by Lauren Smith
“Ewan, you bloody coward!” Brock’s bellow ricocheted off the coach.
“I am the coward?” the man shouted back. “’Tis you and your family who are the cowards. Aye, we know the truth now. My father died fighting for a free Scotland, betrayed by your father.” Shouting dissolved into the sounds of curses and scuffling.
Joanna pushed back the door’s curtain and peered outside. She could see a dozen or so men struggling to catch hold of Brock in the fading light as the sun sank below the trees. He swung his blade with precision, cutting the arms of any who came too close. She had never seen violence before, not like this, but she had been right about Brock. He was indeed the warrior she believed him to be. None of the other men were a match for him, but he couldn’t fight them all, not forever. He soon disappeared beneath a pile of bodies, and Joanna shoved a fist into her mouth to stifle a terrorized cry.
Stay in the coach, that’s what he said. But she couldn’t.
She opened the door farthest from the fighting and crept around the back of the coach. The men had dragged Brock to his feet, and one man, whom she recognized as the first man who’d left the inn, was punching Brock brutally in the face and stomach.
Brock spat out blood and laughed. “Ya hit like a wee bairn, Ewan!”
Stupid man! Joanna wanted to cry, but she had to think of a way to save him.
“Your father sold out my father and the others to an English spy. They were killed because of him, and you…you sit in that castle enjoying the lands and the money that were bought by the blood of good men.”
The man, Ewan, retrieved Brock’s blade from the ground, and the blade flashed again menacingly.
“My father was a monster,” Brock said, and the grim humor vanished from his face. “I’ll not argue with you on that. But I was a child then, as were you. I have no intention of carrying the sins of my father with me. I intend to wash the slate clean.”
Joanna listened with bewilderment. Brock’s father had betrayed men and sent them to their deaths? Why hadn’t he told her?
“Some sins run too deep in the blood to ever be washed out,” Ewan replied.
“So you’ll slit my throat, is that it?” Brock challenged.
“You and that pretty Sassenach wife will meet with an unfortunate accident. The coach overturned in the dark of night, and no one heard you as you perished.”
Brock’s eyes widened. “Not my wife—she has no part in this.”
“She’s English. You married her, which as far as I’m concerned makes you as much a traitor as your father.”
“Please, Ewan,” Brock begged, and Joanna’s heart tore. He had pleaded once before, when he’d thought her life was in danger from a highwayman. He put aside his pride for her life every time. Despite the icy fear twisting in her gut, she knew that meant something, that he cared enough to set aside his pride for her safety. A man only did that for someone he loved.
His pride… Suddenly an idea blossomed inside her, and she boldly stepped out from behind the coach.
22
“Stop this at once!” Joanna shouted with a deep, furious voice. Her mother would’ve been proud of the way the towering Scots all stopped and stared at her.
“Well now, there’s the lassie! Saved me the trouble of going in there after you.” Ewan laughed, the sound cold and cutting. A flicker of apprehension coursed through her as she stared him down. “Get her.”
Two men took a step forward. Joanna had to work fast. “I have no intention of running, so you can stay right where you are.”
The men stopped and looked at Ewan, uncertain. Ewan sized Joanna up and nodded for the men to step back. “You have courage, lass. I’ll give you that.”
“And you have a code of honor, do you not?”
Ewan glanced at his men before he met her gaze. “Aye. What of it?”
“I should like to challenge that honor.”
Ewan threw his head back and laughed. “You?”
“Yes, me.” Joanna had not been raised to be a cowering fool, no matter how much she quaked with fear on the inside.
“So what’s it to be?” Ewan said with a sarcastic smirk. “Pistols at dawn?”
“I will fight you. If you fall to your knees even once, you lose. My husband and I will be set free, and the matter between you and him will be considered finished.”
The Scots all started to laugh wildly.
“A wee lass like you will fight me? Oh, aye, that’d be something to see.”
“I’m well aware you think I have no skills, but I might surprise you.”
Ewan shrugged. “’Twill be a quick fight. One blow will knock you down. Then what? You agree to be dealt with by me and my men?”
Joanna tasted the bitterness of fear upon her tongue, and she tried not to think that losing meant her and Brock’s deaths. But she felt—no, she knew—she could do this. Ashton was an excellent boxer and fencer, but Rafe…the bounder turned highwayman had taught her far more valuable skills before her first season, such as how to stop a man from taking advantage of a lady.
“Joanna, no,” Brock said. “I forbid it.” One of the men nearest him punched him, and he grunted in pain.
“Gag him. I willna listen to him whine while I deal with her,” Ewan snapped. Brock’s mouth was forced open, and he was gagged with a cloth tied tight across his mouth. His hands were bound, and he was shoved hard to his knees.
“I should like to borrow the knife…if you please.” Joanna held out her hand to Ewan.
He chuckled as he handed her the blade. “You mean to prick my fingers with it, Sassenach?”
She arched a brow at him, and his laughter died. Then she bent over and sliced her skirts and petticoats straight down the front and back, ignoring the whistles of the men. She needed freedom to move, and her skirts would only get in the way. Then she shoved the blade back into the ground and stepped away from it.
“Are you ready?” she asked Ewan. He stared at her.
“God’s blood. You truly mean to fight me, Sassenach?”
She curled her lip in a challenge and replied in a mocking brogue, “Aye.” Then she crouched, legs braced apart. The night wind billowed her split skirts around her ankles, but rather than slow her down it felt good. She was anticipating his actions now, just as Rafe had taught her. If she did this well, she could end the fight almost at once.
Ewan, smiling smugly, waved at her. “Come at me, English,” he said with a sneer.
Joanna was grateful she had boots on rather than slippers as she approached him. When she was just out of reach, she waited. So did he. Then he swung a fist. Joanna ducked and came up fast, flattened her right palm and slammed that palm into the bridge of his nose. Blood exploded at the point of impact, and Ewan bellowed, clutching his face.
Joanna didn’t stop. She jabbed a punch at one of his eyes, hitting the spot hard. He snarled and swung out, clipping her head, and she stumbled. Her ears rang, but she kept her balance and went back for another blow. She grabbed his shoulder to drag him down. The aggressive move caught him off guard, and he bent forward. She rammed her knee hard right into his groin.
A high-pitched keening escaped Ewan’s lips. She ran around behind him and leapt on his back, getting a good suffocating hold around his neck. Between the pain in his groin, the bloody broken nose, suffocation, and her full weight on his back, he was having trouble focusing on how to defend himself. He clawed at her hands, but she ignored him and squeezed his neck with every ounce of strength she had. He stumbled, fell to his knees, and finally went down. She held on a moment longer and then let go. He collapsed facedown on the ground, gasping for breath.
The men around her stared at her, but not one of them moved on her.
She wiped at a bit of blood on her lips, panting hard. She’d let her body get a bit too relaxed in the last year and wasn’t as strong as she’d been when Rafe had first trained her. Her teeth had cut into the inside of her cheek when Ewan had hit her with that glancing blow. She looked at Brock, w
hose eyes were wide. He was just as motionless as the men who still held him.
“I won the challenge,” she declared. “Your quarrel with my husband is over. Whatever sins his father committed are not Brock’s. He is a good and loyal Scotsman, and you should be ashamed to treat him like a traitor. His father abused him. He had no love for that man, nor any control over what he did. In fact, he’s more Scottish than any of you here. You are supposed to be honorable men and good warriors. Protectors. Not bullies, not men who murder in the night. That is cowardice.”
She waited for Ewan to get to his feet and retrieved her husband’s knife, tucking it into her own boot. In that moment she felt as wild as the wind upon the hills, as though she herself was a Scot. Which reminded her…
“And another thing. I am a Lennox. Scotland is in my blood. Think on that before you call me an outsider again.”
She hadn’t minded Brock calling her Sassenach, but she was not about to let these men turn it into an insult.
“Ewan?” one of the men whispered loudly.
Ewan smeared blood across his face as he dragged the back of his hand under his nose. He winced, drawing in a deep breath.
“Let them go. ’Tis over, all of it. We will speak no more of the sins of Montgomery Kincade.”
Brock was jerked to his feet and then released. Their coach driver was also released, and he joined them, his eyes still wide with fear. Ewan met Brock’s gaze and nodded solemnly before he and his men mounted their horses and rode back in the direction of the village.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the coachman said as the others left. “I couldna stop them.”
“It’s all right, Hamish. Lucky for us we had a guardian angel riding with us.” Brock turned to Joanna. “My God,” he whispered, dragging her back into his arms, squeezing her hard enough that she struggled to breathe.
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
“Fine? No, lass. You were brilliant, wonderful, fierce.” He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her forehead. “Let’s get you home. I need to make certain for myself that you are all right.”
Joanna was more worried about him, because he was bleeding and bruised, but she didn’t tell him that. She needed to ask him about what she’d heard Ewan say about his father. He owed her the truth.
The coachman climbed back up on his perch. She and Brock got back inside the coach.
“How did you learn to do that, lass? The fighting, I mean?”
“Rafe taught me.”
“I see. I suppose if any of your family did, it would be him.”
“He was worried I might be taken advantage of on some balcony or garden when I first came out. I haven’t practiced the moves since I was seventeen. I was so afraid I might not do them correctly.” It was only now sinking in that she could have gotten killed along with Brock if she had failed. She was just lucky Ewan had underestimated her, and she’d been able to strike before he’d had a chance to regain his footing.
“But you did, by God, you did. I married a warrior.” He pulled her onto his lap again, burying his face in her hair.
“Why…why didn’t you fight harder?” she asked. She was almost afraid to know the reason, but she had seen him hold back so many times before in a fight, even tonight. He defended only and had not pressed the attack when he could have. She knew he was not a coward, but his actions made little sense.
Brock’s breath caught, and for a second she feared he would not answer her.
“My entire life, I lived in fear of my father’s temper. The day my mother was laid to rest, I cast dirt on her coffin, and my father spoke cruelly of her weak nature for her to die of a broken heart.” Her sweet, strong husband trembled as he spoke. “I couldna stop myself. It was as though a white haze, like early-morning fog rolling over the hills, filled my eyes. I struck out at my father, hit him so hard he fell and broke his nose. My brothers were barely able to hold me back. I was going to kill him. I wanted to feel the blood in his veins go cold on my hands.” Brock’s hands tightened slightly on her back as he held her closer to his chest.
“When I finally calmed,” Brock said, drawing in a shuddering breath, “my father was laughing at me. Laughing. He said he finally had a son worthy of him, one with the same bloodlust as he. It made me sick to hear it. I made a vow upon my mother’s grave never to harm anyone unless I had to. And tonight, when I needed to, the rage didna help. Ewan and his bloody fools were able to trap me all the same.”
Suddenly so much about Brock began to make sense. He feared his temper, feared he would hurt people, especially those he cared about. Was that why he resisted her declarations? Was he afraid to love her in case he accidentally harmed her?
She met his gaze in the dim coach, peering into eyes that now seemed so dark and endless, like the sea lit by a sliver of moonlight.
“You are not your father, Brock. You mustn’t worry about your temper. You have always done the right thing, even when it almost cost you your life. Promise me you will try to let go of your fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” he replied a little gruffly.
“Aren’t you? Afraid of being like your father? You are not the first person to face that fear. Ashton was afraid for so long that he would become like our father, so much so that he became the opposite, which was little better. But meeting your sister, loving her, changed him. It made him into a better man.”
Brock chuckled wryly. “A better man with a love for punching Scotsmen.”
“Yes, well.” She smiled. “You did carry me off into the night, marry me, and deflower me.”
“All with your permission,” he reminded her, grinning like a cheeky child.
“Aye,” she teased him with a Scottish tone. “But really, Brock, you are not like your father. You are everything he is not.”
“You never met him, lass. How can you say that?”
She traced his lips with a fingertip. “Because I know you, and you are everything to me.” When she kissed him this time, she let him feel every bit of her love for him pouring out of her. She wanted to learn him by heart, to feel every bit of his body and have it etched into her mind.
“I can’t believe you cut your skirts like that,” he mused, lifting her shredded bits of gown as she straddled him on the coach seat.
“Stop talking and kiss me, husband,” Joanna said, capturing his mouth with hers. He groaned as she rocked herself against him and deepened the kiss. There would be time enough for talk later. Right now she needed to show him how much he meant to her. And if she was being perfectly honest, having subdued Ewan and saved her husband had made her incredibly aroused. She didn’t know if it was right or wrong to be so, but she was going to make the most of it. She arched against him and whispered in his ear, “Make love to me, here.”
His soft answering growl vibrated through her as he lifted her hips and then reached for his trousers. She nibbled on his earlobe and neck, kissing him and teasing him. He cursed as he fumbled to free himself, and then he was pulling her down hard on his shaft. The unexpected sensation of being filled by him was glorious, if a tad uncomfortable in this position. She’d never been on top like this, but it was exciting.
“Ride me, lass. Like you were doing before.” He lifted her hips, showing her how to rock against him.
“Like this?” She circled her hips as she moved up and down on him. He nodded, his eyes dark with hunger as he watched her. There was something utterly sinful about this, riding him like a prized stud horse, in a carriage of all places, while their gazes locked. It was simply savage and hard, and she had no illusion that she was the dominant one even though she felt empowered by her victory over Ewan. Brock was in control of her, like a magician who could lure a snake from a basket. She was under his spell.
Her heartbeat throbbed in her eardrums, and she reveled in the pure, sensual experience. She cried out as pleasure blackened her vision, and she fell limp against him. But Brock was far from finished. He thrust up into her over and over, using her now for his own p
leasure, and it only heightened the rippling aftereffects of her own release. He panted hard as he came and held her tightly to him. She laid her head on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart as he came down from the sweet high of their lovemaking.
Joanna felt her blood surge from her fingertips down to her toes. He brushed a thumb over her lips, sighing in contentment.
“Lassie, you will be the death of me, and what a sweet death it will be.”
She chuckled, letting go of the last bit of tension inside her. She would ask him about his father’s betrayal soon enough. But right now, she was going to fall asleep in her husband’s arms and not worry about anything else.
23
Brock smiled as he felt Joanna fall asleep in his embrace. He moved her only once to fix his trousers and her dress before he pulled her back into the cradle of his arms. He had bruised ribs and an aching jaw, but it had all been worth it. His English lass had saved him, and while he did not like to think that he had been unable to protect her, he was glad he had married a woman with a warrior’s heart. He would never forget the sight of Ewan Campbell on the ground, clutching his bollocks.
My sweet Joanna, you are indeed sent from the heavens.
He held her tightly until the coach stopped at the castle entrance. He carried her out, whispering thanks to the driver before he took the coach and horses around to the stables. Brock carried his sleeping wife inside. Duncan held the door for them, and the lad’s eyebrows rose as he saw Joanna’s torn skirts and Brock’s bruised face, but he didn’t ask any questions.
“Get some rest, Duncan. We will see you in the morning.”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man left for the servants’ wing.