How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

by Julie Johnstone

  Bright, silvery-gray eyes met his. Unmistakable desire claimed him as her gleaming gaze widened, and she frowned. “Do I—” she croaked and then started to cough.

  Immediately, a mug appeared by his right shoulder. “Give her this,” Marion commanded.

  He took the mug and offered it to her as coughs racked her throat.

  Slowly, she sat up, reached out, and grasped the mug. Her fingers grazed his, and the shock of her touch caused the stirring longing within him to blaze. He pulled back when he was certain she had a grip, and he watched, fascinated, as she took a long drink, cleared her throat, and handed the mug back to him. He accepted it without question while she pressed her fingers to her temple.

  “What have ye done to me?” she asked, her voice low and husky, likely from lack of use.

  “We’ve nae done a thing to ye,” Lena muttered.

  Ignoring his sister who he would try to reason with later, Cameron set the mug on the table beside the bed to gain a moment to compose a response. The real question, he thought as he turned to face the compelling lass before him, was what could she do to him if he was not careful enough?

  Her mind spun as she waited for the large warrior—was he a warrior?—in front of her to answer. She didn’t know him, did she? Slowly, she swept her gaze over him, hoping for recognition. Something within her seemed to register a memory of him, but it was muddled and she could not grasp it. She stared, sensing the rudeness of her actions, but she could not make herself look away. And either he could not care less for manners or he was just as confused as she was, because he matched her stare. Grass-green eyes penetrated her, making her shiver.

  As she did, he frowned and, bending toward the foot of the bed, grasped what she saw was a blanket. Murmurs and grunts came from behind him as he handed it to her. Doubt about whether to accept the offer or not assailed her, but when she looked into his eyes once again, she saw kindness there. She reached out and took the blanket, as her gaze strayed to the swell of muscles in his arms. Scanning the length of his body, she could see instantly that he was honed for battle.

  “Ye could present yerself,” came a man’s half-irritated, half-amused voice from behind the warrior.

  She snapped her gaze to the voice’s owner. Guarded blue eyes met hers. She took in the black-haired giant of a man. His expression was intense, yet his stance relaxed. A contradiction that she felt certain was purposeful. Another shiver took her, even as the petite, blond woman beside him smiled. The warmth of the woman’s smile eased the fear a bit, yet tension still built inside her. Pulling the soft blanket around her shoulders, she glanced around the room, passing her gaze over the myriad people gaping at her.

  A woman with long, russet hair and wary blue eyes stood by a man who resembled her greatly, with the same color hair that touched his shoulders; however, his green eyes were very similar to the possibly familiar warrior. A thought struck, and she quickly studied the russet-haired man and woman, the golden-haired man in front of her, and the dark-haired man. Their eyes all had the same shape. They had to be related. But the blond woman? No. She looked out of place, yet at ease—a contradiction like the dark-haired man who hovered, obviously protectively, beside her.

  She pulled the blanket tighter around her with a sudden need to hide herself, yet she was fully aware she was still very much exposed. Who were they? A quick perusal of the other occupants in the room confirmed that she could not recall any of them. There was only that slight niggling of recognition for the man who had handed her a blanket. Worry twisted in her belly.

  “I dunnae ken ye,” she murmured, but before anyone could answer, she added, “Do I?”

  She sought the answer in her mind, but it was like a dark, black, soundless room. What was wrong with her?

  “There’s something out of sorts with me,” she said, tapping the side of her throbbing head. A hundred thoughts tumbled around in her mind but not one would crystallize. A hot shaft of pain shot through her skull, and she moaned and drew her knees up to press her head against them. By all that was holy, her head felt as if it would burst like a berry that was being squashed underfoot. “What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, hearing the fear in her own voice.

  A heavy hand, warm and reassuring, came to her shoulder. “A branch felled ye from yer horse.” The deep voice rumbled from above her.

  Slowly, she glanced up to find the muscled warrior kneeling. “I fell?” she asked, raising her hand to her head and gasping when her fingers met a soft cloth bandage.

  A crease appeared between his brows, and he glanced back at the blond woman, who gave him a quick nod. He met her gaze once more. A gentleness was there, but a guardedness, as well. “Dunnae ye ken what happened?” he asked.

  She started to shake her head, but then she hissed with the pain and stilled. “I dunnae ken anything of how I was hurt.” She searched her muddled thoughts, and fright filled her as she realized she had no memories. None! Not of her fall, nor before it, nor after. “I kinnae remember!” she cried out, instinctively grasped his hand, afraid this moment, this memory she was making and the drifting one of this man, she could not quite form into a picture would disappear.

  A startled look came to his face as he glanced at their intertwined hands, then back to her. For one breath, she thought he might attempt to pull away, so she curled her fingers tighter and gripped harder. “Please,” she whispered, embarrassed yet the fear overrode it. “Dunnae leave me. I dunnae ken these people. Ye are the only one who seems at all familiar.”

  He flinched at her declaration, making her feel foolish, but she pressed on. “I dunnae ken what happened to me.”

  Doubt flickered across his face, and tears blurred her vision. A strong desire not to cry took her, so she blinked repeatedly as he watched her.

  “What do ye ken?” the russet-haired woman snapped.

  Before there was time to answer, the blond woman said, “Don’t mind her.” She motioned to the woman. “Do you not recall anything?”

  She met the woman’s large eyes. The vast emptiness of her memories caused a hopelessness to blossom in her chest. Knots twisted in her stomach, and her scalp tingled. “Nae a thing,” she pushed out, having to blink rapidly now to fight the tears. “Nae a thing,” she repeated, hearing the desperation in her own voice. She didn’t care. She was desperate! “The only thing I ken is this man here,” she whispered in a half sob, lifting the hand that was still intertwined with the blond man’s.

  When she turned her eyes to his once more she could see the astonishment on his face. “Who are you?” She asked the question as a plea for knowledge, as well as a demand that he answer and help her. When his lips parted and he simply stared at her, her frustration at not remembering spilled over. She jerked her hand from his and glared at him. “Who are ye?” Her voice pitched higher as her despair mounted. “Who are ye to me?”

  She felt all eyes in the room upon them. The Scot’s eyes became veiled, as if a mist had descended to hide his feelings. “I dunnae ken ye, nae really. I met ye once—”

  She exhaled on a rush, feeling as if she were reaching out and grasping an invisible rope that would keep her from disappearing into a black void.

  “What?” the dark-haired man bellowed from behind them.

  Irritation flickered across the blond Scot’s face. “Years ago,” he said, without turning to look at the other man. Instead, he kept his gaze steady on her, but the gaze became seeking. “Ye were dressed as a lad and bested me in a dagger-throwing competition at our annual St. John’s Eve festival.”

  She stilled, waiting with hopeful expectation that the revelation would shed light on the darkness clouding her mind, but no light came. Tears pricked her eyes and tightened her throat. She bit hard on her lip to stop herself from crying. “I dunnae remember it,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “What is yer name?” demanded the dark-haired warrior as he strode closer to tower over her.

  She opened her mouth to answer but simply stared at him, feeling
her mouth agape like a dead fish. Panic rioted within her, twisting and turning, and she gripped the light-haired Scot so hard, she felt him jerk. “I dunnae ken,” she blurted, trying to hold back the rampaging terror.

  “What’s her name?” the gruff man demanded of the Scot.

  The Scot swept his emerald gaze over her. “Ye did nae ever say, and ye ran off before I could find out.”

  “Ye must ken something about me?” she cried out. The room seemed to be spinning to her.

  “All I ken about ye, lass,” he said slowly, softly, as if he sensed her growing fright, “is that ye were amongst a party of men who attacked my men as we were bringing the king’s mistress back to him.”

  She felt the hard stare of all eyes in the room upon her, especially the Scot before her. He looked at her expectantly, as if he wanted her to explain her presence there, which angered her since she could not remember anything. “I dunnae ken why I was with those men since I dunnae remember anything! Where is the king’s mistress?” she gasped, her fear escalating. “Please,” she almost begged. “May I see her?”

  “She’d dead,” the russet-haired woman replied flatly, watching her with obvious wariness.

  Dear God above! Did they think she was a party to murder? She swept her gaze over the occupants of the room, coming back to the Scot before her. “Ye kinnae think I had something to do with it,” she bit out, but even as the words left her mouth, her lack of memories taunted her. Had she had something to do with it?

  “We dunnae truly ken yer part, if any, yet, do we?” the dark-haired man replied.

  Four

  “Might I talk to ye alone?” Cameron demanded more than asked Iain. His brother’s jaw tensed. Cameron suspected Iain’s ire had more to do with worry for him should he not find Katherine’s killer than anger at the lass who shook like a leaf and who had fear swimming in the fathomless pools of her eyes.

  “We can talk here, in front of—” Iain’s words faltered “—the nameless one,” he growled, locking his disbelieving glare on her.

  A protective instinct flared within Cameron. “Dunnae call her that,” he ground out as he moved to shield the lass from Iain. Cameron had seen grown men piss themselves from the force of his brother’s glare, and he’d be damned if he was going to stand here and let Iain intimidate the lass.

  His brother’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “What would ye have me call her, then, since she claims she dunnae ken her own name.”

  “It’s likely true,” Marion inserted, putting her small hand on Iain’s arm and giving him a chiding look. Cameron knew well if anyone had the power to calm Iain and make him see reason, it was his gentle but stubborn wife. And sure enough, Iain relaxed his rigid stance a bit as he gave his wife a skeptical look and a hint of a smile.

  “Ye’re too trusting, Wife,” he said.

  A scowl crossed her face, and she set her hands to her hips. “I trust when my heart and head tell me to, as I once did for you when you asked me to do so. Were my instincts wrong, Husband?”

  “Nay, but that was me.” He offered a cocky grin.

  “And this is now,” Marion replied sternly. “Speak with your brother outside and let me examine…” Marion shot an apologetic glance toward the lass, who was looking back with a mixture of awe and skepticism. “I fear we will have to simply give you a name until we learn your true one.” Marion tilted her head. “How about Marna?”

  “Nay,” Cameron blurted. The lass was definitely not a Marna.

  Lachlan, Iain, and Lena all gave him incredulous looks. He was sure they were wondering why he even cared what they called her. He would have been wondering about it himself if not for Eolande’s prophecy. He knew why he cared, and he knew why he should force himself not to since she presented a danger to him, and yet this one thing seemed harmless yet important.

  “What the devil do ye wish to call her, then?” Lena demanded, making him grimace with her snarly tone.

  Cameron turned to look at the her in question. She shifted on the bed, slipped her feet to the ground, and slowly stood. She was a tall, graceful creature. At first glance, one would almost judge her fragile with such fine bones, yet she held her backbone straight with her shoulders squared and her chin tilted up. She had obviously taken control of the fear that had cloaked her moments before. Her thick, pale hair looked tousled, as if she had just enjoyed a good tumble in a bed, and her glittering eyes reminded him of the way the water in the loch looked when the sun hit it, like shiny bits of glass. She was so beautiful she looked like a princess or a queen.

  “Serene,” he blurted, knowing the name to mean princess.

  Lena made a derisive noise, which he ignored.

  Slowly, the lass nodded. “That seems acceptable. What do I call each of ye?”

  Iain was the first to answer with one, gruff word. “Laird.”

  After Iain’s reply, Marion, Lachlan, Broch and Ragnar offered their name. Lena’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she would not give the lass her name, but when Marion nudged Lena in the side, she muttered her name. Cameron sighed inwardly at his sister’s unwelcoming behavior. He knew it stemmed from protectiveness of him.

  Cameron was the last to speak. He met Serene’s questioning eyes. “I’m Cameron,” he said simply.

  “Ye,” she said, coming toward him and stopping near, so near that he could once again feel the heat of her and smell her intoxicating scent. Slowly, she reached for his hands, and when he realized she intended to grasp them, he shifted away. He wanted too greatly to hold her close. His irrational desire for the woman was a thing to fear.

  “I’ve a memory of ye,” she murmured, “that is like the mist. It’s swirling in my head, but it will nae form a picture.”

  “In this memory,” Lachlan drawled, humor in his voice, “were ye flat on yer back in a bed or possibly upon hay with my brother hovering over ye?”

  “Shut yer mouth,” Cameron growled as a deep crimson blush covered Serene’s cheeks.

  She focused on Lachlan, a scowl now marring her lovely face. “My memory is of his hands.”

  “That about suits what I’m saying,” Lachlan replied with a chuckle.

  “Brother,” Cameron warned at the same moment Iain did.

  Serene set her hands on her hips. “My memory is of his hands on a dagger.”

  Lachlan’s smile turned into a smirk. “Some lasses would say—”

  “That’s enough,” Cameron barked, clutched his older brother by the arm, and fairly dragged him toward the door. He stormed out with Iain on his heels.

  The door slammed shut behind Iain, and both Iain and Cameron glared at Lachlan as they stood in the hallway. “What’s the matter with ye?” Cameron growled. “Ye kinnae speak of my past to that lass.”

  “Yer past?” Lachlan remarked, cocking an eyebrow. He had a smug look on his face as he slid his gaze to Iain. “I told ye.”

  Cameron frowned. “Ye told him what?”

  “Ye did tell me,” Iain remarked, studying Cameron.

  “What in the name of God are ye two speaking of?” Cameron demanded.

  “Lachlan whispered to me in there”—Iain motioned to the healing room—“that ye were behaving out of sorts.”

  Cameron tensed, and Iain clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Ye kinnae get under the skirts of that lass.”

  Cameron narrowed his eyes on his brothers, but before he could respond, Lachlan spoke. “She’s bonny, to be certain, but she may verra well be our enemy, and even if she’s nae, the king has other plans for her.”

  “I ken,” Cameron growled, though his chest tightened with the knowledge.

  “We’ve already defied the king once,” Iain added, referring to when they thwarted the king’s order to send their sister, Lena, back to her abusive husband. The king did not know of their outright failure to obey, but it was obvious from comments he’d made that he suspected it. The MacLeod clan had always been a strong supporter of David, particularly since Iain and David had grown up together,
but the king’s insistence on reuniting Lena with her husband had put a strain on the relationship they had with the king.

  “I dunnae have plans to seduce the lass,” Cameron muttered.

  “Then why did ye nae want her to ken of yer reputation with the ladies?” Lachlan asked.

  “And why do ye keep defending her?” Iain added.

  Cameron sighed and glanced at the door that separated him from Serene. It was a good thing to have space. A relief almost. Ever since he had beheld her face in the forest and recognized her, he had felt drawn to her, and his feelings were growing and changing at a rapid pace. She was a stranger, yet his instinct was to protect her as if he had known her all his life. He had not wanted to tell his brothers of Eolande’s prophecy, but now he felt obligated to do so. “Ye ken how I said I met her at one of the St. John’s Eve festivals?”

  “Aye,” came the immediate response from both Iain and Lachlan.

  “Eolande stopped me from chasing Serene that night after she bested me and the others in the dagger-throwing contest. ’Tis why she got away and I never learned her real name.”

  Iain frowned, but Lachlan’s face turned dark and wary. Cameron understood why. The seer had prophesized that Lachlan and Bridgette’s love would drive a wedge between Lachlan and Graham, who had at one time wanted Bridgette for his own out of a need to best Lachlan. Eolande had foretold that one brother would end up dead as a result. This prophecy had kept Lachlan and Bridgette from acting upon their feelings, and it had nearly destroyed any chance for them and almost cost Bridgette her life. Lachlan had ended up pursuing Bridgette despite the curse, but most of what Eolande had prophesized had come true.

  “I dunnae allow that seer’s prophecy to rule the choices of my life,” Lachlan said in a steely tone.

  “I dunnae, either,” Iain added, “but I dunnae dismiss it. Most of what she says comes true. So if there’s a way to do what she tells ye, I believe it’s wise.”