeth, with her body a breath away, the soft scent of woman filling his every breath, ’twas difficult enough to refrain from touching her.
“Griffin?”
He turned and inched toward the opening. “’Tis time we left.”
“You said we were going to wait a while longer.”
He stilled. What was he bloody doing? He didn’t lose his focus—except ’twould seem with Rois.
“You are upset with me, as you should be,” she said.
“Your leaving was foolish.”
Silence.
“Was it not?” he pressed, clinging to anger. Anger was safe, as it clouded his thoughts of making love to her.
“I need to be with my father.”
He scowled. “Do you think he would have wished your presence on the battlefield?”
The muted light illuminated the determination upon her face. “Many women have fought beside their clansmen in the past.”
Was the lass mind-ticked? “Battle is no place for a woman.”
“And ’tis for a man?”
He clenched his hand into a fist, then slowly unfurled his fingers. The lass would test the stoutest man. “From youth,” he explained, ire tainting his voice, “men train to wield their swords.”
“You speak of a man’s physical strength. What of their hearts, what of their battered souls as they witness a friend’s blood spilled upon the earth?” Her lower lip trembled. “Tell me, can you prepare for that?”
Memories bludgeoned him of the good and honorable men he’d known, the many men who’d lost their lives beneath the sword, men he’d buried. “No,” he whispered, his voice rough, “no one can prepare for that. Neither is battle a fate I would wish you to see.” He took her hand. “War is not filled with the glory the bards recite. Battle is wrought with the confrontation of blades, of lives severed and blood staining the earth until ’tis a river of grief. With the cost of life each battle brings, no one truly wins.”
Against the feeble rays of light, tears glistened in her eyes. “Many a man I have stitched together after battle. Too many others have I watched die. Well I know the price of war, but who says ’tis men who must sacrifice their lives, men who must raise their blades to defend a country they love? Tell me,” she demanded. “If the men are dead, think you nae ’tis the women who must protect their homes, and raise their swords to defend their land?”
The passion in her words moved him, her fierce loyalty more so. He caressed his fingers along the curve of her cheek. “’Tis the way of our life.”
“So say men.”
“Rois—”
“My opinion matters not, I know.”
“It does,” he replied, “but ’tis too late to change the beliefs of our people.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “’Tis too late only if we decide so.”
What could he say? Never before had he considered otherwise, but she was right. Lives were guided by beliefs. Though muscle wielded a deadly blade, ’twas the mind that did the planning and made the decisions on the battlefield.
The pummel of rain rapped upon the sodden wood with a steady thrum. With the Scottish rogues in search of them, he should feel on edge, but he found his thoughts more on Rois, how with each day spent with her, he wanted more.
A mistake to even ponder such.
He tugged her hand. “Let us go. The men should have moved on. If indeed they are still in the vicinity, the rain will shield us from their view and wash away our tracks.”
She nodded.
With haste, he led her through the weave of trees, and prayed the Scots had not discovered where he’d hid his mount.
Hours later with the sun setting heavy in the clearing sky, Griffin halted his steed before the cave they’d hidden in the previous night. After moving the shield of brush hiding the entry, he led her inside, then replaced the branches.
He turned. Rois stood paces away, trembling. He silently cursed, but he’d not make the same mistake. “’Tis too dangerous to make a fire.”
“Aye.”
The wind blustered outside, hard with the edge of cold, the shadows of night smothering the last remnants of day. “’Twill be dark soon, a good night’s rest will serve us both well.”
Rois rubbed her arms. “I must care for your gash.”
As they’d raced through the forest, he’d forgotten the cut he’d received during the fight. Griffin touched his brow, pulled away to find blood caked on his fingers. He winced at the tenderness of the swollen skin.
“The swelling will go down in a day or so.”
Her guilt-fed words had him glancing up. He shrugged. “I have lived through far worse.”
“Mayhap, but I will treat your wound.”
“Will you?” He’d meant to tease her, to lighten the mood, but somehow the moment shifted to something intimate. After this day, with his frustration at Rois’s escape and saving her from the Scottish rogues, he should be immune to her. Except with each passing moment, he wanted her more. Beneath his gaze, her blush deepened.
Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the supplies he’d piled near his mount. “Are there herbs as well?”
“Yes.” ’Twas best to let her treat him and be done with it. The hours ahead would prove to be challenging indeed. After removing the items she’d need from his saddle pouch, he sat. Rois expertly cleaned and treated the area with water, then patted the wound dry. “I need to sew a couple of stitches.”
He nodded.
“The bleeding has stopped and the wound will heal, but it will leave a scar.”
“’Twill not be my first.”
Indeed, Rois mused. Thin, aged scars graced his jaw and a long line marred the side of his neck. Scars of a man who’d lived, scars of a man who was
unafraid to fight for what he believed in.
“Aye, you have more,” she agreed, “but this one is my doing.”
The hard set of his face eased. “How could you know the Scots were an untrustworthy lot?”
“Do nae give me an excuse. I should have considered my actions instead of acting on my emotions.”
“As when you challenged me on the day we wed?”
At the edge in his voice, she held his gaze. A truth she’d earned. “A fact I deeply regret.”
“Do you?”
“Aye.”
He exhaled, a long, frustrated sound. “I know.”
If his words had held condemnation, that she could have accepted. But his understanding and gentleness left her humbled.
Under different circumstances, she would seek to deepen the draw between them. But she could nae change reality. His country and hers were at war. Her father as well as many others she loved battled against his king. Any hint of what might exist between them was forbidden.
“Acting on my emotions is an error I seem to repeat over and again,” she admitted, needing him to understand.
He crossed his arms. “If you know of your weakness, why do you not address it?”
She stared at him a long moment. “Do you think I have nae tried?”
“Mayhap your last effort will aid you to try harder in the future.” In the fading light, he retrieved the blankets and made a single pallet.
Uneasiness crept through her. “Where is your bed?”
“We are sleeping together. The last time I left you alone, you escaped while I slept.”
The nonchalance in his words had her taking a step back. “I canna.”
He glanced up, his mouth grim.
Rois cleared her throat and rubbed her forearm. “We are to procure an annulment.”
“Our sharing of blankets will not make you less chaste.”
“But—”
“Rois, we will do naught but sleep.”
Pulse racing, she stepped back. “Do you think I have nae learned my lesson?”
“I believe so, neither will I take the risk.”
Arrogance, pure and simple. She angled her chin. “And what if, once you are asleep, I slip from our covers without you noticing?”
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