Blend in. Talk. Him. He would rather have his bow in his hand, sending arrows into the throats of his enemies, Raef Warren included.
Burke was the man for the job. He was charming and handsome—or so the lasses seemed to think—and had a strange way of putting people at ease whenever he talked with them. Of course, Burke was also a highly trained and skilled warrior, wielding his great sword better than most men in the Highlands. But he was even more skilled when it came to interacting with people.
Unlike Garrick. He had worked alone for too long. His skill with his bow had allowed him to enter the Bruce’s army, but because he excelled at precision shooting, he had risen quickly out of the mass ranks to become the Bruce’s most trusted shot.
This meant that he was sent out on solo missions, waiting for hours and sometimes days at a time hidden in underbrush or tree foliage before his target came into view. He knew how to wait. He knew how to kill. Aye, he could go unnoticed anywhere in the Highlands, but he’d be damned if he could “blend in” within an English-held Borderland village, casually chatting with the locals about the English army’s movements.
Resisting the urge to spit again, Garrick instead moved his horse slightly to the right, taking them farther into the woods and away from the road. Burke did the same without comment. Both men had fallen into a sullen silence shortly after departing from Roslin Castle the week before. Neither wanted to be here, but that didn’t change anything. Their Laird had given the orders, and they both had to obey.
Thankfully, Robert was familiar enough with the area from his own days of raiding and information gathering that he had been able to give them instructions on how to find a safe house a day’s journey northwest of Warren’s holding. There, they would stash their warhorses, weapons, and armor, all of which would have made them stand out starkly—and draw dangerous attention.
They would also need to borrow a cart and draft horse and the clothing of English commoners. Nothing could be done about their Scottish accents besides trying their best to soften them to the Lowlanders’ lesser bur. The Borderlands had become so fluid these days that many Scots and English lived together, especially surrounding the larger castles that kept changing hands. Dunbraes had been under Warren’s control for several years, but it was surrounded by Scotsmen and their farmlands, so there was no avoiding interaction between the two nationalities.
Garrick and Burke had agreed that their cover story would be that they were two blacksmiths from a village farther north. They were looking for temporary work, and so had decided to try to find employment at the largest nearby holding—Dunbraes Castle and its village. Smithing would explain both men’s large, muscular frames. It was dangerous to look too much like a warrior these days.
It grated to have to pretend to be supporters of English rule over Scotland, or at best act neutral, but times were too volatile to walk into a powerful English holding wearing kilts and speaking with a Highlander’s brogue.
Garrick urged Fletch, his chestnut warhorse, forward a little faster. The sooner they reached the safe house, the sooner they could move on to the village, and the sooner this damned mission would be over. Garrick wanted nothing more than to return to the Bruce’s side and do what he did best—fight. This week was sure to be tedious, but at least it would be over soon. Aye, this was bound to be the most boring week of his life.
Chapter Three
Jossalyn peeked behind her shoulder once again, but she knew without looking that Gordon wouldn’t be behind her.
A smile itched at the corners of her mouth. She didn’t relish the suffering he currently experienced, but she could barely contain her excitement to be going into the village—and only two days after her brother had left for Cumberland!
Besides, Gordon would be just fine, though he would likely be glued to the garderobe or his chamber pot for the next few days. Such were the effects of a little buckthorn bark steeped in water. Of course, as soon as his symptoms showed themselves, she had ordered that he be given a tea of chamomile to soothe his innards and keep him hydrated, which eased her conscience further.
Not minding the basket under her arm, she nearly skipped through the yard in the middle of the castle in her excitement. The portcullis was drawn up along the outer curtain wall, and both villagers and residents of the castle moved in and out freely on this particularly fine summer day. Perhaps she would even be able to stroll to the outskirts of the forest near the village to collect herbs before seeing to some of the villagers.
The combination of sunshine, fresh air, and freedom were surely going to her head, she thought giddily. She walked under the portcullis and wound her way toward the village, which sat just south and slightly lower than the castle a few hundred yards away.
She weaved her way around the west side of the village, swinging her basket and humming a tune. Yes, the forest would be perfect on this warm afternoon. She had heard from one of the castle’s servants that a villager named Laura had a colicky baby, but she was running low on fennel, which would treat the colic.
When she reached a likely looking spot on the edge of the forest, she plopped her basket on the ground and began searching for the distinctive yellow flowers. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so free. Even when she had been able to get away from her brother and the castle in the past, she always had to be looking over her shoulder, and she knew she would catch hell from him if he found out what she had been up to. But with Raef gone, and his lackey incapacitated for the time being, she felt like she could fly. She hadn’t felt this way since—since before their parents had died.
Though it had happened almost seven years ago, the thought of her parents’ death cut dully into her joy. It had been some sort of fever. Meg, the village healer back at her childhood home in England, had done all she could, but death’s grasp had been too strong. Jossalyn’s girlish screams still rang in her own ears. She had begged Meg to heal them, not understanding the limits of a medicine woman.
Once the initial shock had worn off, she had begged the healer for a second time, but instead of asking for the impossible, she had pleaded with Meg to teach her everything she could about the art of healing. The old woman had resisted at first, but quickly noticed an unusual aptitude in Jossalyn for identifying plants and their uses, and her gentleness with the sick and ailing. Meg had called it a gift. Jossalyn just wanted to help, and if this was her way, then so be it.
A few years later, when Raef had been entrusted to hold Dunbraes against the Scottish, she had found another friend and teacher in Vera, the old Scottish wisewoman and healer of the village. Vera was more than willing to have an eager and knowledgeable apprentice, despite the fact that she was also the sister of the Lord of Dunbraes Castle, a very unusual arrangement.
The only person who seemed to mind, however, was her brother. As the years went on, he set himself more and more against her work as a healer. At first, he only warned her that it wasn’t proper for a lady to move around the village so freely. Then, he told her she couldn’t continue with her work. When she did anyway, he took to screaming at her, shoving her, and even hitting her.
Though he claimed that it was merely a problem of propriety, Jossalyn suspected that it went deeper than that. Her brother had changed, albeit slowly, since their parents’ death.
He had always been concerned with order, even as a child. But now he seemed poisoned with it, and with his desire for power. Perhaps he saw illness as the ultimate powerlessness, the ultimate intrusion onto order and control. He couldn’t save his parents, nor could a healer, and that had frightened him. While Jossalyn had turned to healing as a way of dealing with their loss, he had turned to rage. And she had seen him shudder at the sight of her after one of her trips to the village, as if illness clung to her, followed her, and threatened to sink its claws into him as well.
Something happened in the last few months to make his rage even worse, too. Jossalyn had heard rumors that he was to wed an English lady, yet nothing had come of it. An
d the English army seemed to be mobilizing for a great attack on Scotland any day now, which had everyone on edge.
Jossalyn pushed the dark thoughts from her mind. She had chewed on them so much lately and was tired of them poisoning her just as they poisoned her older brother. She would enjoy this day, and even when her brother returned and forced her to stay inside the castle walls, she would have the memory of the warm sunshine on her hair and back, the smell of soil and plants on her hands, and—
Suddenly, a faint reverberation vibrated through her slippers. The ground was rumbling—and it was growing stronger.
Her eyes shot from her feet to her right, back up the faint, overgrown path she had walked along to reach the edge of the forest.
All of a sudden, an enormous draft horse pulling a wagon crashed through the underbrush only a few yards away. She jumped back in surprise but tripped over her basket, which still sat on the ground next to her. She tumbled backward, landing on her bottom in the low bushes she had been scouring a moment before.
“Whoa!” A commanding male voice shouted from the wagon, drawing the draft horse to a halt mere feet away from where Jossalyn had been standing.
She quickly tried to get herself upright and give the rude wagoners a piece of her mind, but her skirt tangled in the brambles of the underbrush, and her thrashing only made it worse. Embarrassment mixed with ire, and a warm flush moved up her neck.
Just then, she glanced up as the driver of the wagon leapt from his seat and strode toward her. Her thrashing stilled, and her jaw slackened. Walking—no, gliding, and with deadly grace—toward her was the most dangerously handsome man she had ever seen.
His frame was large but lean, his broad shoulders tapering into a trim waist and long legs. He wore a pair of simple breeches and a white shirt, but due to the day’s warmth, he had the sleeves rolled back, revealing bronzed and muscular forearms. His dark brown hair was held back at his neck, and a day’s growth of beard shadowed the hard line of his jaw.
She nearly gasped when she caught a glimpse of his eyes, though. They were almost black, and bored into her intensely. His brow furrowed as he took her in, which gave him an even darker, more intimidating look. He finally reached her, looming so large from her position on the ground that he blocked out the sun.
“Are you all right, lass?”
If it was possible, her eyes grew even wider. He spoke with a soft lilt. A Scotsman.
Chapter Four
Burke had warned him not to try to skirt the village on the west side, for the path was nearly overgrown by the forest. But Garrick had insisted that they would be less likely to be spotted, and so had forced their horse and wagon down the almost invisible path. It would look better for them to enter the village from the south, he had insisted, so that it would appear like they had already spend time in the area and weren’t coming straight from Scotland.
He had gritted his teeth at the conditions of the path, if it could even be called that, and silently dared Burke to make a comment so that he would have an excuse to unleash his annoyance on his cousin. It wasn’t Burke’s fault, of course, but Garrick was strung tighter than his bow—which he had been forced to leave back at the safe house—and anxious to get this entire mission over with.
He had been so distracted in his thoughts, however, that he failed to see the lass until it was almost too late. Luckily, his reflexes were sharp enough that at the first flash of golden hair and dark green skirts, he pulled up hard on the reins, forcing their enormous draft horse and cumbersome wagon to a halt before they squashed the lass like a bug.
As it was, she looked squashed anyway. She had crumpled into a bush and was struggling to right herself. Feeling like an arse for not paying attention, and dreading having to beg apology from this lass he had nearly run over, Garrick swung out of the wagon and strode toward her. Her hair, which sparkled like gold in the sunlight, had slipped from its braid and partially obscured her face, but her eyes followed him as he moved.
“Are you all right, lass?” he said in his least-Scottish sounding voice, coming to a halt in front of her.
She shoved her golden hair out of her face with one hand to reveal flawless strawberries-and-cream cheeks. Her eyes widened, and Garrick suddenly found himself swimming in their emerald depths. Maybe drowning was more like it.
His eyes traveled down to her berry-red lips, which were parted in a surprised O, and his mind went instantly to thoughts of how soft and sweet they might taste.
He viciously ripped his mind away from such idling. He wasn’t here to seek pleasure with a Borderlands lass—no matter how incredibly enticing she was. And yet, there he stood, staring down at her like a dumbfounded lad. For some reason he couldn’t get his tongue to work. All he could seem to do was drink in the sight of her on the ground, rumpled, surprised, and just as speechless as he was.
Burke cleared his throat from where he stood behind Garrick, which caused him to snap his head up, breaking the spell.
“Our apologies, my lady. We are unfamiliar with these paths. Are you hurt?” Burke said smoothly, hiding his brogue far better than Garrick had.
Burke’s words made Garrick feel even more like an arse. Here he was, enraptured by this lass’s finely formed face while she was toppled over in a bush, struggling to get to her feet. He quickly extended his hand to her. She shifted her glance between the two of them, seeming to weigh Burke’s good manners against his poor ones.
Finally, she placed her delicate hand inside his. He wrapped his other hand around her upper arm and hauled her out of the brambly bush she had fallen into. But he overestimated the force required, and ended up yanking her clear off her feet. She screeched as she came hurdling upward and toward him, but the sound died when she bumped into his large chest.
Christ, this wasn’t going well, he thought with annoyance at himself.
Thankfully, she bounced off his chest and landed on her feet, though she wobbled a bit. Placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her, he took a step back so as not to intimidate the lass—or inflict any more of his “help” on her.
“I apologize for startling you, my lady, and for, er—for flinging you,” he said through gritted teeth. Damn, but he did feel like a lad—one who had been caught with his hand in the honey pot.
The lass seemed to be gathering whatever shred of dignity and level-headedness she had left. She smoothed her dark green skirts with her slim hands, which Garrick noticed trembled ever so slightly.
“Yes, well. You should drive more slowly on these overgrown paths,” she said. Her voice was strained, but her English accent was clear. So, she wasn’t from the Borderlands as he had initially thought. He felt himself grow slightly more guarded.
“Again, we deeply apologize, my lady, and beg your forgiveness,” Burke said with a regal bow. “As I mentioned, we aren’t from here, and were trying to find our way to the village at Dunbraes.”
“Ah, well, you are nearly there. The village is a stone’s throw from here,” she replied, then hesitated for a beat before going on. “May I ask what your business is? You see, I know the village and its people well, and could perhaps point you toward what you seek.”
That sounded innocent enough, but Garrick suspected that his stronger Scottish accent was making the lass curious at best—or worse, suspicious.
“How fortuitous!” Burke said, plastering a smile on his face, though his thoughts likely ran in the same direction as Garrick’s. “We are blacksmiths from a small village farther north. Though we were both apprenticed with our uncle with the aim of taking his place, he has stayed on as the head blacksmith back home, and sadly there wasn’t enough work to keep us employed. We were hoping to find more work in a larger village.”
Some of the tension went out of the lass’s shoulders. Burke had managed to easily explain both their accents and their large, muscular frames, all while keeping a friendly smile on his face. Damn, he was good.
“Hmm, John may welcome the extra help.” Her brow furrowed slig
htly as she thought. “In fact, he should be giving his bad hip a rest anyway.” Seeming to decide something, she gave a little nod. “I can show you where our village smithy is and make an introduction. I need to check on him anyway.”
Garrick felt his own curiosity pique. Without thinking, he said softly, “Check on him?”
The lass blushed prettily and lowered her eyes under his gaze. “Yes, I am—I am a healer.” Though she tried to steady her voice, it nevertheless faltered. Now it was Garrick’s turn to furrow his brow. What would cause the lass to feel embarrassed to name herself a healer? What was she hiding?
Perhaps he had spent too long alone in the field. Here he was, growing suspicious of a lass just because she blushed under his hard stare. He was likely scaring the wits out of her. Even without his kilt, metal-studded leather vest, sword, knives, and bow and arrow, he probably didn’t look like the friendly villagers she was used to seeing.
“May we offer you a ride back to the village, my lady?” Burke said. “At least then you’ll know you won’t be run down by a few country bumpkins like us!”
Country bumpkins? Even in their simple English clothes, Garrick doubted they could pass for bumpkins. But despite his skepticism, Burke’s charm worked yet again. The lass cracked a small smile, and his stomach pinched. Her green eyes danced and those rosy, supple lips arched into the perfect curve.
“I suppose I could accept a ride. But not from strangers,” she said.
Burke matched her smile and swept another gallant bow. “I am Burke Ferguson, and this is my cousin, Garrick Ferguson.” They had decided to use their first names to avoid any dangerous slip-ups, but had chosen a nice, safe Lowlander surname, despite how ridiculous their names now sounded to his ears.
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