Diana Cosby

by His Seduction

  A grim smile touched his face. “’Twill not happen.”

  “Your being a light sleeper will nae keep me from leaving.”

  “I agree.”

  She hesitated. “You agree?”

  Instead of answering, Griffin shoved to his feet, walked to his mount, and withdrew a short cord.

  Her heart pounded. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “What I should have done from the first.” Before she could bolt, he caught her arm.

  “Let me go!”

  “I will, once Lord Brom has returned.”

  She twisted her wrist in an attempt to break free. “You canna expect to keep me bound ’til he arrives?”

  “I never said I was going to.”

  “Then what are you doing with the rope?”

  “Tying our ankles together for the night.” Griffin started to lean over.

  “Wait!”

  He straightened, shot her a hard look. “Rois, we both are tired and need sleep.”

  She couldn’t be tied to him all night! “Are you addled?”

  “With you,” he agreed with a grimace, “on many an occasion.”

  The braggart. “This is naught to jest about.”

  He leaned over, secured the rope, and bound their ankles in a snug knot. Griffin gave the rope a tug. “No, but a safer option.”

  At the roughness of his voice, she took in his face as he straightened. In the last shards of light, she caught a trace of desire in his eyes.

  Memories of how he’d touched her left her body aching. Her eyes shifted to his mouth, and she wanted his lips on hers. “Griffin,” she whispered, “I think our sharing a bed is a poor decision.”

  His look was one of pain and pure male appreciation. “I agree, which, regrettably, changes naught.”

  Chapter Ten

  Against the flickers of waning light, Griffin halted beside the pallet he and Rois would share. He loathed securing his and Rois’s ankles together, but after the events last night, he couldn’t trust that she would remain with him in the cave.

  Rois cleared her throat. “I need to change into dry clothes.”

  A fact, with his emotions in mayhem, he’d overlooked. “I will remove the rope—temporarily. Try and run, and next time I will not give you the privacy to change.”

  “I know my limitations when it comes to you,” she said, her voice cool.

  He grunted. “That I sincerely doubt.” With a few quick tugs, he removed the binding. After a warning glare, he strode to the back of the cave, where he’d hidden a satchel. He withdrew a gown for her and dry garb for himself, then walked over and handed Rois her clothes. “I will wait near the entry until you are through.”

  She accepted her gown. “My thanks.”

  Griffin walked to the cave’s opening. He leaned against the cool, smooth stone and stared at the last few rays of the setting sun shimmering in the sky.

  The distant splat of damp clothes hitting the ground echoed behind him.

  Images of Rois naked slid through his mind. He fought the temptation to steal a look, but seeing her tempting body would help naught. Already he was too aware of her, his almost having made love to her in Dunadd Castle leaving an all too clear memory of her luscious curves and intoxicating taste.

  “I—I am finished.”

  Griffin took a steading breath. “Turn around.”

  Without hesitation she complied.

  He walked over. Once he’d secured the last tie on his garb, he stood. “Rois.”

  She turned.

  He lifted the rope. “Come.”

  Anger burned in her eyes. “I am nae allowing you to tie me willingly.”

  A wash of tiredness swept through him. “A fact you have made excessively clear.”

  Head held high, she crossed the distance, placed her ankle against his. “Be done with it.”

  “We will be bound for but hours. ’Tis not as if I am banishing you to the Otherworld.”

  Eyes wide, she scanned the cave. “’Tis nae good to jest of the fey, or of the home where they live.”

  Griffin thought of his sister’s family, the MacGruders, Scottish rebels who believed in tales of the fey, the wee folk a common belief in the lives of many a Scot. He touched the halved Magnesite hanging from a chain around his neck, and thought of the MacGruder brothers’ grandmother who’d gifted the gemstone to him many years ago. An amazing woman whose insight had touched him deeply.

  He smiled as he thought of the brothers’ belief that their grandmother’s chamber held magic. That the halved stone she’d given to each of her grandsons was a talisman to predict a future mate. Though each MacGruder wife had obtained her matching half of the stone her husband wore around his neck, Griffin dismissed the belief as whimsy. Regardless, the brothers believed the tale of the stones’ ability to draw a man’s mate.

  “Why are you smiling?” Rois asked.

  “Distant memories.” He explained no more. They need not build a relationship on any level. With care he helped her lay beside him. “Our bodies’ heat will keep us warm.”

  “I was fine with the blankets I had last eve,” she said.

  “You would tell me that regardless if you were wet to the bone and your teeth chattered all night.”

  Aye, she would. With a sigh Rois settled at his side, the tug of rope a potent reminder of her situation. “Do you think all brides are treated with such restriction?”

  Griffin shifted his back to her. “Only those who try and flee.”

  She didn’t want to be charmed by his good-natured teasing. Why couldn’t he be cold and brutal instead of a man who, in addition to having quick wit, she was learning held great compassion? Her father would never have allowed her to marry a ruthless man. But, still, he’d allowed her to marry their enemy.

  Her father. Rois’s thoughts sobered. Please let him be on his way to Kincardan Castle. She refused to think of other dismal possibilities.

  Rois shifted her thoughts back to the reasons her father would allow her to wed Lord Monceaux. Several came to mind, but only one made sense—Da knew him. With her father a powerful noble, ’twas easy to believe he’d met the baron during high-level meetings discussing King Edward’s demands or the Scots’ unrest. And with each encounter, her father had grown to respect Griffin regardless of his fealty, had sensed that in a time of desperation, Lord Monceaux was a man he could trust.

  But with her life?

  Unsettled, nae wanting to find further reasons that erased the tension between them, or think of his kiss in the hollowed log that’d touched her deeply, she shifted as far away from him as possible.

  “Go to sleep,” he grumbled.

  Why did his voice, rough with exhaustion, have to sound so appealing? “Do you snore?”

  “No.”

  “Talk in your sleep?”

  He exhaled. “Rois?”

  “Aye?”

  “I neither snore nor talk in my sleep. Rois, you will be safe.”

  “I know that.”

  “I know you worry for your father. As do I. Know I pray he returns safe.”

  Humbled by his concern, by his thoughtfulness, she nodded, with her emotions so fragile, nae trusting herself to speak. As she lay in silence, the creep of cold slid over her. With a grimace, she inched toward him.

  “I am moving closer only for warmth,” she clarified.

  He grunted. Moments later his soft, steady breaths filled the night.

  “Griffin?”

  The slightest of snores echoed from his mouth.

  Asleep. For the best. He need nae discern she’d moved against him because in addition to warmth, she found comfort at the nearness. She was afraid. How could she nae be? Her father was at war, a battle that defined Scotland’s future. Neither had she recovered from her confrontation with the Scots earlier in the day.

  At the howl of wind edged with an icy chill, she pressed her body fully against his. If only for the next few hours, she could pretend he was someone who cared for her
, would hold her forever if the need arose.

  The patter of rain tapped against the ground.

  Sadness swept her, and Rois stared out into the night, catching wisps of the stars between the clouds racing across the blackened sky. With tears blurring her vision, she prayed. Please God, when the fighting is over, let my father live.

  A distant neigh echoed through Griffin’s sleep-tumbled mind. Someone was outside! He started to stand; a rope pulled at his leg.

  A woman’s sleepy groan came from his side.

  What in . . . He muttered a curse. He’d bound Rois to him last eve. Griffin untied the rope, then hurried to the cave’s entrance. An icy wind whipped against his face as he scanned the curve of hill and earth below.

  Sunlight glinted across the morning sky and fog clung with greedy hands obscuring the land, with naught but wisps of treetops below rising above the misty churn.

  Fragmented clops of hooves against the rain-laden earth echoed from the southwest.

  He searched the thick weave of mist.

  The murky outline of a horse and rider came into view.

  Faded.

  Moments later the rider reappeared.

  Whoever it was, they came from the direction where De Moray and Wallace had taken their troops to confront the English at Stirling Bridge.

  He rubbed his brow, frowned. Was the battle over?

  Had the Scots won?

  Griffin glanced inside the cave. Rois lay beneath the covers asleep. As tired as he was from rescuing her yesterday, he’d awoken several times during the night to find her pressed against him in sweet temptation. His body stirred at the thought. He grimaced. ’Twould seem his protecting her offered its own brand of punishment.

  The thrum of hooves grew closer.

  Griffin turned.

  As the rider passed below, he leaned forward in his saddle, his hand on the whip urging his mount faster.

  Whatever had occurred, he must know. Griffin rushed over and shook her shoulder. “Rois, wake up.”

  A grumble slipped from her mouth. Her tousled hair and sleep-thickened lips caught the golden rays of dawn and emitted their own sensual appeal.

  “Rois,” he said, irritated at his weakness when it came to her. “’Tis no time for sleep.”

  Her heavy lids flickered open. Green eyes glazed with sleep stared at him, then widened. She sat. “What is wrong?”

  “A Scot, possibly from de Moray’s ranks, just rode past toward Kincardan Castle.”

  She gasped. “Word from the battle?”

  “Mayhap.”

  Rois stumbled to her feet. “We must return. I need to know if he comes with news of Da.”

  Griffin agreed. Had the rebels lost? Were the English marching toward the stronghold? Did this man ride to warn the Scots to flee deeper into the Highlands? Once he’d saddled his mount, he lifted Rois, then swung up behind her.

  In silence they rode, the swirl of fog dense in places making the travel treacherous. He cursed every stream they crossed, each hill they crested to find another beyond.

  Hours later, the thick stone walls of Kincardan Castle rose before them, the hard-edged crenellations imposing, the quarried stone hewn by man to protect as well as intimidate.

  Rois shivered.

  Griffin drew her closer against him. “I know you are cold. We will be there soon.”

  “I am nae cold,” she replied, her words unsure, “’Tis that I feel . . .”

  “Uneasy?”

  She glanced back, frowned. “How did you know?”

  Griffin guided his mount toward the imposing fortress. “I feel it as well.”

  An uneasiness that’d haunted him twice before in his life, and both had delivered enormous consequences. The first time, the day of his parents’ tragic death. The second, the day of his sister’s abduction.

  With a prayer on his lips, he guided his lathered mount beneath the arch of stone of the gatehouse, the clatter of hooves in the dank confines foreboding. Inside the bailey, he drew his steed to a halt.

  Ominous clouds loomed above as a crowd of women and children milled inside. Amidst the throng, a lone rider sat upon his horse. Beneath the dirt and blood, sadness marred his face.

  “Sir Lochlann,” Rois whispered.

  Griffin’s angst grew. Why had Lochlann returned alone? If the Earl of Surrey’s troops had crossed Stirling Bridge, with the English far outnumbering the Scots, de Moray and Wallace would have little time to send anyone to warn their families to flee.

  Heart in his throat, Griffin kicked his mount forward. As they reached the edge of the crowd, Sir Lochlann turned toward them. Fury flared in his eyes.

  “God no,” Rois gasped. “Something terrible has happened.”

  “We will soon know,” Griffin replied. The Scot’s anger was no doubt inflamed from seeing Rois seated before Griffin. Not that he entertained thoughts of keeping Rois as his wife. The woman was beyond trouble. She had a stubborn streak through her that’d make a badger take note. But her eyes, God in heaven, her eyes exposed her every thought, her sensitivity, caring, and passion.

  Griffin set aside his musings. He needed to focus on the news the rebel brought.

  The crowd fell away as Lochlann nudged his mount to Griffin and Rois. Two paces away, the Scot drew his steed to a halt. Worry-clouded eyes rested upon Rois.

  “Is it Da?” Fear shook her voice, and Griffin wrapped his arm around her waist, gave a gentle squeeze.

  Lochlann nodded. “’Tis why I returned,” he rasped. “Your father is alive, but the wound . . . Christ’s eyes, ’tis brutal.”

  Rois’s body began to shake. “Will he live?”

  The Scot swallowed hard, cursed. “We are unsure.”

  “Nay!”

  Whispers of Lord Brom’s condition rolled through the crowd, and several women began weeping.

  Tightness wrung Griffin’s chest as he drew Rois against him. He loved Angus like a father, prayed that he would live. “Your father is a strong man, Rois.”

  Tear-filled eyes met his. “But just a man all the same.” She turned. “Lochlann, what are his injuries?”

  “Lord Brom has a large gash on his side, another in his head, and,” Lochlann explained, his words strained, “we removed an arrow from his shoulder.”

  Rois wiped tears away from her cheeks. “Where is he? I—I must go to him.”

  “Nay,” Lochlann replied, “Your father bids for you to stay away. ’Tis too dangerous.”

  Griffin agreed. Rois needed to remain where she was safe. “And what of the battle?”

  “The battle at Stirling Bridge is over,” the Scot boomed, pride filling his voice. “Once the English bastards had a taste of our blades, they ran like dogs with their tails between their legs.”

  Cheers rose from the crowd as the people around them turned to hug each other.

  De Moray and Wallace’s forces had turned back John de Warenne and Hugh de Cressingham’s troops? Incredible. “The Scots were vastly outnumbered,” Griffin said through the happy yells, fighting to wrap his thoughts around the magnitude of this victory, the wonderful impossibility.

  “Aye,” Sir Lochlann agreed, “a detail made clear by de Moray as he spoke with us on the morning of the battle. But the Sassenach tried to cross Stirling Bridge.”

  Tears rolling down her cheeks, Rois shook her head. “Such a choice makes no sense.”

  As the crowd talked excitedly around them, Griffin shook his head. “It does not. The bridge is wide enough for only two men to cross at once. Warenne’s battle skills are far too superior for him to make such a poor tactical decision.”

  Sir Lochlann grunted. “The poor decision is owed to the English treasurer. Cressingham values money more than the lives of men. His shouts of discontent at Warenne, of his desire to hurry on with the battle so he could leave, echoed across the river.”

  “Still,” Griffin said as he mulled what Cressingham should have understood, “if they had sent the troops to the ford a short distance away, they c
ould have crossed numerous horsemen abreast with ease.” What he and the Scottish leaders had previously discussed.

  “Aye, on that we agree.” Sir Lochlann grimaced. “In the end, for the poor decisions made, King Edward’s men paid the price. As did the Treacherer.”

  Treacherer. Griffin grimaced. A name given to Cressingham by the Scots. His abusive ways earned him no friends amongst the English. Instead, his self-serving actions had gained him the title of the Son of Death.

  “What happened to Cressingham?” Rois asked.

  At her question, several people nearby quieted, their attention on Sir Lochlann.

  “Flayed him, they did.” Lochlann grunted. “The bastard will nae be ordering any more Scots cut down.”

  Gasps echoed from the women, and Rois’s face grew deathly white.

  “That Cressingham is dead is enough,” Griffin warned.

  Red streaked the Scot’s cheeks, and he nodded to Rois. “Aye, ’tis nae a description fitting a lass’s ears.”

  Mayhap not a lass’s ears, but Griffin understood exactly who the description had been for—him. However jealous, however much Sir Lochlann hated Griffin, for the Scot to upset Rois further was unforgivable.

  “It matters nae,” Rois said, her voice trembling, “I must see my father.”

  “Nay, Lord Brom’s request was clear,” Sir Lochlann stated. “He wishes you nowhere near the battlefield.”

  She stiffened. “My father may be dying. You will take me or heaven help me, I will ride there myself.”

  “’Tis no place for a lass,” Sir Lochlann growled. “Though the battle was swift, the carnage ’tis a sight that makes a seasoned warrior cringe.”

  Rois scowled. “Well I know the price of war, and the cost.”

  “Rois,” her friend said, “as Lord Monceaux cautioned, though the English fled, to be outside the castle walls is far from safe. And, more worries we have.” He paused, shot Griffin a hard look before turning back to Rois. “’Tis your cousin.”

  “Andrew?”

  “Aye,” Lochlann said. “He is severely injured.”

  Griffin stilled. God’s teeth. Wallace knew the basics of how to wage a fight, but the crucial strategy backing the rebels was de Moray’s. Expertise gained from his time in Europe, the tactics achieved by his training with the Swiss mercenaries.