A Warrior's Soul (Highland Heartbeats Book 8)

by Aileen Adams

  “I believe ye are, even if ye aren’t aware of it,” he murmured. “Now, unless ye have need to relieve yourself, I think it’s best that we return and go to sleep. There are still two days of travel ahead, and we’ll need to be sharp.”

  She blinked, unable to believe her golden chance had slipped away so easily.

  One moment, she’d been all but certain of victory.

  The next? On the verge of hot, angry tears.

  “You do not want me, then?” she whispered, willing herself not to cry. Damn it all, why did he have such an effect on her?

  And why did she have to choose the wrong man? Out of the three unmarried escorts, she’d fixed her attention on the one who did not want her.

  He surprised her by chuckling. “Och, lass,” he murmured, running a hand over the back of his neck as he bowed his head. “You’ve no idea.”

  “What does that mean?” she demanded.

  “It means we ought to get back. Now. Before any of the others come looking for us.” He stepped aside as if to leave room for her to pass.

  She refused to look at him as she marched back to their makeshift beds, turning her back to him as she stretched out on the blanket.

  It was not lost on her that he moved slightly further away before settling in again.

  17

  That had been close.

  Too close.

  Brice’d come nearer than he ever had to making a terrible decision, and it would’ve been so easy to do. Just the two of them, in the darkness, protected from the view of the others by the towering pines. With a thick layer of needles on the ground which they might have sunk to before desire took its terrible toll.

  The image alone was enough to stir his loins.

  He turned his back to her and willed the surge of desire away, wishing on everything he held dear that the lass wasn’t so tempting.

  Perhaps it was the way she got his blood up whenever they argued. It was easy for her to get his blood up in other ways, then.

  And she certainly had.

  She was using him. He was well aware. If he took her virtue, she would no longer be of any value to her intended. He would no longer want her in his bed if she’d been another man’s. Even once.

  Ridiculous, really, and he had always believed so.

  Though he wasn’t certain of how he’d behave if he knew his intended bride had belonged to another man before him.

  None of it mattered, especially the reason behind her actions, because he’d seen the attempt for what it was and had refused her.

  Though every part of his being, body, and soul, had urged him to take her up on it.

  What did he care why she’d all but thrown herself into his arms? Nothing would come of it. He did not take it to heart, either, as the lass was clearly stricken to her core at the thought of marrying this earl.

  She must have been greatly troubled by it if she was willing to give herself to another man to prevent its taking place.

  And she claimed he didn’t want her. How he’d managed to avoid laughing flat-out at the accusation was a bit of a miracle, or at least a testament to his self-control.

  Which he had just used in order to avoid temptation only moments earlier.

  Good thing she had given up when she had. If she’d pressed him again, he might not have been so strong.

  It was Alana’s turn to brood the following day. He had expected as much.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes for any reason, ducking her head and muttering in reply to anything he said. If the others questioned this, they did not show it. He supposed they thought nothing of it, since he and the lass had hardly gotten along for more than a few minutes at a stretch up to that point.

  “I would like to wash out the bandages before we leave,” she announced as the men put out what was left of the fire and saddled the horses. She had already tended to Fergus’s arm, which looked better every time Brice saw it unbandaged. Alana had replaced the linen and was holding the stained strips in one hand.

  “Of course.” Rodric moved as though to accompany her through the line of pines to the stream just beyond, but Brice held up a hand to halt him.

  Alana’s already creamy complexion went a bit paler. “Rodric can accompany me, if he wishes,” she murmured, looking down at the bandages as though they fascinated her.

  “I wish to wash my face and hands after dirtying them,” Brice insisted, having smeared himself with ashes while putting the fire out. He led the way without giving her the chance to argue the point.

  There was something they needed to put straight between them, and they had to be alone when they did.

  Why he felt the need to explain things to her was beyond his understanding, for she did not need or even deserve an explanation. After all, he owed her nothing. She was the one who’d attempted to lure him into compromising her. He’d merely done the thinking for them both.

  She made a point of ignoring him as she made her way down the rocky bank which led to the water’s edge, stepping carefully over sharp, jagged rocks which might have been uncovered when spring’s heavy rains had washed away the soil.

  Even though she would not deign to look at him, he hovered close by in case she stumbled. He cursed himself as he did so, reminded himself of her being a grown woman who insisted upon behaving like a child.

  The memory of her wide, questioning eyes and the scent of her hair and skin as she’d strained upward for a kiss, her palm warm on his cheek, was enough to let him forget what an obstinate creature she could be.

  It was a good thing he had a cold stream in which to dunk his face, which he did in hopes of cooling his enflamed thoughts. It was impossible to forget how close he’d come to giving in. She was a damned pleasant thing to look at, after all, and not a man alive would blame him.

  Except for Earl Remington.

  When he raised his face, snapping his head back to send his hair away from his eyes, he caught her looking at him over her shoulder.

  “Yes?” he asked, wiping his eyes with his tunic. “Was there something you wished to say?”

  “What would there be to say?” she asked, turning away from him again.

  He’d caught the flush of her cheeks just before she did.

  “I must admit, lass, I’m at a loss for what you would say,” he admitted, standing. “I know what I wish to say, however.”

  “I’m not altogether certain I wish to hear it,” she murmured, plunging the bandages into the rushing water.

  “I believe ye need to.” He watched her work, the early morning sunlight making her blonde braid gleam, her shoulders moving beneath the homespun kirtle she wore. Someone had dyed it a fine shade of blue, someone who must have loved her enough to make the effort to do so.

  He took the chance of stepping closer, careful not to alarm her, until he was at her side. “I will not be telling the others of what happened last night. It isn’t the sort of thing a man discusses with his friends.”

  She snorted, still looking away. “I would think it would just the sort of thing you would brag about. A willing lass throwing herself at you, only for you to reject her.”

  “For one, most would call me daft for doing so,” he informed her with a rueful smile which she could not see. “For another, I would not wish to embarrass you that way.”

  “No. You’ve done a fair enough job of that yourself.”

  “I didna tell you to try such a thing,” he reminded her, anger creeping into his voice. Why take pains to be a kind person when this was the thanks he received? “It was ye who embarrassed yourself, if anyone.”

  She shot up like a bolt, sodden bandages in both hands. “How dare you?”

  “I only speak the truth,” he replied, standing his ground in spite of the fury he’d inspired.

  She raised her arm in a flash, pulling back as if to strike him. He caught her wrist as her hand swung toward his face, stopping her just as she was about to make contact.

  The bandages she held in her right hand were all that hit
his face.

  Her attempt at wrenching away her wrist was fruitless, as his grip was clearly tighter than she’d anticipated.

  She’d gone too far, and she knew it. Fear was written plainly on her face.

  He pulled her to him, bending her arm behind her back.

  Neither of them said a word as they stood there, bodies pressed together. He was aware of so many things, the way her lips parted slightly, her breath sweet and warm. The stray bits of hair which hung around her face, the breeze gently blowing them toward him. A slight fleck of gold in her left eye, piercing the blue.

  Her heart beat like mad, pounding as a drum against his chest. Echoing the rhythm of his own.

  He was certain everything around them had stopped. The birds no longer sang, the squirrels and rabbits no longer ran to and from among the pines. Even the bubbling stream halted its progress, the water lying still over the smooth stones.

  All that was left, all that mattered, was her warm body against his, her eyes moving over his face as though to understand him.

  Would that she might, for he couldn’t understand himself. The longing she stirred in him, something he hadn’t understood until that moment, something beyond physical need. Something deeper. Dangerous.

  The danger was what loosened his hand, releasing her. It took every bit of strength in him to walk away from her.

  “We’ll be leaving shortly,” he grunted, not daring to turn back.

  He wasn’t certain he’d want to see her expression.

  18

  Alana rode with Fergus against her back, and the way he and Quinn called back and forth to each other told her he was in high spirits. It did her heart good to know it and meant one less thing for her to fret over.

  There was already more than enough.

  Her right wrist still smarted somewhat, thanks to Brice’s rough handling. She hadn’t felt it at the time. There had been no feeling anything but his unyielding chest and his arm about her.

  None of them commented on her silence. Likely they supposed she was more anxious and sullen the closer they came to the earl’s land.

  “Are we in England yet?” she asked at one point, roughly halfway through the morning. Her thighs were already sore, and her hands chapped and aching thanks to the reins, and there was still nearly an entire day to go. Her misery seemed never-ending.

  “Aye,” Rodric replied. “I believe we crossed the border this morning. We ought to come to a village soon, and we’ll be certain then.”

  They hadn’t seen a village yet, not since riding through the one just outside Stewart territory. The road they’d traveled had been nearly empty for the duration of the journey. It only just occurred to Alana then, at that very moment, that the men had deliberately avoided anywhere she might have the chance to blend in with villagers and escape.

  The realization might have sent her into a fit of rage when they first met. Now though, riding along with Fergus, the memory of Brice’s warmth and strength still fresh in her mind, she could only smile in spite of herself. They had foreseen her attempted escape from the first.

  Brice rode ahead of them, beside Rodric. Only once every so often did he turn back to look at her, though she would’ve guessed his intent was to check on his brother.

  They had come so close to… something. Closer than they’d come before. She doubted they could have done much there in the open, in the daylight, with the rest of the group awaiting their return—but it was still promising.

  On the rare occasion that their eyes met, a silent knowing passed between them. The presence of something the others were unaware of, something which bound the two of them together.

  She might still be able to tempt him.

  The thought of it sent a thrill through her, making her tremble slightly. She’d been afraid before, uncertain, not knowing whether she even wanted to be that close to him or how his nearness would make her feel.

  She knew now. It made her feel… alive. Aware in a way she’d never been before. As though something had awoken after lying dormant.

  This time, she would be successful. There would be no other opportunity.

  Remembering the breathless anticipation of their near-kiss between the two pines, she thought she might even enjoy it.

  Her gaze fell on him as they rode; he and Rodric were having a quiet conversation while their horses progressed down the rather narrow section of road, and another thought struck her. Left her with greater hope than ever before.

  He did want her. It was plain as day how much he did. He’d been all but ready to kiss her, by the stream—perhaps more than that, had there been the opportunity.

  The knowledge bolstered her courage, and she suddenly felt a great deal more cheerful as they began their journey through English soil.

  “It would be best to take a room at the inn tonight.” Rodric looked about the village which was slowly beginning to take shape around them, buildings appearing on both sides of the widened road.

  “What makes ye say that?” A room? That would spoil her plans. Alana had spent the day’s ride plotting and imagining exactly how to lure Brice into her arms, and none of those imaginings had involved a room.

  “We shall reach Earl Remington’s castle tomorrow,” he informed her, a bit of a rueful smile touching his lips. “You’ll want to be well-rested and as clean and presentable as possible, lass.”

  “Aye.” She fixed her gaze upon the space between the gelding’s ears, refusing to look elsewhere as she absorbed this bit of news.

  It did make sense for her to spend time washing and grooming herself. Perhaps the inn would allow for the use of a washtub, where she might clean her hair and rest her aching muscles in hot water.

  All for a man she had no desire to meet, much less marry.

  The village was a thriving one, by all appearances. They passed three buildings in the process of being constructed as they rode into the heart of the place, where the road they traveled crossed another wide, bustling thoroughfare.

  Alana’s eyes bulged at the sight of people jostling one another out of the way, of teams of horses and livestock being driven down the center of the road while single riders and horse-drawn carts attempted to navigate at the same time.

  The stench was palpable, enough to make her raise an arm to cover her nose.

  “Rather strong, is it not?” Fergus asked with a grunt of disgust. “Ye become accustomed to it when you make a village your home.”

  “So this is how it smelled all the time for you?” she asked. It was little wonder he’d want so badly to leave, if so.

  “Aye, perhaps not as woeful, as our village was not as large as this. Summer was worst. And the flies everywhere.” He shuddered. “As I say, a body grows accustomed. I suppose that’s the way of life. We adjust to things until they’re no longer uncomfortable.”

  She snickered to herself at his choice of words. Were they deliberate? Was he trying to offer reassurance? That her life might not be such a struggle if only she would allow herself to grow accustomed?

  Or was she merely imagining things?

  Sitting at the corner of two intersecting trails which jutted off of the main road was what could only be an inn. Two floors, thatch-roofed, with windows lining the front which would allow a guest a view of the people and animals below.

  “I shall see about securing rooms for us,” Rodric offered, dismounting. Quinn went along with him, leaving Brice.

  “Are ye certain we shouldn’t all go?” Brice asked, frowning.

  “Nay, she could need protecting,” Rodric grunted, nodding in her direction.

  She sensed the anxiety and turned to Fergus. “What is the trouble?”

  “We’re in England, lass,” he murmured, eyes moving back and forth. “The English do not take well to the Scots—especially Highlanders.”

  “I’m half-English,” she replied with greater confidence than she felt.

  “Aye, but not by the looks of ye. We might do well to hang a sign from your neck, though, i
f it would make ye feel better.”

  “All right,” she grumbled, seeing his point. There was no way to tell by looking at a person whether they were English, but the rough, wild appearance of her escorts spoke of their origins.

  And, knowing how the English felt about men such as they, she now noticed the cold and sometimes outright hostile expressions on the faces of those passing their horses.

  Brice only seemed to be at ease, anyone who knew him even as little as she would see how he tensed, ready to fight should need to arise.

  She could hardly look at him, suddenly overcome by nerves. What was wrong with her? What had changed so suddenly?

  He was still Brice. Just as he’d always been, with a talent for being disagreeable.

  Why did the momentary meeting of their eyes make her cheeks flush so? Why did her hands tremble?

  “Do you have any pain?” he asked Fergus, pointedly ignoring her.

  She did not pay any mind and was, in fact, grateful for the distraction.

  “Nary a bit,” Fergus assured him. “I’ve suffered much worse, of which you’re well aware.”

  “Worse than this?” Alana asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Aye. I once took a sword to my side. I would show you the scar, but it would mean being rather immodest.” His eyes twinkled.

  “I assume this was during the war?”

  “Nay, ‘twas a lass I jilted. How she managed to heft the sword is still a mystery.”

  She laughed along with him.

  Brice, however, did not see the humor. “It was no laughing matter at the time,” he reminded Fergus.

  To his credit, Fergus contained himself. “Aye, you’re right at that. Such a wound would have sent me home, were the war not already drawing to an end and my time nearly up. But that was true pain, I’ll tell ye. And I had not the services of a lovely lass such as yourself to cheer me.”

  Alana smiled at the compliment, though the fact of her playing a part in his being wounded hung unspoken between them. He truly did not seem to hold it against her, something she could scarcely understand.