Chapter Ten

The Present ~ 1475

Rough Bounds, Scotland

In one moment, Grace was riding upright watching the trees pass, but in the next, the world tilted upside down, her head dangling dangerously close to the horse's hooves as her hair dragged on the ground.

I'm going to die.

"God's blood, lass!" Brus yelled and jerked her upright once more.

Stars danced in her eyes, and her heart jumped in her chest. His hand slid tight around her waist, just under her breasts, brushing them as the heavy weight of his arm locked her in place. The world seemed to right from its tilted state, but she gripped his arm just the same and scooted back against him, between the safety of his solid thighs and equally solid chest.

For one moment a feeling of safety washed over her until she remembered the snakes. "Snakes!" she screeched, flailing her arms once more, but Brus quickly stilled her motions with one hand.

"I knocked them both away, and we've passed well away from the tree, so calm yerself," he bellowed.

"Ye're certain?" she demanded, her heart still pounding viciously.

His mouth came beside her right ear. "Aye, so try nae to get yerself killed again," he said, each word sending a warm waft of his breath over the tender skin of her earlobe.

Fear flittered out of her and pleasure danced down her skin, leaving gooseflesh behind. Her belly tightened, and she had to take a slow, measured breath just to calm herself to speak. "I'll do my best," she said. This—this feeling of consuming fire he set in her had to be what her mother had been talking about.

She tried to turn her thoughts from him to her surroundings. Grayline Stronghold was clearly made for defense. The passage to the top of the mountain where the castle sat wound narrowly around the mountain ledge, so that no one could approach in any fashion other than a single line. The castle sat high above the waters of the loch passage so the men of the Watch could easily shoot down any who tried to leave or enter without permission.

Invaders had no hope of defending themselves or attacking the keep from the ground. No, defeat of Grayline Stronghold would only ever come by treachery from within. They crested the top of the mountain and came to another guard tower. This one stood beside a stone wall that had been built around the stronghold.

A man stepped out of the tower, his torch waving orange in the dark sky, and strolled leisurely toward them. As he came closer, Grace realized two things: he wore a patch over one eye, and he was shaking his head in amusement. He stopped in front of the destrier and looked up at Brus, then at her. She stopped herself from hissing in a breath. He had a long, jagged scar that ran from underneath the eye patch to his lip, and around the scar, the skin puckered, as if it had strained for too long to hold together that which had once been split. He inclined his head in a friendly manner, putting her at ease.

"My lady," he said in a way that made it sound as if he was used to greeting ladies every day. It took her by surprise. She didn't know why, but she had imagined the men of the Northern Watch to be a barbaric bunch, though Brus had not proven himself to be. She'd assumed he was the exception.

Brus jumped off the horse, held his hands up to her, and then motioned for her to lean forward. She did so, and he slid her down the length of him, their bodies brushing as she went, and he did not put space between them even when her feet touched the ground. She was too stunned by the feel of all his masculine hardness to step back, but the chuckle at her left did have her looking to the scarred man, who she could now clearly see was much older than her or Brus.

"I see ye picked up a lass after yer mission to see Errol MacLaren and his party to Castle Tioram."

Dear Heaven! The man thought her some common wench who was apparently only too eager to jump on the back of Brus's horse to tumble in the hay.

Brus coughed and shifted back on his heels, as he scrubbed a hand across his face. "Nay, Da, this is Grace. She's with MacLaren."

The man frowned. "Eh?"

Brus motioned behind him. "MacLaren and his party were attacked. We were late to meet them, and they ventured into the woods without us."

"Ah," Brus's father said, as if that explained everything.

"MacLaren is injured, so I brought him here to be tended to afore we continue to the MacDonald stronghold."

"I beg yer pardon, lass," Brus's da said, extending his elbow to her as he caught her eye and gave her an apologetic smile. "'Tis nae often we get visitors at Grayline, and I have clearly forgotten my manners."

She took his elbow and said, "Dunnae fash yerself. I'm certain yer son has given ye good reason to assume he'd be bringing home a strange lass."

"That he has," Brus's da said, laughing.

Brus, however, was obviously not amused. He scowled first at her, then at his father. "Da, I'd prefer ye nae discuss my private life with a stranger."

Brus's father raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "All women are strangers to ye, Son, because ye dunnae let any—"

"Da!" Brus bellowed to Grace's dismay. She wanted to hear what his father had been about to say.

"Fine, fine," the man replied, chuckling and patting the hand she'd slipped through the arm he'd extended to her. "This looks like a nice lass from a nice family."

"Da," Brus bit out, and Grace could not help but laugh to see such a fierce warrior brought low by his father.

The man did not appear to care in the least that he was obviously irritating his son. "Ye have nae taken the vow for the brotherhood yet," Brus's da grumbled, "so I can only surmise ye dunnae wish to take it because ye wish a wife. This lass looks like a fine, sweet-tempered candidate."

"Da!" Brus thundered.

"I'm nae sweet tempered," Grace said, sinfully enjoying Brus's discomfort.

"Och!" his father said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I only inserted that because if ye're sweet tempered, that one—" he said, motioning to Brus "—will be less likely to find fault with ye."

This conversation was utterly fascinating. "Does that one—" she said, gesturing toward Brus as his father had done "—often find fault with the lasses?"

"All the time," Brus's father confirmed.

"Da, if ye dunnae cease yer blabbering, I'll walk out of this stronghold and—"

"Is he always this irritable?" she asked, catching Brus's gaze and grinning at him. He frowned in return.

"Only when ye talk about personal matters regarding him," his father responded.

"Ah," she said, nodding. "I have experienced that. He's nae one to share, is he?"

"Nae at all," his father replied.

"That. Is. Enough."

Each word clapped like thunder. It made Grace jump, and Brus's father stiffen. He squeezed Grace's hand, which rested on his forearm, and then he said to Brus, "We were only having a bit of fun."

"Aye, at my expense," Brus growled.

Brus, she decided, was very prickly when it came to personal matters, and it no doubt could be traced straight back to his mother who'd abandoned him.

An awkward silence fell and then extended until Brus's father cleared his throat. "I hope my son has shown better manners than he's currently displaying."

"Oh," she said, as her gaze collided with Brus's intense green one. Looking into his eyes felt like plunging underneath water. It was thrilling and breathtaking all at once. She licked her lips, aware she'd not finished her sentence. "He showed a smidge of manners," she assured Brus's father. "He held my hair when I was ill."

"Did he now?" Brus's father said, astonishment blanketing each word.

"Aye." She recalled her own astonishment at such a gentle, thoughtful gesture from such a fierce, unknown warrior.

"What else did my son do?"

"Da," Brus said, the word a warning, but Brus's father waved that same hand in that same dismissive gesture.

"He took off a man's bollocks for me after that man had tried to force himself upon me."

"As he should have," Brus's father said and gave Brus an approving look. "Where's the man who attacked ye?" Brus's da asked.

"Likely dead," Brus answered matter-of-fact, as if it were nearly an everyday occurrence that he left a man for dead, and she suddenly wondered if it was. This was the Rough Bounds, after all.

His father nodded in the same direct manner in which Brus spoke. "Where's Conall?"

"There with Grace's sister Arya," Brus said, pointing. Grace turned to see Conall approaching, with Arya seated in front of him on his destrier and Errol in the rear, with a severe scowl on his face. Conall appeared to have overcome his immediate dislike of Arya for being a MacDonald. He was talking animatedly, and Arya was laughing.

"Do ye ken who the attackers were?" Brus's da asked him.

"Wolf Warriors," Brus answered. "They encountered them by happenstance."

"Nae anything in this life is by happenstance," Brus's father replied immediately.

Brus snorted. "Och, so ye always say."

"Boy," the man said good-naturedly, "ye're nae too old for me to take ye down."

"Ye're right," Brus said, putting his fists up and suddenly dancing around with a grin on his face. "I'm too quick and strong for ye to take me down. Age is nae the problem," Brus teased, his eyes twinkling. "Yer skill level is. I'm simply the better warrior."

"Do ye hear how he talks to me, lass?" the man asked in a tone of clear exaggerated exasperation.

"Aye," she replied, "my lord."

The man's eyes widened. "Ah, lass, are ye flirting with me?"

She felt her own eyes widen.

"Ye called me my lord, as if I'm a man of noble birth."

"It dunnae take noble birth to be a lord," she replied, thinking of some of the warriors her father had invited to dine with them, who'd earned castles and titles from battle. "It takes grit and determination," she said, paused, and then added, "and skill."

"I like how ye think—"

"My da taught me to think thusly. He says men can take what they want, even if God did nae give it to them by birth."

A shadow passed across Brus's father's face. "Men can take what they have earned honorably."

"Oh, aye," she agreed. "I'm certain that is what my da meant," she added, though she did remember the conversation where he'd said that, and he had said exactly what she'd conveyed. Thinking on it now, the recollection made her frown, immediately flooding her with guilt that she should ever doubt her da or his good and noble heart.

"Lost in thought?" Brus asked, pulling her back to the moment.

"Aye," she admitted, realizing both men were staring at her. "I wager ye could best yer son," she said, recalling the conversation before it deviated.

Brus's father grinned at her. "I like ye, my lady."

"I like ye, too," she replied without thinking. "Ye remind me of my father."

He tilted his head, studying her for a moment. "Who might yer da be?"

"Her da," came Errol's snobby tone from behind Grace, "is the Lord of the Isles."

The shadow from a moment ago reappeared on Brus's da's face. "That would explain some things," he mumbled under his breath, but Grace caught it, as did Arya, who had just arrived arm in arm with the man Conall.

Arya tilted her head. "Do ye ken our da?"

"Nay," the man replied, but the tightening of his tone and the sharp delivery of the single word made Grace feel he was not offering them the truth. She glanced at her sister to see if she'd caught the same undertone, but Arya's face had fallen with obvious disappointment, showing she'd not heard what Grace had.

Grace thought about dismissing the questioning knot in her gut, but her father had told her to always trust her instincts. "If ye dunnae ken our da then why did ye say ‘that would explain some things?"

Silence fell over the group, which allowed Grace to hear the faint notes of hearty singing coming from within the stronghold.

"We're missing supper," Conall said, "and that bunch dunnae leave a scrap, so if we want to eat..."

"I, for one, am famished!" Arya said.

Grace did not speak or move but stared at Brus's father, waiting. The man gave her a look of admiration, which surprised her. "Yer da should be proud to have raised such a strong lass."

She blinked at the compliment. No one had ever said such a thing to her—well, besides Brus. "Thank ye, but ye did nae answer my question."

"What I meant was that hearing yer da is the Lord of the Isles explains why two finely reared lasses would be traveling with MacLaren."

"Ah," Grace said, glad for an explanation she could believe.

"I am surprised, though," Brus's father said, "that yer da would allow the two of ye to travel to such a rough area, even with an escort."

Grace's cheeks flamed, and Brus's father chuckled. "Yer da dunnae ken ye're coming to him, putting yer lives at stake to reach a castle in battle."

"Nae exactly," she admitted, "but 'tis necessary."

"Oh aye? Will he nae be verra vexed?"

"Verra," Arya confirmed, and Errol grunted his agreement.

Grace glared at them. "As I said, 'tis necessary."

"Their lives will nae be at stake with Conall and me accompanying them," Brus said.

"Ye and Conall are nae immune to the hazards of two clans at war, Son," Brus's father replied, his voice tight and tense. "And I think I'll send Arik with Conall. Ye're now needed on another mission."

Disappointment flooded Grace, and she realized, with a start, she'd wanted more time to spend with Brus.

"What mission?" Brus demanded, his eyes narrowing into a challenging stare that made Grace's lips twitch to turn into a smile. Had he wanted more time with her, too? Och! She was featherbrained. He likely simply did not care for being ordered about by his father.

Brus's challenging stare was met head-on by his father, who crossed his arms and arched his eyebrows. "Torquil wishes ye to take a group of men to the east side of the Rough Bounds. There have been reports of several attacks there in the last two days since ye've been gone."

"Arik can do that."

"Nay. Torquil said he wanted ye, as ye are the fastest rider and the best shot."

Brus opened his mouth as if to protest, but another voice split the momentary silence.

"What the devil has taken ye so long, Nigel?" Grace looked in the direction of the deep voice. A tall, bald headed man stood halfway across the courtyard.

"Brus and Conall had to bring back MacLaren and what is left of his party," Brus's father, Nigel, called out to the man.

"Attacked?" the man asked as he strode across the courtyard toward them.

"Aye, Torquil" Nigel replied. "Wolf Warriors. MacLaren needs the healer," Nigel finished, waving a hand to Errol.

Errol made a derisive noise. "I dunnae—"

"Ye do," Grace inserted, cutting him off. He gave her a disgruntled look but pressed his lips together on any further refusal, which wasn't like Errol at all, which meant he was likely in great pain. "Can Errol see the healer now?"

"Aye," Torquil answered and gave a shrill whistle. A man appeared from the shadows. "Arik," Torquil said, addressing the younger man who had a hardened look in his blue eyes that hinted that he had a few years behind him, despite his unlined skin. "Ye'll take MacLaren here to Arabeth," Torquil said, sweeping a curious brown, almost black, almond-shaped gaze over Arya and Grace. She was struck with how much the shape of his eyes and the one visible eye of Nigel's looked almost identical.

When Arik stepped toward Errol to aid him off his horse, Errol motioned him away, so instead Arik helped Arya down, and she came to stand by Grace. Then, with much grunting, Errol more slid off his horse than dismounted it, almost falling in the process. Grace rushed to his side to steady him. When he was stable, she looked up to find all eyes upon her, and her cheeks flamed, especially when she looked to Brus, and thought she saw jealously in his gaze. She was wishful imagining—that was what she was doing.

"MacLaren, I admire yer determination to aid yerself, but a wise man kens when to ask for aid, and if ye keep on like this, ye'll nae be of use to yer wife."

"I'm nae his wife," Grace interjected and winced at the appalled tone of her voice. She knew Errol had heard her tone as well because he stiffened under her touch. She did not love Errol as a woman should love a man she wished to wed, but she loved him as a friend and would never intentionally hurt him.

"Well, I'm Torquil Stewart, leader of the Northern Watch. Who are ye, then, lass?"

"Grace MacDonald," she replied, immediately recalling what Errol had said about Torquil ending up here. She swallowed, hoping her knowledge of his past was not revealed in her voice or face. "This is my sister, Arya." Grace immediately curtsied, and when she came up, she found Torquil's eyebrows had shot up into two surprised arches, whether from the show of respect or the revelation of who her father was, she did not know.

"How is it a man imprisoned for murder becomes the leader of the Northern Watch?" Errol asked.

"Errol!" Grace cried out, mortified. He was a good man at heart, but occasionally, he did show a tendency toward being judgmental.

"Dunnae fash yerself, lass. I have been asked as much afore." He focused the full force of his drilling gaze on Errol, and he offered a jagged smile that showed his dislike of Errol's question. "Skill, I suppose. And cunning," he added, tilting his head as if he were studying Errol. "How is it a warrior in line to be laird of one of the greatest clans in the Highlands is nae skilled enough in fighting that ye could nae keep yer warriors alive and yerself unscathed?"

Brus and Conall both snorted at the insult.

Errol flushed the deepest ruby color Grace had ever seen. She would have felt pity for him, except he deserved it for what he'd said. "We were outnumbered."

"Brus there—" Torquil said, motioning to Brus "—took out ten Wolf Warriors by himself last month to save our kitchen wench Esme, who'd foolishly ridden deep into the woods on her own." Errol flinched, and Torquil continued, a merciless look shining in his eyes now. "Judge a man only if ye can stand to be judged. I would nae change the actions that brought me here, but that dunnae mean I dunnae ask forgiveness for the life I cut down to defend my dishonorable wife when the man she bedded named her whore."

Grace's lips parted in shock at his direct words, and given the roaring silence, she felt sure she was not the only one surprised in the group. Torquil pointed to himself. "I imagine yer da, mayhap ye, have cut down men for less. The one I cut down just so happened to have the king's ear and a great deal of warriors and coin to give to the king, much like these lasses' da, who cut down my laird and my friend, Gilbert Stewart, as well as his wife and his children." The look he gave her and Arya was not an unfriendly one, but his tone was chilling and tightened her stomach at the thought of a whole family having been slain.

"Grace's father did nae personally slay the Stewart. He was killed as a result of the battle he was engaged in with my lord because the Stewart was discovered to be plotting treason against the king," Errol said. "As for his children, they have nae ever been proven to be dead."

"What do ye mean?" Grace asked.

Errol shrugged. "They simply disappeared."

"The eldest was proven dead," Nigel said, his tone pinched.

"Nay," Errol contradicted. "The lad, Ross, was seen to have fallen into the river, as was the man who ferreted him away, the laird's right hand, Bran Stewart, but nae either of their bodies were ever found."

"'Tis because they got stuck underwater, ye clot-heid," Nigel bit out, seeming awfully invested in fireside murmurings and speculations.

"'Tis terrible for innocent children to have suffered for the sins of their father," Arya said, sounding as horrified as Grace felt.

"Supposed sins," Nigel corrected.

"Word has it," Errol said, "that the children were taken by loyal servants of Lord Stewart and ferreted away because they feared the children would be killed."

"Da would nae ever harm innocent children!" Arya gasped, voicing aloud what Grace had been thinking.

"Of course nae," Errol answered. "Whoever took them was nae thinking correctly. Yer da would nae do such a thing."

"Who rules the castle now?" Grace asked.

"Alan MacCoul. He was Laird Stewart's brother-in-law but was found to be innocent of any accusations of treason against the king."

"Errol, ye said it was discovered that Lord Stewart was treasonous?"

Errol nodded.

"How?" Grace asked.

"If I recall correctly, yer da saw a document that Laird Stewart had signed in which he had vowed to aid the King of England to overthrow the King of Scotland in exchange for land."

"That's horrid!" Arya exclaimed. "And cowardly!"

Grace just happened to glance at Brus's father and saw his body tense. She pulled her attention back to Errol. "I suppose our da gave the document to the queen or the council, and they ordered him to attack Laird Stewart?"

"Nay, yer da feared the attempted treason was immediate, so he acted accordingly, raiding the castle with the intent to simply take Lord Stewart prisoner. But Lord Stewart turned it into full-scale combat, without a care for the lives lost."

"We are missing supper," Torquil said, his words sounding as if he ground each one between his teeth before speaking them, and no wonder, she supposed, since he was a Stewart and this was probably difficult for him to hear.

"I beg yer pardon," Grace replied.

"'Tis nae a need for that, lass, but if the history lesson could wait?" he said, his tone gracious once more, though an undercurrent of friction remained.

"Of course," she replied.

"MacLaren, if ye feel up to it, ye should join us in the hall after the healer sees to ye."

Errol locked a possessive stare on Grace. "I will be joining Grace, for certain."

Grace sighed inwardly. She could not put off telling Errol any longer that she had decided, without a doubt, not to wed him. She just hoped it did not cause too much strain between them on the remainder of the journey.