Diana Cosby

by His Seduction

  She gave a soft sigh.

  Sadness filled him as he watched her sleep. At least she hadn’t questioned the stone’s glowing. ’Twould seem that the depth of their intimacy had shaken her, and so he was spared any inquiry.

  For now.

  With an ache in his heart, Griffin wrapped Rois in his arms, and for this foolish moment, wished he and Rois were meant to be.

  The thunder of a nearby waterfall boomed, and the swirl of amber-gold leaves clattered around Griffin’s mount’s hooves. He nudged his mount through the thick weave of pines, the boughs’ fragrance rich, a fierce backdrop to the swirl of water beyond.

  Rois, seated before him in the saddle, shifted as they wove amongst the thick pines.

  He drew her against him and leaned close. “You need to try and sleep.”

  Rois exhaled. “I canna. I worry for Da.”

  “As I.” Griffin pressed a kiss against her hair. “I pray he is healing fast.”

  “Aye.”

  With Lochlann’s descriptions of Lord Brom’s wounds, Griffin held doubts of how fast Angus would heal. An infected wound could take down the stoutest warrior, but the recovery of a man well into his prime could take many a sennight. But, before they learned how Angus fared, he must reach Andrew de Moray.

  Sir Lochlann glanced over. “Rois can ride with me if she wishes.”

  Griffin met the Scot’s cold glare, the man’s sincerity-coated words a mockery against the hatred in his eyes. “My wife remains with me.”

  The Scot gave a rough snort. “Wife is it? Now you want her?”

  Enough of his prodding, badgering. A fight he wanted, by God he would have it here and now! Griffin halted his steed. “Get off your horse.”

  A smug look carved in his face, Sir Lochlann swung down.

  Griffin dismounted.

  “Do nae do this,” Rois gasped.

  “Leave it be, Rois.” With slow precision, Lochlann withdrew his claymore, set it upon the flat of a rock, and straightened with the swagger of a fight won.

  Griffin removed his sword, laid it to the side, but kept a dagger hidden. He would fight fair, but held doubt about the Scot.

  Rois scrambled from the mount. The lackwits. “Gr—”

  “Take the horses near the trees, Rois,” Griffin stated.

  “I will nae—”

  “Listen to him, lass.” Lochlann’s cocky voice filled the tense silence, a tone she’d heard over the years when her friend was confident in his game.

  But this was no game. The fierce light burning in both men’s eyes exposed the seriousness of their intent. To fight, not from their dislike of the other, but to claim their territory.

  Her.

  Except by their base actions, she was far from flattered. “Have you both forgotten that the English could be about?”

  “You forget,” Lochlann spat, “I have a bloody Sassenach in my sight.”

  Trembling, Rois tossed the reins on a limb, strode between the fools.

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “Move aside.”

  She shook her head. “I refuse to let you fight.”

  “We are nae asking your permission, lass.”

  Rois whirled to face her friend. “Lochlann, stop this. Now!”

  Her friend gestured her away. “’Tis been a long time coming, that you know.”

  Frustrated, she turned to Griffin. “I will—”

  “Go,” Griffin said. “I will be finished with the braggart soon enough.”

  “Listen to the Englishman, Rois,” Lochlann spat. “He is a man used to giving orders.”

  Eyes narrowed, Rois glared at her friend. “You are nae any better prodding him.”

  “’Tis nae prodding,” Lochlann replied, “I will beat his bloody arse.”

  “A fight?” Griffin asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. “No, you want me dead.”

  She caught the deadly glint in her friend’s eyes, and stilled. Nay. It could nae be. “Tell him ’tis nae true, Lochlann.” But she knew, a fool could see the truth.

  Her heart pounded with a bitter taste upon her tongue, a taste she didna want to recognize—fear. Dear God in heaven, she was afraid. Nae for Griffin, but Lochlann.

  “Please,” Rois whispered to her friend, “do nae fight.”

  Each man’s breaths fell out, steady, raw with intent. And she knew. She couldn’t stop them. As Lochlann had said, this moment had been a long time coming. Terrified, she turned to Griffin. His gaze remained locked on Lochlann. Wetness slipped down her cheek as she took several steps back.

  Damn them both. Never did she cry!

  With a battle yell, Lochlann rushed Griffin.

  The impact had Griffin stumbling back. He shook his head, drove a merciless blow.

  With each slam of a fist, each curse, Rois’s tears flowed unchecked. Griffin had nae asked for this. From the first, Lochlann had goaded him like a stick to a badger. And Griffin was a man who walked his own path.

  Lochlann lashed out again.

  Griffin ducked, then caught his fist and jerked him to the ground. Sunlight glinted off Lochlann’s knife.

  Rois screamed.

  On an oath, Griffin sprang atop Lochlann, jerked the blade free. He held it against her friend’s neck.

  “Do nae kill him!” Rois yelled.

  The rumbling churn of water pouring into the falls echoed in the tense silence.

  Griffin’s hand trembled.

  “Griffin,” she called, “please.”

  His breaths coming fast, he pressed the knife harder against Lochlann’s flesh; a red line appearing across his skin. “Next time you pull a knife on me in a fight meant to be fair, you will die.”

  “You carry a blade,” Lochlann ground out.

  “I do, but ’tis secured in its sheath.” Griffin stood and hurled the Scot’s dagger into the rush of water beyond.

  On a curse, Sir Lochlann staggered to his feet, his face battered, and his lip starting to swell. “’Twas a knife handed down to me by my father.”

  “Be happy I did not end your life.” Griffin turned to Rois, his eyes hard with determination. “He lives, because of you.” He nodded. “Come.” Griffin turned, strode toward their mount.

  Rois hurried to his side. “What of Lochlann?”

  “We ride through a land he is familiar with,” Griffin replied. “Once he crawls to his steed, he can catch up.”

  “Do nae leave with him,” Lochlann boomed.

  She turned toward her childhood friend. Did he nae understand what he asked? “I must.”

  Grey eyes darkened. “Nay, lass, the choice is yours.”

  Her mind torn with emotions, she backed away. “You dinna understand.”

  “Aye,” he spat as he cast a damning glance toward Griffin, who retrieved his steed. “I believe I do.”

  “Rois,” Griffin called.

  Aching at the turmoil, she walked to where Griffin stood beside his mount. In silence he lifted her onto the saddle, then swung up behind her. A gust of wind spun the wash of fall-dried leaves past as he kicked his horse forward. A moment later, a thick fir erased the view of her friend with his hands upon his hips, his gaze riveted on her.

  Shaken, she stared straight ahead. For now her life, by her own words, had bound her with Griffin. A tie that, however much she was starting to wish otherwise, would be severed.

  “Sir Lochlann will never have you.”

  At Griffin’s fierce claim, Rois hesitated. “Have me?”

  “As his wife.”

  She glanced back. “If you have nae noticed, ’tis you I wed.” “Only to protect your father.”

  At the frustration edging his voice, she stilled. Griffin was clear that he intended their marriage to end. Had he changed his mind?

  He scanned the sweep of land, the tangle of limbs void of leaves, and frowned. Eyes as bare as the weathered bark settled upon her.

  “Remember what I told you about him? Sir Lochlann is a man known for his brutality.”

  Any hope wilted. His cauti
on was for her safety, nay more. “You witnessed but one event two years past. Many a reason could explain his anger toward the woman at the inn.”

  “You think there are not more women he has abused?”

  “He is nae a cruel man.”

  “’Tis not an answer.”

  Frustration built. “Once the annulment is procured, you will leave. Griffin, what is it you want of me?”

  “To swear you will never go to him once you are free.”

  She swallowed hard. “I see.”

  Anger glittered in his eyes. “I am not a man who can afford the luxury of marriage.”

  “Luxury?”

  He shrugged. “But another poor word choice.”

  “Is it?” Rois asked.

  Griffin watched her with unnervingly intense eyes. “Marriage is not mine to offer.”

  Hope again ignited. “Do you nae want a family, an heir to one day bequeath your lands?”

  “My wants matter little, ’tis the needs of a country at war.”

  A shiver crept upon her skin, and she understood. “Nay, as King Edward’s advisor to the Scots, you have little time for the pleasantries of life when your work is to conquer a land nae yours.”

  “Is that all you see?” he demanded.

  All she saw? As he was King Edward’s man, how could she view his employ as any other? Confused, understanding somehow she’d insulted him, but having no idea how, she remained silent.

  “It matters not,” he said after a long moment. “’Tis best if you think me the enemy. ’Twill make the challenges ahead easier to bear.”

  “Think you the enemy? What are speaking of?”

  “’Tis of no concern.”

  ’Tis of no concern? He would confuse a sage. “Griffin—”

  The slide of stone against the rocky path in their wake had her glancing back. “’Tis Lochlann.”

  Griffin gave a grunt of disgust, then guided his horse around a boulder. “Nor did I doubt he would come. The man is like gout and causes naught but suffering and grief.”

  A chill swept Rois, and she leaned back against Griffin. Whatever was between him and Lochlann was far from over. She prayed her friend would nae try again to kill Griffin. If he did, after witnessing Griffin’s skill, next time Lochlann would lay dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beneath the cloud-smeared afternoon light, the Scottish rebels’ makeshift camp came into view. A steady wind casting reckless leaves about through the day now rattled branches overhead, the taste of fall steady upon the breeze.

  Griffin slowed his mount, glanced at Sir Lochlann. “Where is de Moray?”

  The rebel gestured toward the rear of the encampment where several guards stood beside a large tent. “In there.”

  With a curt nod, Griffin nudged his steed forward, Rois sitting in silence before him. Since his and Lochlann’s fight a day past, the Scot had spoken little. A choice he’d honored. Ironically, he kept silent due to Rois, who, with each passing day, Griffin cared about more. Regardless, with the demands of his secret life as a spy for the Rebels, a life with Rois was one he could never have.

  Over the years he’d held naught but pride for the Scots, his work as Wulfe offering fulfillment in helping deter the strong-arm tactics of King Edward. For the first time, however, emptiness haunted him.

  Fatigued, Griffin focused on the encampment, the battle-weary men scattered about, bindings covering many a wound, and for some, a macabre frame where a leg had once stood.

  War.

  He damned its vulgar hand, the cost, the stench that haunted a mind forever after. This was real, not the yearnings of a lonely fool. Lonely. Yes, he was that and more. Incredibly, Rois had taught him how alone he truly was.

  For a short while he’d found a woman who made him feel more than he’d ever believed possible. But, he was a warrior. If he yearned for her when he rode away, so be it. Yearnings were inspirations of the mind, thoughts he could quell.

  On a curse he kicked his horse forward. The soft cadence of hooves upon the pine needles echoed around them. A solemn hush swept the men as he passed. Several rebels sent curious glances his way as they rode past, but none offered a challenge.

  No doubt Wallace had spread the word of his request for Griffin’s presence, but it far from answered questions the Scots would have of why a high-ranking Englishman loyal to his king would be entrusted to escort their other rebel leader to an Abbey. And him riding with Rois in tow but stirred the pot.

  At the outskirt of the camp, he slowed his mount to a walk.

  A laird walked nearby. Cool eyes met his.

  Griffin recognized him as one of the men who had cursed him the day he’d wed Rois in the great room. Griffin nodded in acknowledgment.

  The laird’s brow drew into a deep frown, and he turned away.

  No, he’d won no friends that day.

  “Rois, your father is camped a short ride to the north of here,” Sir Lochlann said.

  “He is?” Hope filled Rois’s voice.

  Griffin shot the Scot a hard look. “We will see Andrew de Moray. ’Tis why we came.”

  Sir Lochlann nodded.

  The Scot’s silence fooled him not. No reason existed to remind Rois of her father, except to cause division between her and Griffin as well as guide her mind to thoughts of seeing Angus.

  Eyes dark with worry, she turned to Griffin. “But if my father is close—”

  Griffin gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I must see Lord Andrew first.”

  “Lord Monceaux,” a guard called at their approach. He nodded to Rois. “Lady Monceaux. Sir Lochlann. We have been awaiting your arrival.”

  “How fares Lord Andrew?” Griffin asked as he drew his mount to a halt.

  The guard shook his head, his face grim. “He lives.”

  Foreboding twisting in Griffin’s gut, he swung down, helped Rois dismount. “Take us to him.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The guard started forward.

  “My lord,” Sir Lochlann said from behind.

  Tense, Griffin turned toward the Scot. “What?”

  Sir Lochlann swung to the ground. “There are tasks I must address. I will be nearby if I am needed.” With a nod, he walked away.

  Griffin watched the Scot depart with a wary eye. After his abrasive presence, odd he’d not remain near Rois. Whatever the Scot’s reason, his absence would make the meeting with de Moray easier. On edge, Griffin took Rois’s hand and followed the guard. A woman’s touch was a comfort he’d never sought before. Until Rois.

  The scarred earth held firm beneath their careful steps. A bite of winter edged the cool September breeze along with an ominous sensation that weighted his each breath.

  A guard stood outside the tent’s entry. As they neared, he nodded and lifted the flap. “My lord, my lady, Sir Andrew is expecting you.”

  “My thanks.” Griffin ducked inside, led Rois in his wake. The stench of blood hit him first, a cloying unhealthy taint, that of rotting flesh, of herbs scalded in their brewing to aid in treating wounds. In the corner sat the rebel leader’s shield, three white stars displayed amongst a field of blue. A swath of dried, mottled crimson smeared two of the stars.

  Her green eyes edged with worry, Rois’s hand trembled in his.

  Griffin squeezed her hand, the macabre silence of the men inside intensifying his concern.

  “Lord Monceaux?” De Moray’s throaty whisper rattled out.

  “I am here, Lord Andrew.” Griffin stepped before the powerful leader, nodded. Except the man before him watched him with his face pale from weakness, agony-stricken eyes, and his each breath labored. ’Twould be a man deluded who couldn’t see his dire condition.

  De Moray glanced toward the guards. “Leave us.”

  Wind-tossed leaves scraped against the battered tarp as the men exited the tent.

  Alone, de Moray looked at Rois and his taut expression softened. “Cousin.”

  On a soft cry, she knelt before him. “Andrew.” Her hand trembled as sh
e took his hand. “God in heaven, you look a tragic state.”

  His weak laughter collapsed to a fit of coughing.

  Red stroked her cheeks. “I should nae have spoken so.”

  “Nay, lass.” The smile in his eyes darkened with pain. “Everyone else swears I am the vision of health. But you”—he dragged several steadying breaths—“you tell me the truth.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “I—I should lie.”

  De Moray gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You should always be you, a fresh breath in a sea of those vying to earn my regard.” He paused, the lines of strain upon his face betraying the cost to speak. “Too often men give answers they believe others wish to hear.” Grim eyes lifted to Griffin. “Keep her safe. She is a woman unlike any other, one any man would be proud to call his wife, a gift only you have been given.”

  Emotions storming him, Griffin silently swore. As if he didn’t know how special Rois was? Still, how could the rebel leader make such a request? And he understood. De Moray loved his cousin, wanted her protected, and in his anguished haze, knew Griffin would keep her safe.

  “I will protect Rois,” Griffin replied, “that I swear.” Until Angus recovered. Then, he would turn over her protection to her father.

  She frowned up at him. “’Tis my cousin’s health that needs tending, nae the rambling of men and their vows.”

  “So it is,” Griffin replied, her passion something he would miss. Her cousin was right, Rois could always be counted on to speak her mind, even when the words evoked a hard truth. “Sir Andrew, William Wallace requested my presence with instructions to escort you to Cumbuskenneth Abbey.”

  De Moray scowled. “I assured him ’twas but a battle wound, one no deeper than I have suffered in the past.”

  “Mayhap,” Griffin replied, “but given the seriousness, you must understand ’twill take a month or more to heal.”

  The rebel leader sighed, fatigue riding his face. “Aye. But my injury was well worth the accomplishments the rebels achieved. Our victory two days past at Stirling Bridge is the foundation to Scotland’s freedom. Wallace is a man driven, but . . .”

  “He holds not the expertise of strategy for war,” Griffin finished.