Chapter Fifteen

Ross could not wipe the shock on her face from his mind as he strode through the castle, out the door, and into the courtyard where Conall and Arya were mounted and waiting to ride out. Conall cocked questioning eyebrows, and Ross knew he wished to know if he and Grace were now man and wife, because Ross had told Conall all he'd learned as well as the plan he'd formed after he'd left his father.

Ross shook his head, aware of Grace entering the courtyard behind him even before her footsteps clapped upon the stones at the entrance. He wanted to turn to watch her coming, but he kept his attention on Conall. His friend did not reveal a hint of what he was thinking on his face, but Ross could well imagine his friend believed him a fool. Mayhap he was. Tricking Grace into wedding him would have been easy, but in the moment he'd realized he could not do it. He could not take to wife a woman he had not given his trust to, and who had not put hers in him, no matter how much easier it would have made gaining vengeance.

His da had been right about him and trust. He didn't give it lightly to many men and not to lasses at all. Ross stilled at the thought. His da. Aye, Bran was his da in his heart, despite the lies. After all the years of rearing, guidance, and comfort the man had given him, his da had earned his trust, and Ross had to trust that his da had done what he had to out of love for him.

And as to lasses and trust, or more specifically Grace, he didn't know if he could give it ever, even if she earned it, and that was but one of the reasons he needed distance from her. They were betrothed, and she tempted him like no one ever had. That one kiss had made him want to lay her down and join with her, and if he did that, as his betrothed, she would then be his wife. He needed to go slow and see if he could trust her. If he could allow it, and if she earned it, and even if both of those things were so, it might not matter. She likely would not want him when she realized he would bring her father low for crimes against his family. She loved her da, and Ross was unsure she would be able to see his duplicity because of that. He smelled her freesia scent as she neared him, and his traitorous body responded with a bolt of lust, as it had done moments ago when he'd kissed her.

"Brus, will I ride with ye?" Grace asked, directly behind him.

He braced himself inwardly against reacting to her, but when he faced her, it was useless. His body hardened instantly at her smile that was so beautiful it nearly gutted him. He had to clear his throat for fear the lust strumming through him would be conveyed in his tone. He motioned to the saddled destrier. "The free horse is yers," he replied, striding to it to aid her in mounting. He clenched his teeth as she came to stand in front of him, and he inhaled a slow steady breath to keep his emotions under control as his fingers curled around her waist to assist her on the horse, but inside of him, a storm raged. He wanted her, but there were many reasons not to act upon that desire. The moment she seemed steady, he released her and stepped back, catching the puzzled, injured look that passed across her delicate features.

He didn't want to hurt her. In fact, the desire to protect her was so strong it was disturbing. It wasn't just duty with her. It was need. If the need was this forceful and he'd not even given her his trust, what would it grow to when he did?

"A storm is coming," Conall said as a light drizzle began.

Ross looked to the cloud-congested sky and saw that Conall was correct. It was not a good day to ride. It was bitter cold, and the rain would only make matters worse. Under normal circumstances, he'd put the journey off, but these were not normal circumstances. The man who had destroyed his family was very near, and Ross needed to confront him. Still, Grace and her sister were his responsibility. He looked to her and her sister and said, "The conditions will be miserable. If either of ye wish for the weather to clear—"

"Nay," she said. "The missive from the king must be delivered with all haste. It could well affect the outcome of the battle. I'll ride on with ye, but Arya," Grace said, glancing at her sister, "if ye wish to—"

"Nay," the woman said, tilting up her chin in the same determined way he'd seen Grace do. The lasses had grit; he'd give them that. "I dunnae want to be separated from ye," Arya said, and though Ross was sure her words were true enough, the lass was no longer looking at her sister. She was staring with open longing at Conall, and to Ross's surprise, his friend returned the look. Ross would speak with Conall later when they were in private.

As the drizzle grew heavier, Ross shoved the thoughts of Conall and Arya aside. "We'll ride hard and fast to make as much distance as we can before the storm," he said. He also wanted to reach the castle and the Lord of the Isles as quickly as possible, because he didn't want to spend another day not working toward reclaiming his home and his title and seeking vengeance, so that when Bran found Ross's brother and sister, God willing they were alive, they'd have a home to return to.

"I'll take the lead," he said to Conall. "Ye take the back, and the lasses can ride between us." Not only would that keep Grace and her sister protected from front and back, he'd get much needed distance from her. He signaled his horse to ride and, with a glance over his shoulder to ensure they followed, which they did, he then faced forward, driving his horse into the woods. His horse's hooves pounded the damp dirt and leaves at an increasingly fast pace as his thoughts tumbled in his head. He wished he could remember his family, but the memories were simply not there, likely wiped out by the fall and fear, but what he now had was the truth—that he had been wanted by his mother and father and had, in fact, been sent away to ensure he survived. That truth filled a hole in his heart he had known was there but had not realized had made him feel so empty.

As he rode the trails through the woods, the rain worsened, pelting him in the face and setting a deep cold in him, but he didn't stop. The temperature would continue to drop as the day wore on, and they needed to cover as much ground as possible. He glanced behind him to see if Grace was all right—aware, once again, that it was not simply a sense of duty that drove his concern for her. There was a connection there, whether he liked it or not. She was hunkered low against the rain and wind, but seemed to be riding at a steady pace, so he turned to continue over rough terrain, twisting trails, through a stream, a steep incline, and then onto a path that was gentler but muddied. All the while his thoughts turned to Grace.

She was the daughter of the man who had killed his father. His mother. Possibly his brother and sister. Grace's father had taken the life he knew, and it had almost been lost forever. His mind circled his predicament with this lass over and over. She was the only lass who had ever managed to make him consider lowering his guard somewhat, but no matter how he looked at it, he did not see a good outcome.

"Brus!"

He blinked the rain out of his eyes at his the sound of Grace calling his name, and when he slowed his horse and turned, she was directly behind him. Her gown was molded to every curve God had gifted her with, and her hair was swept back from her face, snaking in wet strands around her neck like an adder slithering toward her chest.

"I'm sorry to bother ye," she said, though she did not look sorry. She looked irritated. A frown puckered between her lovely brows, and her lips were pressed in hard line. She licked them, and his mind immediately recalled how she'd tasted sweet and spicy, and how her tongue had danced so willingly with his. "We've been riding all morning, and I was wondering if we would be stopping anytime to quench the thirst of anyone who might have it."

They'd been riding all morning? He had to steal a quick glance at the sky to ensure she was correct. It was dark and thunderous but judging by the shade of the sky peeking out from the clouds, she was correct. Two thoughts collided at once: he couldn't believe he'd been preoccupied for so long with thoughts of her, and it was damned humorous the way she was trying to get him to stop without admitting she was the one who was thirsty. He wanted to stop for her. He wanted to stop, remove her from her horse, set her upon his knee, undo his wine skin for her, and press it to her lips himself. All those dangerous yearnings, along with the weather, was exactly why he could not stop. She would not perish of thirst. He was thirsty, too, so he was suffering right along with her.

"If someone is thirsty, they can turn their face up to the sky," he said, trying not to laugh at the way her mouth fell open. He thought that would send her on her way, but she narrowed her eyes upon him.

"How would one do that and ride safely?" she asked in a tone that rang of false sweetness.

He liked her fighting spirit, and he was aware that each new thing he discovered about her, each new thing he found endearing, created a connection to her that he wasn't even certain he wanted, but he could not stop himself from teasing her. "Like so," he said, tilting his head back, opening his mouth, and letting raindrops fall in for a moment before he righted himself once more and smirked at her.

She smirked at him. "I'll pass the information along."

"Ye do that," he replied, tapping his horse on the side to speed up and leaving her physically behind. Mentally was another matter. His mind flashed the myriad looks she'd given him over and over as he wound up a path, through a stream, and down a hill. He didn't know if it was her show of spine, but he was struck with such deep respect for her strength. He'd been with women in his life, but he'd never seen a strength of character like hers. It seemed to flow within her like the blood that gave her life. Grace would be an asset to any man she wed, and he could well imagine her raising strong children. He growled in frustration at himself and his inability to keep his thoughts from her, and then he growled at the weather, which was still pouring rain from the heavens and the wind was hitting his skin in icy blankets.

The muscles in his back and legs were tight from the continuous fast pace, but he would not stop. In fact, the thought of needing to make camp in the woods tonight with her had him riding faster, and he would not have slowed, except once again she rode up beside him.

"My sister is famished," Grace said, though she herself had the look of hunger about her. She was paler than earlier, and she was sucking on her lower lip. "Might ye stop for her?"

"For yer sister or for ye?" he prodded, desiring greatly to see how prideful she was.

Her glare told him everything. The lass had the pride of a warrior, and it appealed greatly, which disturbed him. He had a suspicion his yearning for her was overriding his good sense, which was why he'd wanted distance. He reached beside him in his satchel and pulled out two hunks of bread. "There's nae a need to stop, unless ye need me to do so." If he judged the lass correctly, which he was certain he had, she'd rather put a poker in her eye, just like he would, than admit a weakness.

"When ye wish to stop, ye can try and catch up with me," she flung out, flying past him. He was so stunned he sat atop his horse for a moment, speechless. Above him, the sky opened wide as if God Himself took exception to his goading Grace into such foolish and dangerous behavior. Rain didn't just fall; it drove downward like cold knives. Thunder resounded, shaking the very air, and lightning slashed brilliant, deadly silvers and golds. Sparks flew as the lightning met a nearby tree with a crack so loud, Ross winced. And then a sweeping realization struck him, and the blood in his veins froze as the tree that had been hit fell straight across Grace's path.

She never had a chance to stop. The tree fell right before she reached it. The horse attempted to jump, but with the slick mud, the beast struggled, his hind legs catching, and flew forward at an awkward angle that landed him on his knees. Grace was thrown through the air, and Ross heard an inhuman sound he realized with a start was coming from him. He kicked his horse into a gallop, his gaze locked on Grace, but she wasn't moving. He could hardly breathe as he raced toward her. He'd killed her. He'd killed her with his goading, driven by his conflicting desire to keep her near and push her away.