Chapter Eleven

The Present ~ 1475

Rough Bounds, Scotland

"Sit by the lasses," Torquil commanded Brus and Conall as they entered the supper hall.

Brus's body immediately warmed to the idea of having more time with Grace, and that was unsettling. She was the daughter of a man he believed was trying to oust the king to whom Brus was loyal, and that put them on opposite sides of a fight. King James was a good king. Even Torquil said so, though Torquil also said the king paid too much heed to his council, especially Alan MacCoul, who Torquil despised. Torquil did have good reason. MacCoul had been friends with the man Torquil had killed, not the king, as was whispered by campfires. History had been twisted, which seemed to have a way of happening. And it had been MacCoul who had swayed the old king to send Torquil away to the Northern Watch after the death of MacCoul's friend. was whispered by campfires.

When Conall moved to help Arya take her seat, Brus had no polite choice but to assist Grace. Silently, he held out his hand to aid her in stepping over the bench to sit, and when she slipped her dainty fingers into his, his chest tightened as it had before, and he scowled. This was not a lass he could simply tumble in the hay with, so he needed to control his reaction to her. The less interaction he had with her was likely better.

He held Grace steady as she lowered herself to the bench, and as he looked down at her, he got a glimpse of the swell of her chest. God's blood, she was the loveliest creature he'd ever set eyes on. He released her hand and stood for a moment above her, studying her as she turned to speak to her sister. Her fiery hair certainly did match her will. They both burned bright, and his fingers suddenly itched to delve into her tresses. He curled his hands into fists and sat, purposely focusing on the trencher before him. If he could keep his attention on his food until the meal was over, they could part ways without speaking. He eyed the large loaf of bread and decided to start with that. That ought to take him a while to chew through. He reached for it. Unfortunately, she did too at the exact same moment.

"I beg yer pardon," she said, forcing him to either look at her or ignore her.

He turned his gaze to her and laughed. She had a dollop of cream on her nose.

She wrinkled her nose. "What's so amusing?"

"Ye've cream on the edge of yer nose." Her stared at her perfectly formed, very adorable, upturned nose.

She wiped her hand across her nose, but somehow failed to get the cream. "Is it gone?"

"Nay," he said, sighing. He reached toward her to wipe his thumb over the tip of her nose. It was such a simple gesture, but that innocent little swipe caused a flood of desire to wash over him. He pulled his hand back, took up his goblet of wine, drained the contents, and said, without looking at her, "'Tis gone." He then picked up his knife, stabbed it in his rabbit, and commenced eating as if this were his last meal. All the while, he could feel her gaze on him, warming him through like the sun on a cold day. He finished the rabbit and reached quickly for the bread, barely looking up to ensure she was not reaching for it as well.

She wasn't. He could see her hand, outstretched on her goblet. Her long, slender fingers curled delicately around the silver. Lust tightened his gut. What sort of clot-heid experienced lust over a lass's fingers? He clearly had not been with a woman in too long, but currently, the thought of remedying that held no appeal. He had yet to be in a relationship with a lass whom he had deemed completely trustworthy, which inevitably meant his relationships had not ended well.

He slopped the bread through the gravy until there was no more than a light sheen of grease left on the dark trencher. He was stuffed to near bursting, but the damnable meal was still going on.

"That was quite impressive."

He looked to her at the sound of her voice, and he both regretted and didn't that he had. It was strange, this mix of warring emotions she was stirring in him. He'd never experienced anything like it. "What was?"

"The way ye attacked yer food."

He frowned. "Were ye watching me?"

"Aye." She smiled a half smile, one side fully upturned, the other only slightly so. It was imperfect, and he found himself intrigued by thoughts of how he could make that other side turn all the way up. Mayhap she was a ban-druidh who had cast a spell upon him. No, now he really was thinking like a clot-heid. She was no witch, just a lass with the ability to ignite his desire like no lass ever had.

"I was hungry," he said, which was half true.

She arched her eyebrows in a way that let him know she didn't believe him. "Ye looked to be turning green to me. Tell me," she said, leaning one elbow forward on the table and resting the side of her head in the palm of her hand, "were ye avoiding talking to me?"

"Are ye suggesting I'm scairt of a wee lass?" he demanded, scowling because he was struck with the realization that he was.

She chuckled. "Aye."

"Well, ye're incorrect." He didn't normally lie, but he was making an exception. To tell the truth would undoubtedly lead this lass down a road of probing personal questions he did not care to travel.

"Well, then ye can prove me wrong by talking to me."

Clever lass. She'd backed him neatly into a corner, leaving him no choice but to agree or be shown a liar and a coward. Inconceivable. So he nodded. "What would ye like to talk about?"

"I'm curious—why have ye nae taken the vow for the Northern Watch yet?"

God's blood, he didn't want to answer that, but again, he was cornered. But mayhap he could circumvent her question. "Do ye always ask such blunt questions?"

"Aye. I dunnae see a need to be anything but direct."

He smiled at that. A woman after his own heart, if he could believe her words.

"So," she said, "the vow? Why have ye nae taken it?"

This lass surely would not understand, and mayhap that was why he was suddenly willing to talk of something his father, Torquil, Conall, and Esme had all asked him to explain. Not explaining it to Esme had been one of the reasons they'd fought, and she'd fled to the woods.

"I dunnae see myself in my da," he said, finding it difficult to put into words what that even meant to him. He had this feeling, as if, as if he could not find what he needed here as part of the Northern Watch.

"Ah," she said, as if she understood, and then she did the most astonishing thing. She reached out and set her small palm over his heart. He could have sworn the organ doubled in speed at her touch. "Ye have an ache here because ye dunnae ken where ye come from."

He was so surprised that she had inferred so much from what little he'd said, that he could only nod.

She removed her palm from his heart. "Ye dunnae think the ache can be filled as part of the Watch?"

He shook his head. She'd rendered him completely speechless.

"How old were ye when ye were found by yer da?" she asked.

He swallowed past his astonishment to speak. "I'm nae certain," he answered, the compassion in her gaze so temptingly believable. "But the healer that was here at the stronghold at the time told my da she believed I was likely seven summers."

"Do ye remember where ye came from at all?" she asked.

"Nay," he said with a shake of his head. "I've thrice had dreams that seem connected to my past, but they did nae tell me who I am or where I come from."

"What were yer dreams about?"

He looked beyond her to the main part of the supper hall, where tables spilled over with dishes that needed to be cleared before they could be moved for dancing. Esme was standing there, staring at him, holding an empty trencher she was supposed to be using to clear dishes, but she had obviously not started. He felt sorry for her. He did. Her prospects were few as the illegitimate daughter of a dead Watchman. Torquil had taken her in when she'd made her way here after her mother had died to seek out the father she'd never known, but he had fallen in battle shortly after she arrived. She never left. Brus thought she was possibly scared to, but feeling sorry for her did not make her the lass for him, and it wasn't that he was scared to trust her, as she had accused him before she'd run off into the woods. He frowned. Scared was not the right word, but unwilling might well be. Only a fool would willingly let a woman close enough to destroy him, and yet, he logically knew that there was a certain kind of closeness with another person that might well fill the emptiness that resided in him.

"Ye dunnae recall yer dreams?" Grace asked, breaking into his wandering thoughts.

He focused on her once more. Why was he talking of such personal things with her? He didn't want to, and yet he did. She made him war with himself, which was something no woman had ever done. "A bit. In one I was swimming, and in the other I was balancing on a stone wall." He didn't mention the nightmares where guards were chasing him and wolves were growling. He was bleeding in one or someone he was with was bleeding. It was a confused jumble.

The hurt suddenly shining in the depths of her eyes surprised him. "Ye dunnae need to pity me, Grace."

Her hand covered his, and his body tensed under her touch. Not because her touch wasn't nice; it was too nice. Too wanted. "I dunnae pity ye. I pity yer mama for leaving ye. She must have been in so much pain to do so."

"She did nae want me."

"Mayhap that's nae the case," Grace said with such hopefulness he almost wanted to hope too, but then he recalled what Nigel had told him.

"She did nae want me," he repeated.

"'Tis hard for me to believe a mama would nae want her bairn," she said, with a shake of her head.

"Well, that is what happened," he replied, his tone curter than he intended. "People hurt people all the time in this world."

She licked her lips, the movement innocent and beguiling all at once. "Aye, but people who love ye dunnae intentionally hurt ye."

"That's a na?ve view," he replied, pushing back the urge to believe as she did. It was foolhardy.

She shrugged. "Mayhap. I'd rather be na?ve than so hardened I kinnae ever allow someone to really know me and love me and give my whole heart to."

He didn't like that her words seemed to break the surface of his skin and burrow under it. He could feel his nostrils flaring and the vein by his right eye pulsing. Her gaze fixated on that vein. "I think ye dunnae take the vow because since ye have nae ever kenned yer blood family, ye need to make a blood family of yer own, which means ye wish a wife and children."

God's blood! She had put his inner turmoil into thoughts he'd been unable to, and it made him want to both hug her and push away from the table and leave her. He swallowed, reached for his goblet, and recalled he'd drunk it all.

He felt her gaze tracking him, and she pushed her full goblet in front of him. "Here, have mine."

"Thank ye," he managed, picked it up, and drank it all. Then he looked at her. She had a patient look upon her lovely face, and his thoughts turned in his head as he studied her. The candlelight played across her face in such a way that, for the first time, he noticed she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He had the sudden urge to lay her down on a thick wolf skin, fan out her glorious hair, and simply study her to see what else he had missed. It was a dangerous urge for a bastard to have for a proper-born lass.

"Was Nigel wed before he came to the Watch?" she asked, sending her hand into her hair to lean once more on her palm. It tilted her head in such a way that part of her bright hair slid forward over one of her eyes to hide it. She looked utterly beguiling, and it hardened him to his core. "What I mean to ask is, did he have to leave a wife when he had to take the vow? And why did he have to take the vow? What did he do?"

He leaned close to her, not wanting to be overheard, though there was so much noise in the great hall, what with the sliding of tables being cleared, the clanking of goblets and platters, the hum of the men's chatter, and the scattered few men already deep in their cups singing, that it was likely no one would overhear them. The only one who might was Grace's sister, but the lass was talking animatedly to Conall, who was seated next to her.

He inhaled a long breath and was gifted with her swirling scent of freesia. In this hall, he normally only smelled sweaty men and the pungent scent of mead mixing with the more robust scent of red wine. Her scent filled his head with images of spreading her out on a wolf skin again. He had no place imagining such a thing, and he damn well needed to quit.

"He was nae wed," Brus said. "He was betrothed to a lass he loved, but she left him for a warrior with land on the day they were to wed. He hunted them down and fought the warrior, who died in the duel. He lost his freedom and the lass who had professed her undying love to him, then forgot her ‘love' when a better option came along."

"That's horrid," Grace said, her fingers peeking out of her hair for a breath before disappearing into the thick mane once more. He stared at her half-hidden hand and found himself wondering if her hair felt as silky as it looked and what it would feel like against his bare chest. Foolish, foolish things to wonder. Lust was going to get him in a heap of trouble.

"That's life," he finally replied. "Most lasses would forget a poor warrior for one who could give them a grand stronghold."

"I'd nae," she said in such a strong, forceful way that he could imagine believing her if he cared to. Alas, he didn't, because he was not a fool. And if he were inclined to be a clot-heid and cast reason to the wind, he need only recall that they were on opposing sides with the king and her father. And then there was MacLaren, who obviously wanted her as his wife. MacLaren was titled. MacLaren would be a laird. Brus frowned. Her not seeming to want MacLaren showed that she would not be so easily swayed by title and land.

"Let me ask ye something," he said, frowning. What the devil was he doing? "Ye say ye would nae dismiss a poor warrior for a titled one, but what does yer da want for ye?"

She leaned forward, her chest against her arms so her breasts pressed up high to torture him with the desire to trace a finger over the perfect swell of flesh. She inhaled a breath and let it out in a long, even exhalation. "My da wishes me to accept Errol's offer of marriage, but he also wishes me to be happy." She offered a small smile. "He has nae forced me to do so yet, but I think he's sincerely hoping I'll come to the decision to do so on my own."

"And will ye?" His damned mouth had run amok.

"Nay," she said, shaking her head.

He wanted to ask why, but he feared she might give an answer that drew him to her even more. Did he dare? He shouldn't. He most definitely should not. Then words came from his lips unbidden. "Do ye think he'll insist?" His pulse had increased. It beat in his heart, through his veins, at his neck, and in his temples.

"Nay. He loves me and wants me to be happy, as I said." Brus hoped, for her sake, that she was right, because he could see in her eyes the pride and love she held for her father. "I fear he'll be verra disappointed."

God's blood. That had been, and still was, his fear with Nigel. He didn't want more of a connection to this woman, but it was there, wanted or not. But that didn't mean he had to embrace it.

He pushed back from the table to put space between them and clear his head. He was halfway to standing when her hand came to his forearm. He looked down to find her staring up at him, and the way she held her head exposed the long, beguiling column of her neck. He could imagine trailing kisses down that alabaster skin to the hollow space between her collarbones where her pulse was frantically beating, and lower still to dangerous territory where he would surely lose himself and open himself up to a world of hurt. He shrugged off her hand and stood away from the table. Hurt, which he'd rather not see, flashed in her eyes. He turned, and then she called his name. When he faced her once more, she was standing, arms crossed, uncertainty etched upon her features.

"Is that how ye feel about yer da?" she asked, sounding almost shy.

"Aye," he said with a quick nod and a rub at the sudden knots at the back of his neck. She was doing very strange things to his insides.

"My da," she said slowly, "will be mighty angry that I've come—"

"Because ye put yerself in danger?" he guessed.

"Aye. He thinks women kinnae protect themselves as a man can protect them, which is one of the reasons he wishes me to wed Errol. He is a MacLaren and will be laird when his da passes, so Errol will always have warriors to protect me," she said with such forlornness that he had to swallow the desire to laugh.

"It is sound reasoning for a da, Grace," he said as gently as he could, though why in God's name he was taking such care with her feelings he did not understand. It wasn't as though he was rough with lasses' feelings in past, but neither had he handled them as if they were fragile. This lass made him want to do just that.

"I can protect myself," she said, her chin taking on a stubborn upward tilt.

He chuckled at her words. "I'd wager that attitude caused ye some trouble with yer da."

"Aye," she said slowly, then laughed. "It has. I'm nae a fool. I ken men are physically stronger than women, but my mind is just as sharp as any man's."

She gave him a look as if she was expecting him to disagree, so he held up his hands and waved them. "Ye'll nae get an argument from me."

"Well, that attitude makes ye refreshingly different," she said, her voice pitching into a husky tone that he liked but made him wary. He'd heard enough lasses' voices sound husky when talking to him to know what it meant by now.

"Grace," he said, stepping closer so as not to be overheard. There was something there. There was no denying it. He felt it. He'd wager all his coin that she did to, but that didn't mean he could or would act upon it. "Ye're a great laird's daughter."

"Aye," she said, her voice now its normal tone and her eyes showing her confusion.

"I dunnae even ken who I am."

"Every man ken's who they are in their heart, Brus," she said, matter-of-fact. Just because ye dunnae ken yer true mama and da dunnae mean ye dunnae ken yer own character."

The lass's words were tempting him to be foolish. "Yer da would nae ever approve of a match with me."

"Hmm," she said, smirking at him. "I always imagined a man would be concerned about gaining my approval afore my da's, and ye certainly dunnae have that." She eyed him for a long moment, then smiled slowly. "Yet."

"A verra good point," he said, laughing. "But we will be parting ways on the morrow." It was almost a relief—almost.

Her shoulders dropped, which gave him the headiest feeling, knowing the lass had wanted to continue the journey with him tomorrow.

"Ye could ask Torquil if ye could continue on with us, aye?"

He could. He cocked his head to the right and crossed his arms over his chest as he found himself studying her. She tempted him to trust her words, but undoubtedly, somewhere hidden within her were thorns. Likely, he could persuade Torquil to let him escort her to Castle Tioram, but that was folly. There was no reason to do so and every reason not to. Parting ways was best for a laird's daughter and a bastard, for a man and a woman likely on opposite sides of a coming war. "Nay, 'tis best I dunnae continue on."

"Best for whom?" she asked, holding his gaze, unblinking.

"For me," he said, and then he added, because of the lasses he'd been with he seemed to have inadvertently hurt them all, "and for ye." With that, he turned and strode away before she could convince him otherwise and lead him into waters that would be rough for them both.