The Highlander's War Prize (The Highland Warlord Series Book 2)

by Tessa Murran

  Lyall found himself at the top of the hill and looked down onto Beharra. These last weeks, he had felt at home again with his family, happy even. That was a strange feeling after so long away from home, fighting, killing, losing his soul, piece by piece. Being around Giselle was calming, comforting, and it was right in some way. He had thought himself her captor, at first, and had struggled with the shame of forcing her north with him. Then she had become something to protect, to prove there was still some decency in him. Lately, she had invaded his dreams and his heart and stirred an overwhelming fondness in him.

  Last night, those feelings had spilt over into something far more serious and he had almost declared them, when he had thought Giselle might have some genuine feeling for him. Now that lay in the dust.

  Lyall pulled his horse to a stop and hung his head and squeezed his eyes tight shut. ‘I should not have called her a whore,’ he said aloud to the horse, who bent to crop the dry grass with indifference to his plight. ‘Damn my anger. I am the world’s biggest fool.’

  He flung his head back and stared up at the sky. How blue, how perfect it was, but his day was all darkness and confusion. To think, two nights ago he could have had Isla Gordon under him. He could have ridden her hard and come away, having had some small piece of joy in a grim reality.

  But he couldn’t do it, could he? Because all the time he was looking at that buxom, blonde girl, all he could think of was Giselle. She was all he ever thought of these days. It was because she trusted him, or so he thought. He had imagined her looking past his brutality, and the darkness creeping into his soul and seeing the man he wanted to be.

  Giselle should have told him the truth, as they grew closer. But how could she? There was no reason for her to trust in him, a big, rough Scot who took her freedom and seemed to want only coin and a quick tumble in the hay. All he’d done is treat her like a possession, when she needed kindness and reassurance.

  The way he felt about Giselle now, why, the Abbot could have come with a promise of all the coin in the world, and he would not have traded her for it. It hit Lyall like a hammer to the head. He was drowning in love, like a callow youth with his first fancy for a lass.

  Lyall laughed bitterly and shook his head. He had no choice but to forgive her the lie, did he? In a way, he admired her for it. Giselle was kind and trusting, but she had found a way to survive her misfortune. She was far stronger than she looked. But would she forgive him? And if he looked past the lie, what was beyond it? Did she care for him, or was her affection all an act, in the name of survival?

  ***

  The Abbot Aifric found Giselle in a puddle of her own tears.

  ‘Ah, Giselle is it, and greatly distressed too, I am sorry to see?’

  He approached her, but Giselle just wished this strange, twisted man would go away so that she could be alone with her misery. Instead, he insisted on forcing his conversation on her.

  ‘I was just about to ride out with Cormac and Lyall, for I do love to hunt. But Lyall, we cannot find. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘He’s gone.’ She sniffed and wiped her cheeks.

  ‘Did you quarrel?’

  ‘Of course, we did, after what you told him.’

  ‘Ah, well, I could hardly tell him otherwise, could I? Your father is gone, child, so the ruse is up, isn’t it? I suppose you did it for the right reasons, and I don’t blame you, my dear, no, not at all. If I were in your situation, I would have done the same, finding myself alone and deep in the glens of Scotland, with no way forward and no way back.’

  ‘I thought men of God never lied, and it was just us Jezebels.’

  The Abbot smiled and had the good grace to look ashamed. ‘Forgive me, I have little acquaintance with women. It may gladden your heart to know that your servant Agnes is back at Ravensworth, working in the service of its new overlord. She is safe at least, and took my messenger to one side to tell him as much.’

  ‘I am thankful for it. That is such a relief, as I have feared for her safety.’

  ‘Agnes insisted this message be passed to you. ‘Stay strong, remember who you are and cling on tight to that flotsam. There is nothing here for you now.’ Those very words were spoken by her, according to my messenger, not that they mean much to me.’

  Giselle sobbed. It was as if Agnes was beside her, supporting her.

  ‘Lyall will not stay angry,’ said the Abbot kindly, ‘though there is a part of that man that cannot be restrained when his anger consumes him. He is quick-tempered and impetuous, like all the Buchanans.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I have been coming to Beharra since he and Cormac were grubby, little lads brawling in the yard, and Lyall has always had a kindness about him, even back then. He has a big heart, though it has been bruised these past years by war, and he has never been one to nurse a grudge for long. His anger, though fearsome, is because he feels you betrayed his trust.’

  ‘I know, and he hates me now.’

  ‘And that vexes you. Why? Do you care for him?’

  Giselle looked away as tears welled up in her eyes. She was not about to admit to that in front of this man.

  ‘If you do not care for him, child, then I urge you to leave. Do you have anyone you can go to for refuge?’

  ‘A half-sister. She will resent the burden of me, but I could go to her.’

  ‘I can get you to the abbey and, from there, arrange safe passage south. But tell me, do you want to go? Do you want to leave, Lyall?’

  ‘No.’ The word came out in a strangled sob.

  ‘Well then child, I must tell you something.' He shuffled down onto the hay next to her. ‘Two men live in Lyall Buchanan. One is honourable, the caring brother, the brave soldier, fighting for his country, the charming seducer who woos women with his winning smile and his good humour.’

  Giselle’s eyes grew wide.

  ‘The other is the ruthless killer, who sacks castles and burns them to the ground, who executes enemy soldiers without flinching, and carries out orders, however brutal, at his master’s command, all for the good of Scotland.’

  The Abbot took her hand and patted it. ‘Lyall Buchanan will always be conflicted in his soul. He is at war with himself as much as with England. I have counselled him about this tear in his heart in the past. If you give him your love Giselle, you should know this part of him. And you must realise, young as you are, that this war will not end any time soon. So that is the choice before you, lass. Go home to a measure of safety with your resentful sister. Or stay with Lyall, and face the danger that brings.’

  ‘I am not afraid of the dangers of war, I have seen them with my own eyes.’

  ‘I meant the danger to your heart. Women always love Lyall. One only has to look at him to see why, but they never stick in his heart. Lyall is weary of this world and finds no happiness in it. Giselle, you are risking yours if you seek to make a life with him. Take him, and you must take the whole man and his uncertain future.’ He sighed. ‘That is the choice God has placed before you.’

  ‘There is no choice. I love Lyall, but I am not sure he wants me.’

  ‘I cannot tell you the answer to that. But I would guess that you hold the poor fool’s heart in the palm of your hand. Be sure you don’t break it, Giselle.’

  ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘Because I watched Lyall’s face when I told him about your lie. If he didn’t care about you, why would it make him so desolate?’

  ‘The ransom?’

  ‘I think the last reason he took you was for the ransom, my dear.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The river slid idly by, as Giselle wandered along its bank. Beharra was well out of sight, in the trees behind her. The sun was fierce on her cheeks and seemed to have brought out a host of butterflies, whose haphazard flight followed her along her journey. They flitted in and out of the long grass, which flanked the water, stretching back to glowing fields of wheat, ripening in summer’s last rays.

&nbs
p; A plop from the far bank announced the presence of an otter. Giselle watched it for some time, slipping in and out of its muddy burrow. It must have kits to feed. How frantic it was, never stopping or resting, just rushing. Giselle realised that, for weeks, she had not stopped to think or make sense of her feelings. She was a jumble of fearful thoughts, a thumping heart and a whirling mind.

  She glanced away from the river, and there he was, standing in the long grass, watching her, making her heart leap with fear and longing.

  Now was not the time to be still, or safe, so Giselle walked towards Lyall on shaking legs. When she reached him, his face was hard.

  ‘You may sit with me if you want to,’ he said.

  They both sat on the grass in silence, their shoulders touching, watching the river, with their secrets hanging in the air between them, like the butterflies. Lyall chewed on a stalk of grass, fidgeting with it now and again, picking off the seeds one by one.

  ‘I owe you the truth,’ she said.

  Lyall was silent.

  ‘My father got very sick a year ago, a wasting disease. With no sons surviving to adulthood, he could not cope, and the men around him, who had sworn loyalty to him, they let him down. When the King demanded he send his vassals to fight, to pay his dues, he could not do so. The King turned on him, as he does with everyone, and, while my father lay dying, news came that he was to forfeit his land and title. Edward granted Ravensworth to his favourite - Hugh le Despenser.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Lyall quietly. ‘A covetous man, who has been raised far higher than he deserves, and by evil means.’

  ‘When my father found out he was coming to take our lands, he sent word to an old friend and ally, Sir Hugh de Mawpas, beseeching him to make good on a promise.’

  ‘A promise?’

  ‘My father saved Hugh’s life, at Acre, years ago, and Hugh pledged that our families would forever be joined through marriage, that their two bloodlines would merge. They had a great bond, they were like brothers.’

  ‘Did your father know what kind of man Edric was?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He had not seen Hugh for several years, and Edric, not since he was a boy. King Edward kept quiet about what he was doing to my father. His favouritism towards Le Despenser has long angered his nobles, and there was talk of rebellion. He did not want to stoke that fire by openly giving my father’s estates to the man. I think the King hoped my father would die quickly, and that any objections would die with him. So, when my father succumbed to his illness we buried him in secret and pretended he was too ill to see anyone. Some weeks later, Sir Hugh sent back word that I could wed his son, and I travelled north to do so before anyone found out that my father had passed.’

  ‘So your father never told Hugh de Mawpas what had occurred, what the King had done? Is that why he honoured the agreement?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, hanging her head. ‘It killed my father’s pride to even ask for a favour, let alone confess how far he had fallen. He feared that if he told Hugh everything, that his lands were to be forfeit, then the pledge would not be honoured. As it was, Hugh would have guessed my father was in dire straits, to call in a favour like that. But he did not know the whole sorry tale, and my father made me swear to tell no one and to go through with the marriage to Edric. It was his dying wish.’

  ‘So you kept up the pretence that your father was alive?’

  ‘Yes, I headed north to Wulversmeade, grieving for my father, who died in shame and disgrace, and hoping no one would find out about his death before I was wed and safe from destitution.’

  ‘If we had not attacked Wulversmeade you would have been.’

  ‘Yes, I would have been Edric’s wife, and it would all have been done on a lie. He would have been angry, and I would have paid dearly for the deception once it was uncovered. What a miserable union it would have been. I do not regret your taking me, Lyall, but I do regret not telling you the truth sooner. I tried to.’

  Lyall looked at her intently and Giselle felt the need to unburden herself of her pain.

  ‘In the wave of a King’s hand and on the whim of his lover, everything my father had built was taken away from him. For weeks afterwards, I had to hide my grief and paste a smile on my face, as if nothing had happened. It has been so hard.’

  ‘Giselle, I am sorry for your loss,’ he said.

  She had to be brave now, and so she turned to Lyall and placed her hand on his arm. He looked down at it in silence.

  ‘Can you forgive my lie?’

  ‘Already forgiven,’ he said, placing his hand over hers.

  She smiled in relief.

  ‘God, Giselle.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sometimes, when you smile at me, your face holds all the quiet beauty of the world.’

  Her throat thickened. ‘I didn’t have you for a poet, Lyall.’

  ‘Only with you. Only ever with you,’ he said.

  She climbed onto his lap so that she was straddling him and took hold of his face. Her desperate need made her bold. How handsome Lyall was with the breeze lifting his hair, his green eyes tortured, but beautiful, where the sun lit them, his sensuous mouth calling to hers.

  ‘What are you doing, Giselle?’ he said slowly.

  ‘Giving myself to you,’ she said, kissing him.

  He pulled back. ‘Giselle, no, you don’t have to do that to earn my forgiveness.’

  ‘I want to.’ She kissed him harder. ‘Can you not tell how much I want to?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘I gave my word that I would not take your virtue.’

  ‘I want you to take it. I want you to break your oath.’ Giselle took his throat in her hand and pressed her forehead to his, amazed at her own boldness. ‘Would you have me beg, Lyall Buchanan?’

  He smiled, a light entering his face. ‘Now that I would like to see,’ he said as his expression turned from mirth to hunger, and his arms came around her like iron bars.

  Giselle was fearful. She had opened the door, now a beast was about to rush in.

  Lyall undid the ties at the front of her dress with deft hands. He pulled it up and over her head. There was only her shift between his hot hands and her skin. He pulled the cloth down over her shoulders. Giselle wriggled out of it so that it fell and bunched around her hips. As his hand progressed up her back, stiffening her flesh into goosebumps of delight, he took fistfuls of her hair.

  ‘So beautiful,’ he murmured, sliding his mouth against hers, gentle and slow like the river’s glide. Lyall bent his dark head and rubbed his forehead against her chest. His hair tickled her breasts and, when his tongue found them, Giselle gasped and arched her back. The flick of it, warm and wet on her nipples, made her loins scream for him to go further.

  Giselle gasped when Lyall slid a hand up her thigh, around her buttocks, his fingers spreading out so that his hot palm seared her skin. He held her tightly as his touch moved up her back, rough fingertips on her waist, her breasts, her belly. Lyall’s eased his thumb between her legs, searching, circling and gentle, causing Giselle to suck in a breath at the sheer lightning stab of pleasure that ripped through her belly. She wanted this, so much that she could not help but press against his hand.

  He stopped for a moment to tear his tunic over his head.

  ‘I want to feel your skin against mine. I want to look at you, Giselle. God, lass you are so lovely.’

  He fumbled with the opening to his braies and his manhood sprang free. What a glorious thing it was, so strange and compelling. He shifted her so that her core was pressed against it.

  ‘Better get acquainted with your master,’ he laughed, taking hold of her hips and gliding her over it.

  Oh, it was delicious, this joyful ache between her legs as she slid over its firm length.

  ‘Lyall, please, I so want you to do it,’ Giselle gasped, taking his mouth with hers.

  ‘And I intend to, lass, but not like this, not your first time.’

  He rolled her over onto her
back. Giselle delighted in his naked chest pressing against hers, the dark hair of it, soft, against her tender nipples.

  ‘I am almost at the point where I can’t stop. Tell me you are sure this is what you want, Giselle before we both go up in flames.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You know what this means? It will hurt a little.’

  ‘Yes, but you must not stop.’

  Giselle lay under his weight, in a sudden panic, her knees pointed to the bright sky, spread open for him. The gravity of what she was doing hit her, as Lyall positioned himself at the entrance to her body and pushed in a little. It was not too bad, for she was slippery with lust for him. Giselle arched her back, and it sent him over the edge. He thrust all the way into her, filling her, making something inside her rip and sting.

  She cried out, and he stopped and clutched her tighter to him, moaning into her neck, but only for an instant. Lyall cradled her head in his hand and kissed her hard, and then he began to move inside her, filling her and drawing back, sliding his hips against hers, their bodies slick with sweat and need.

  Giselle tried not to show her discomfort, and, with infinite patience, Lyall made her forget all about it. The sounds of the summer afternoon, the birds calling, the whoosh of the breeze moving through the trees, the gurgle of the river, the muted clang of the smithy hammering from distant Beharra, faded away. There was just her body and his, and the heated feeling of wanting, where their bodies joined so intimately. As her feelings carried her away, Giselle she tried not to cry with joy.

  Lyall began to moan and thrust harder into her, his hand taking hold of her hip, and squeezing, as he stiffened, and groaned into her hair. Giselle could not move, pinned under him, with the long grass tickling her skin as it wafted against her legs. She never wanted to move again, for she was utterly happy and, Giselle knew, without a sliver of doubt, that she was completely in love with Lyall Buchanan.