But it wasn’t a threat, not truly. It was a promise. Her family would come eventually. So would Sorcha’s new clan, the Montgomerys. Ronan and his men and all their allies…they would descend upon the Brodie without hesitation or mercy.
Though at this moment, Makenna and Julien stood alone against them.
Colin did not laugh. He didn’t speak at all.
“You would risk your people’s lives for your own misguided desires?” Julien asked. “Because you crave another man’s wife? You are that selfish?”
A muscle ticked in the laird’s jaw, his mouth flattened. It was the utter stillness that alerted Makenna to Colin’s unease. She needed to unsettle him further. Turn the tides to their advantage. Make him make a mistake.
“Of course he is,” Makenna said, a deliberate sneer inserted into her voice. “It’s why he murdered Graeme. He wasnae as powerful, he wasnae as respected. He couldnae even hold on to his own wife.”
Makenna didn’t have a second to regret the provoking words. In a snap, Colin had burst from his immobile, silent hold and drawn his pistol. He aimed it at her, and in her next breath, a small thunder of cocking metal and hissing steel echoed through the courtyard. Beside her, Julien’s pistol was leveled toward Colin, and a quick glance behind them showed all of Gowan’s men with weapons drawn.
“Let this be between us then,” Julien said, the offer laid down as smoothly and confidently as a business proposal. “As men.”
Makenna whipped her head toward him. “Nae,” she said. “Nae. This is my battle, no’ yers.”
He kept his fierce glare fixed on Colin, his pistol aimed without so much as a quiver in his arm. “It is now mine as well.”
“I didnae marry ye so ye could throw yerself down in my path to protect me,” she hissed, trying to whisper but knowing all ears nearby could still hear.
“It was my battle the moment you walked through the doors at Duncraigh.” His focus did not waver, and for once, Makenna was speechless.
“Ye propose a duel, then?” Colin bellowed, smiling widely, as if the mere idea was ludicrous. Makenna wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t. Julien was strong and athletic and capable, and he’d built his skill with a sword over the last few months, but Colin was a Highlander, a warrior, and a terrible cheat. He would not fight honorably.
“I do,” Julien replied.
Colin sneered and cast an appraising look over him. He wore fine riding clothes, and though he was in possession of a sword, Julien did not appear much of a threat.
“No pistols. We’ll fight this duel with claymores,” Colin said, to which there was a round of laughter coming from the other clansmen. Clearly, they believed Julien to be no match for their laird.
“Agreed,” Julien replied, and there came the steady reverberation of pistols lowering.
Makenna hated the threads of fear weaving through her heart. This was Julien; she believed in him. Trusted him. He would never enter into anything without first fully assessing the situation. Why would he take leave of his senses now? Unless he had something up his sleeve. Some plan that ensured his victory.
As her husband of less than a week dismounted to face the most devious man of her acquaintance, Makenna prayed she wasn’t wrong.
Because if she was, the man who had given up everything for her would die.
Chapter Twenty
Julien rolled his shoulders, easing the stiffness that had taken up residence the moment they’d set foot on Brodie lands. He’d taken careful count of all the armed men who stood on the ramparts of the keep and the ones slinking around the perimeter. With Gowan at his back, he felt confident, but the Brodie laird had him on tenterhooks. Julien had dealt with plenty of cunning people in his life, but this man was slippery in a way that hinged on lunacy. And he had Makenna to worry about now. His wife.
He glanced at her, sitting regally atop her horse, her beautiful face expressionless and her eyes like hardened sapphires as they moved from the laird to him. They softened marginally, fear flicking through them for a brief moment before she, too, dismounted in a graceful movement. Julien would have preferred that she be far away from here. The obsession Colin Brodie had with her ran deep. Julien had noticed that the man’s eyes had not strayed from her person the minute she’d made her presence known in the courtyard. But the woman was stubborn, particularly with people she cared about, and he knew that she’d never stay behind while anyone fought her battles. Even a husband.
Julien knew she was angry that he’d issued a challenge for a man-to-man fight, but it was the only way he could get Colin Brodie on even ground before he did something underhanded to coerce Makenna. Like use Malcolm or Tildy as bargaining pawns. In the Highlands, disputes had been settled with claymores for centuries, and for once, he was glad of the countless hours he’d spent black and blue after sparring with Brice. It had hardened him, so much that his longtime tailor had noticed. Julien hoped his acquired skills would be as obvious as the new layers of muscle.
His eyes slid to the laird, who stood surrounded by his own men, watching as he swung a claymore lazily with one hand. Colin was not an overly large man, but his shoulders were stacked with sinew beneath his tartan. Julien would wager that he’d held a sword from the minute that he could walk. Most Highland men would have. He took in other details like the confidence in his swagger and the bold way he moved. Brice had about fifty pounds on the man, and Julien felt grateful that the footman hadn’t taken it easy on him.
“Julien, please dunnae do this.” Makenna touched his arm, a tremor in her voice.
“It’s already done.”
“He cannae be trusted,” she murmured softly to him.
He nodded, wanting so much to pull her close. To kiss the tightness from her lips and soothe the worry from her eyes. “I know.”
Challenging Colin to a fight had been a calculated gamble, but the odds hadn’t been in their favor from the moment they’d ridden into the courtyard. They were outnumbered. They were on their enemy’s grounds. And the man held hostages that they had yet to see unharmed and alive. Appealing to Colin’s primitive urges had been a baited lure, one that Julien had hoped the laird would take as a matter of male pride. He’d declared it himself—they were in the Highlands now. And it was evident that the men here held no respect for England or her king, or his recent title, which meant that there had only been one avenue of action.
A Highland brawl.
Julien unbuttoned his dark gray riding coat and loosened his cravat. Makenna watched him in silence. He could feel the tension humming through her body, and he winked at her as he peeled the riding jacket off his body, waiting for the moment that her eyes went wide. He was not disappointed. They looked like giant, appalled blue pools.
“Like my new waistcoat?” he asked in all innocence.
Her mouth opened and shut in horror. “It’s bloody hideous.”
Julien laughed as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt. Martin had outdone himself with this monstrosity. Plain at first glance, with unassuming light gray front panels, the remainder of the garment made up for it with an alternating puce and yellow pattern. It was an intricate combination of garishness and glamour, with enough sparkle in the gold embroidery to blind a man. It was gaudy and glaring, and created exactly the effect he wanted as the Scots around them broke into obnoxious laughter, pointing at him and clutching at their bellies.
Clothes did indeed make the man.
In this case, a foppish Frenchman who had no business being on Scottish soil.
“Look at the wee dandy,” the man called Gregor scoffed amidst guffaws. Julien recognized him from the inn. Colin’s first in command.
“Are ye no’ afraid to get yer pretty clothes dirty, Lord Dandy Frog?” Colin jeered.
Unperturbed, Julien smiled. “I have many more where this came from.”
The laird snickered, his stance loosening even more at the easy victory that seemed close at hand. “Then I’ll plan to get that one bloody.”
The Brodies
around him cheered.
Julien’s eyes returned to Makenna, whose mouth still hung open in slack-jawed disbelief. She blinked and then shook her head in disgusted wonder. Or wondrous disgust. “Remind me to sack Monsieur Martin when we return home.”
If her words hadn’t alerted him, the change in her tone would have. She believed he could do this. Trusted that he could beat Colin, and get Malcolm and Tildy back. He saw it in the set of her shoulders and the renewed glint of confidence in her eyes.
Or maybe it was the power of the waistcoat.
His tailor would be thrilled.
Julien took the claymore from Gowan, letting the weight of it push his arms down. It was a slight move, but one he intended for his opponent to see, as if he were struggling with its size. Every act, every move, was calculated. Even the waistcoat—his usual means of deflection in business—served its purpose here. The mind had a way of deceiving its owner when presented with certain illusions. Julien didn’t have any doubt that a man as clever as Colin wouldn’t see through the deceptions once they started fighting, but he’d be unguarded in the moments before. And that was Julien’s window.
“Come on, ye flamboyant peacock,” Colin called out, strutting into the ring his men had made. “I dunnae have all day.”
Julien nodded to Gowan, who gestured for his men to get in place at strategic points on the circle in case things went badly. He wanted Gowan with Makenna at all times. She’d made sure she was armed as well with more than one dagger.
“What are your terms?” he asked the posturing laird.
The men around them roared with laughter. In a duel, a man either died or yielded.
“If I win, and ye’re still lucky enough to be breathing, ye take yer dandified arse off Brodie lands.” He pointed at Makenna. “She stays.”
“And if I win, we leave with the people you took from my lands. The boy and the maid.” His voice rung loud and clear. Julien expected that Colin would act dishonorably, including some of his men, but there were many other Scotsmen here who he hoped would uphold the terms. From what Arabel had said, not all Brodie men and women were of the same cloth as Graeme and Colin. “Your word, laird, as a Highlander and chieftain of the Brodies.”
Colin’s eyes went hard. “Aye.”
This would be a fight to the death, if that look was any signal. Marquess or not, Julien was a loose end that Colin would not leave untied. And this was a challenge that Julien had issued on his lands. If the man wanted to kill him, Julien had just presented him with the perfect opportunity. He took a breath and moved to meet his opponent.
Makenna stalled him. She stepped closer until the skirts of her riding habit were brushing his legs, and Julien felt his breath catch in his lungs. Even with all the men around and their complete lack of privacy, her nearness fired his blood as the scent of her curled around him. For the hundredth time, he marveled over the fact that she was his. That she was his marchioness, one he had no intention of losing.
From the time they’d left the small church in Gretna Green, they’d barely stopped to rest. Or acknowledge the fact that they’d been wedded. He hadn’t even had time to bed her properly. Not that either of them had had the time to think about doing their marital duty. There would be time enough later. Julien intended to remedy that, once they were out of danger. He would take her to bed and keep her there for days until she was boneless and satiated with pleasure.
Makenna’s eyes gleamed as if she could discern his thoughts, a faint blush cresting across her cheekbones at the hunger he knew would be visible in his eyes. She took in a clipped breath and sank her teeth into her lower lip. His eyes fastened on her mouth. Julien arched a slow eyebrow, his own lips tilting upward in a smirk. The flush on her cheeks deepened as they both thought of where her lip biting had led the last time.
“That’s my job,” he reminded her, whispering. “You’ll face the consequences.”
Her eyes flared blue fire. “I plan to hold ye to that.”
“You’re a temptress, Lady Riverley. Good thing you’re mine and mine alone.”
Makenna loosed a puff of breath at the sound of her new name. He saw the moment she understood the intent of his declaration—that even though she stood on Brodie lands, she was no longer bound to them. Not anymore. She was Lady Makenna Leclerc, Marchioness of Riverley.
She cleared her throat and lowered her voice even more. “I’ve seen Colin fight Graeme in the past…and beat him on occasion. He’s quick on his feet and doesnae hesitate. He goes for the win early. If ye can hold him off, he makes mistakes when he’s tired or angry.”
“Angry?” Julien asked.
Makenna stepped closer until her thighs were practically lodged in between his. Despite their surroundings, he felt his veins surge with lust. His fist clenched over the pommel of the claymore, whose business end was stuck in the dirt at his side. As the blood rushed from his limbs to other regions, he was glad for the support.
“Graeme would goad him,” she said. “Taunt him with what he couldnae have.” Her arms reached up to twine around his neck. “Like this.”
And then in front of everyone, she kissed him. The sounds around them drifted away at the feel of her parted lips moving on his. It was not a delicate kiss. It was hot and openmouthed and darkly carnal. From the vicinity of the back of his head, Julien heard the growl, and sure enough, Makenna was right. When he broke away, Colin’s face had turned the ugly color of his new waistcoat—a mottled, yellow-edged puce.
“What was that for?” Julien asked.
“Incentive.” Makenna grinned saucily at him and then ripped the edge of her plaid—another declaration of her independence from Brodie, a Maclaren tartan—and tucked it into his waistcoat. “My favor, my lord husband.”
God, he was going to take her wrapped only in that plaid, after satisfying all the other inventive ways he was going to claim her. His fierce Highland hellion. Julien couldn’t wait for this to be over. For her to be his in every way.
“Makenna.”
“Aye?”
“I plan to remove every favor from that body of yours when this is over.”
“Promise?” Her eyes sparked and she threw her arms around him with another kiss.
A snarling sound made them break apart, but neither of them paid attention to Colin. They only had eyes for each other. His fierce wife grinned at him. “Kick his bloody arse.”
“With pleasure.”
As confident as he was in his skills, Julien knew he could not control fate. A part of him did not want to go into the fight without Makenna knowing how much she’d changed him. Or that he’d fight for her every time…as many times as it took. But he couldn’t find the words, and time, once more, was his enemy.
Instead, he turned into the ring and met his enraged, waiting adversary head on. Colin was inflamed. If he hadn’t been out for blood before, he was now. Steel crashed upon steel in a shower of sparks, and Julien felt the reverberation down the length of both arms. He pushed Makenna from his mind, knowing she was safe beside the burly Gowan. He’d instructed the man to get her out by any means necessary if things went badly. He had to focus on Colin, whose strikes hammered with the force of a ferocious, feral bear.
“Are ye ready to be a widow?” Colin snarled in Makenna’s direction. “Because when I’m finished with him, ye will be. Ye’ll pay for shaming me. Ye’re mine by right.”
“Whose right?” she shot back.
“Levirate marriage.”
Julien heard her disbelieving laugh, though he did not take his eyes off the other man. “Even if that were a clan custom, ye’re no’ Graeme’s brother. I have a say in whom I choose to marry, and it would never be ye.”
“We’ll see about that,” Colin snarled.
It took all of Julien’s concentration to parry the barrage of heavy thrusts, blows hard enough to cleave through bone and driven by rage. Once more, he sent up silent thanks to Brice’s unforgiving brutality as he darted around Colin, staying light on his feet and f
orcing the other man to shorten his strokes. It was a technique that had given him a marginal advantage over the bigger footman, and one he used now. Shorter swings meant brute strength could not be applied effectively if one did not have adequate room to move. His opponent was already angry from Makenna’s earlier display, and as she had predicted, he was already tiring from his initial effort.
The laird was sweating, his mouth open in a snarl as he lunged forward, the edge of his sword narrowly missing Julien’s left side. He dodged out of the way, but not quickly enough to miss the spinning downstroke that swept a trail of fire across his right. Dimly, he heard Makenna’s muffled scream. A scarlet line ballooned on the ivory linen sleeve of his right arm.
“Had enough, fop?” Colin crowed.
Julien’s answer was to switch the position of his hands on the hilt of heavy sword. Though his right arm was dominant, he’d always trained with both. He danced in and swung lithely, giving the unsuspecting Colin a matching slice across his muscled forearm. The man howled, gnashing his teeth. The tip of his sword drooped as his injured arm fought to hold its weight. With a few more well-placed strikes, Julien had Colin backing away, barely able to fend off his advances until his sword fell from his blood-slicked fingers. Weaponless, Colin bared his teeth, foul oaths falling from his lips. He was beaten and he knew it.
“A sword is only as good as its wielder,” Julien said, his own sword pointing at Colin’s chest. “Do you yield?”
Colin’s eyes flashed with hate. “Aye,” he hissed.
Julien did not intend to kill the man. He intended to make use of his newfound title and get the man thrown into prison if he was responsible for murdering the former laird. He was Malcolm’s father, after all. Perhaps some time in a jail cell would serve to make him change his path. Prison had reformed many a man. He suspected it would not be the case with someone like Colin, but he would not be the man’s executioner.
With a sigh, Julien dropped his claymore away from the man’s chest, his eyes darting through the shocked and now silent group of men to find Makenna. Everyone was silent. None of Colin’s clansmen had expected this outcome. That an outsider would defeat their laird. They watched him as though he were some mystical creature.
A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans) Page 26