“What?” he hissed irritably.
“The men must rest, my lord,” the soldier said in a low voice. “We cannot search every inch of the forests of Scotland, at least not without getting some sleep and giving the horses a break.”
“How dare you question my orders?” Warren wheeled his horse around so that his back was to the shelter and he was facing the soldier. “You can and will keep searching.” Then he turned to some of the men in the fanned arc and said, “You there, on the end! Quit lagging! I said a northwesterly angle!”
The soldier at Warren’s side looked tense. “This is a fool’s errand, my lord. This rain is washing away any tracks, and there is no way we will catch up to them if we keep zig-zagging like this.”
Warren clumsily drew his sword with his bandaged hand, and then swung it at the soldier’s neck, halting just inches before making contact. “Are you calling me a fool, Samuel?”
The soldier, whose eyes were wide as he tried to look sideways at the blade at his neck, said, “No, my lord.”
Warren let the blade rest near the soldier’s neck for another moment, and then sheathed it with a hissed curse of pain for his hand. “If I knew exactly which angle at which they were riding, we wouldn’t have to keep cutting back and forth across this damned wilderness, Samuel,” he said, attempting coolness. “I won’t just plow north like an idiot. It’s what those bastard Scots would want me to do, so they could lay a trap and double back on us.”
“And you’re sure they were Scots, my lord?” Samuel said carefully.
Warren sighed exasperatedly like he was explaining something to a child. “They fought with the large broadswords of the Scots. They headed north. And they took my whore of a sister with them. She has always been overly sympathetic to the barbarians and their rebellion, and she likely aided them in their attack.”
Garrick felt Jossalyn jerk uncontrollably at her brother’s words, but she didn’t make a sound. Christ, the bastard was cold-hearted. Warren’s words were more than insulting, though. If Warren believed that Jossalyn was sympathetic to the cause for Scottish independence, or worse, that she had something to do with his and Burke’s attack and flight, she was in more trouble than he had originally thought. She wouldn’t just be locked away at Dunbraes—she could be hanged for treason.
“Is that clear enough for you?” Warren went on. Not waiting for an answer, he shouted to the others, “Keep moving!” He rode back to the front of the arc of soldiers, apparently letting his initial suspicion about the area drop.
The soldiers continued their slow and weary march heading northwest. Garrick still wouldn’t let himself move a hair until they were long gone and he could no longer hear them in the distance.
What seemed like ages later, he eased his dagger back into his boot and released Jossalyn from his hold. She scooted around to stare at him wide-eyed, her features hard to read in the growing darkness. He was sure that she was still reeling from all that her brother had said, but he suddenly felt his anger rising, and something else—betrayal.
“You damn near got us killed,” he said in a low but heated voice.
She inhaled sharply, caught off-guard by his anger. But she recovered and retorted, “You were about to kill my brother!”
“Yes, I would have killed your bastard brother if he had spotted us. Would you have preferred for me to wait for him and his men to be on top of us with their swords drawn first?”
“No, but—”
“Why would you protect him at all? He hurts you, denies you the ability to practice healing, and has publicly proclaimed you a traitor!” he interjected. His blood was about to boil over, and he realized this was why he was so heated—because she had chosen her brother over him. Some small voice of reason in his head screamed that he was being ridiculous, that she hadn’t “chosen” her brother or him, that she likely hadn’t wanted anyone to get hurt, but he quashed the voice ruthlessly.
“He’s my brother!” she shot back, her voice rising. “I hate him, but he is still my brother!”
In the back of his mind, something clicked into place. Through the fog of anger, he could understand her reasoning. He loved his brothers and would protect them with his life, but even if he hated them, they were the only family he had. They were his blood, no matter what. But the haze of fury still clung to him, and no amount of reason or logic would cut through it.
“You are too naïve to understand. Just because he is your brother doesn’t mean he shouldn’t pay for his evildoing.”
“And just because I am not a cold-blooded killer like you doesn’t mean I’m too naïve!”
He recoiled as if she had slapped him. Her shot had found its mark, and he guessed from her heavy breathing and hurt-filled eyes that his had too. He had in effect called her foolish and blinded by compassion, and she had called him what he feared to be most—just a killing machine. He had no heart, no happiness. His whole life could be summed up by his kills. Perhaps they were both right. He had been a fool to hope to be anything better. Even worse, he had been a moon-eyed idealist to think that she could care for him as he was.
She, too, seemed to sense that they had both crossed a line, brushing too close to the truth, or at least too close to each of their feared flaws. She pressed her lips together and averted her eyes, despite the fact that there was barely anything else to look at but him in the cramped quarters inside the shelter. Finally, she broke the tense silence.
“I need to check on Burke.”
“I’ll get a fire started again and prepare some bandages. The English likely won’t cut back eastward for several hours, if not a day, and they’ll miss us to the north anyway,” he said gruffly.
She nodded and crawled out of the shelter. He followed her out, but forced himself not to watch her as she went to Burke’s lean-to. The rain had finally let up, and the deeper darkness of night was settling in on them. At least it wouldn’t be raining on him as he slept out in the open on the sodden ground, he thought grimly.
He got a small fire going just as Jossalyn reemerged from Burke’s shelter.
“I think his fever has gone down a bit,” she said woodenly when she reached the meager flames.
“And the infection?”
“About the same, though the fact that it’s not getting worse is a good sign.”
“We’ll stay here for the night, then,” he said as he positioned his hands near the flames, trying to soak in some of their warmth and cheer. It didn’t help the dead coldness he felt since he and Jossalyn had closed themselves off to each other, though.
Without speaking, she turned and retreated back to her small shelter, leaving him to watch the fire as it sputtered out, unable to take hold on the soggy wood. It would be a long, cold night indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Despite the dry, soft floor of her shelter, Jossalyn lay awake, chewing on the clash she and Garrick had had earlier. As she rolled over yet again, trying to find the peace of sleep, she guiltily remembered the way Garrick had built this shelter for her when the rain had started. He hadn’t even bothered trying to make one for himself, or to make this one big enough for both of them to share. He wouldn’t push himself on her, or even hint that he would want to share the shelter with her, despite the fact that neither one of them was trying to hide their attraction.
She knew he was right when he had said back at the creek that they couldn’t touch or kiss anymore—it would only make things more complicated and painful for both of them when she parted company with him and got herself established on her own.
Even after everything that had happened, Jossalyn still believed she could start a new life in Scotland as a healer. She would have to lie low to avoid drawing the notice of her brother, whom she now knew would throw her to the wolves for disobeying him. Maybe, though, he would consider her lost to Scotland and give up looking for her and Garrick and Burke.
She was just as naïve as Garrick said she was, she thought bitterly. She knew her brother too well to believ
e he would simply give up when he imagined his pride, his control, and his crushing grip on power were affronted. He would continue to hunt them, even though he thought so little of her.
But another thought whispered in the back of her mind. What if her brother’s accusation about her aiding the Scottish rebellion were true? Would that be so bad?
For as long as she could remember, she had wanted to help people. She had learned the skills of a healer so she could aid the injured, the sick, and those who needed another chance at life. And since she had moved north to Dunbraes after her parents died and her brother was assigned to hold the castle, she had known somewhere inside that she felt more at home there, among the overpowering beauty and wildness of nature and the earnest, but harried, people of the north.
Though she could heal their bodies—or at least ease their discomfort—she couldn’t heal the deeper wounds they suffered under the late King and his hungry armies. What they needed, she couldn’t give them: freedom from oppression, invasion, and domination. But she at least understood them, for she longed for the same thing.
She had already decided that she wanted to stay in Scotland and offer her skills to its people, probably in some remote village to avoid attention. But what if there were more that she could do to help Scotland and its people overcome their English attackers? What if she could help more directly?
She discarded the nascent idea even as she felt excitement bubbling inside her. She would never be able to find Robert the Bruce and his army in the first place. He and his supporters were famously elusive—not only were the English hunting him, but if the rumors she heard were true, some Scots who sided with the English were looking for him too, but to no avail. She had overheard one of her brother’s messengers say that every once in a while the Bruce and his rebels would appear, strike the English, and vanish just as quickly. One English girl—woman, she told herself firmly—wasn’t just going to locate his base of operations and march in, demanding to help.
But, the voice whispered back, she wouldn’t just be searching blind. She had a connection: Garrick.
He had said that he was working for the Bruce and the rebels, though he had been evasive about saying more. Perhaps he could help her reach the rebellion’s secret location, maybe even introduce her to someone who could help her within the movement. At least he could point her in the right direction.
Based on Garrick’s reticence, though, she doubted he would be eager or even willing to help her. She would just have to convince him that not only was she in earnest about helping Scotland secure its freedom, but that she was strong and capable enough to continue on without him to the rebel headquarters.
She would also have to wait for the right time and phrasing. After their sharp words to each other, she very much doubted Garrick would want to help someone whom he thought was not only naïve but also still protecting her cruel English brother.
The first step to her new plan would be to apologize to him.
She gave up all hope of finding sleep and sat up inside the shelter. She felt the same surge of energy she had experienced when she had decided to escape from Dunbraes to Scotland several days ago. She was taking charge of her life, making her own decisions, and forging her own path. Her brother’s determined search for her and her two companions wouldn’t stop her, nor would Garrick’s willingness—or unwillingness—to help her.
She peered out through the branches that served as a makeshift door to her shelter. The clouds had blown away, and the silvery light of the half-moon illuminated their small camp. No fire glowed in the fire pit several feet from the entrance of her lean-to, but she saw a shadowy lump huddled in front of it. As her eyes adjusted, she thought she could make out the color and pattern of the Sinclair plaid covering the form on the ground.
Just then, the form rolled over, and she could see Garrick’s profile as he lay on his back. She could tell his eyes were open, for the moonlight danced in them. Even still, they were dark pools, appearing nearly black in the low light.
She moved the branches aside, crawled out of the shelter, and stood, brushing off her skirt. He turned his head and watched her draw nearer as if he had sensed long ago that she was awake and about to approach. She wouldn’t put it past his knowledge, she thought as she stopped in front of him. He had an uncanny ability to anticipate things just before they happened, and his senses seemed honed to a razor-sharpness.
She knelt down at his side, but he remained silent, his dark eyes following her.
“I wanted to…apologize,” she began somewhat awkwardly. She had felt so confident and sure of herself a moment ago, but something about his eyes, unreadable in the low light, made her feel unnerved, and her stomach fluttered. The memory of their last kiss flew unbidden into her mind, and the flutter turned into a full flip. She took a breath and forced her insides to calm down, chastising herself for her unruly thoughts.
“I shouldn’t have said you were a cold-blooded killer. You have shown me nothing but kindness and gentleness through this whole…ordeal. And though I was upset at the thought that you would kill my brother—my only living family left—I understand your reasons.”
There. That hadn’t been so hard, she told herself, though her voice had been tight as she spoke. It was only because the thought of Garrick killing her brother did indeed still frighten her. It had nothing to do with his steely-black eyes pinning her as he sat up, closing some of the distance between them. And even though it was part of her larger plan to enlist his aid, she surprised herself by meaning what she had said about understanding why he would have shot her brother.
The silence stretched, and she began to fidget, but finally he spoke. “I apologize as well. I shouldn’t have called you naïve. Although your brother has kept you away from much of the world, you clearly know more than I do about trust and honor.”
The words came out haltingly, as if he weren’t used to apologizing or having to explain himself. For some reason, that made his words all the more meaningful. A wave of relief flooded through her. She hadn’t realized it before, but his silent anger, and her own angry words hanging in the air between them, had been nearly unbearable.
She cared a great deal about what he thought of her, she realized, and also wanted to see the best in him. It wasn’t just his strikingly handsome visage that made her twist longingly inside; it was also the desire for him to respect and like her. For she couldn’t deny it in herself any longer—she cared for him.
A pang of something like pain shot through her. She had already told herself back in Dunbraes that she couldn’t grow attached to this man, no matter how much the mere sight of him—let alone his touch or kiss—made her heart race and her breath hitch. Yet here she was, another heady and intense kiss later, and she was coming to care for him.
But what could come of all this? She didn’t know when they would part company, since Burke remained in a dangerous stage of infection and her brother and his men still scoured the forest for them. Sooner or later, though, Garrick would continue with his missions for Robert the Bruce, and she would journey on in search of the headquarters of the rebellion to offer her healing skills. They would never get to know each other more, or share more kisses, or—she wasn’t even sure what would come after that, but the dark promise of their passion lingered in her mind, making her think of possibilities that would normally cause her to blush.
Her mind began spinning a new option, though. If they would indeed part ways soon and never see each other again, what was the harm in one more kiss? Her eyes dropped to his lips, which suddenly parted as he breathed a curse. Startled, she jerked her eyes back to his. She was met with the sight of a dark storm of passion just before he closed the remaining distance between them, his lips coming down on hers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Garrick had watched as a sea of change washed over Jossalyn’s delicate features, which were illuminated in the moonlight. Her skin looked like porcelain, and her normally golden hair looked icy blonde in the silver
y light. Her eyes were depthless, and he felt like he could drown in those emerald pools a happy man.
He had been listening to her tossing and turning several feet away inside the shelter, and had heard her little sighs, which, despite her distance, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation—of what, he wouldn’t allow himself to contemplate.
When she had knelt before him, her mouth had been tight with tension, but after they had spoken their apologies, those berry-red lips had parted unconsciously. He watched as she had gone from content but distant to unsure and then finally, a hungry look had transformed her features. Her eyes had drifted to his mouth.
He couldn’t withstand this kind of torture. He knew he shouldn’t want her this badly, and even more importantly, that he shouldn’t act on his desire. But she so clearly desired him, too. How was he supposed to resist this beautiful lass, who had surprised him with her iron will and healing gift, her compassion, and her strength?
He couldn’t fight it anymore—couldn’t fight himself, or her desire.
The first taste of her lips sent a bolt of pleasure through him. Her softness and scent enveloped him instantly as he pulled her to him, pressing their bodies together as he tasted her lips. But it wasn’t enough. He deepened their kiss, his tongue caressing hers, her warm mouth shooting sensation all the way to his cock. He felt her arms snake around his neck, pulling him into their kiss, which only fired his blood more. She wanted him too. She knew at least part of who he was and what he did, and she still wanted him.
He let one hand tangle in her hair, holding her mouth in place, while the other rose to one of her breasts. He nearly groaned aloud at the feel of her firm, soft breast, which fit perfectly into his hand. He imagined what they would look like if he ever got to see her naked. Her flesh would be velvety smooth and the color of fresh cream, and each perfect mound would be tipped in pink, the same color as her lips.
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