Chapter Sixteen

Hitting the ground knocked all the breath out of Grace and rendered her dazed and unable to move for a moment. Then things occurred in slow motion. The sky was illuminated in colors of blues, pinks, silvers, and golds that made her eyes widen and enabled her to see that the blowing wind drove the rain across the sky instead of straight down. Mud oozed around her, squishy and cold, and it took an enormous effort to even move her fingers. Then an animalistic roar split the humming in her ears, and before she could think where it might be coming from, Brus loomed above her, his face cast in the shadows of the night.

"Grace?" he said, his hands hovering by her shoulders as if he was afraid to touch her.

"Aye?" she croaked.

"God's blood." Fear and relief reverberated through the words. His hands came under her shoulders, then he sat her up as he moved closer. He slid one hand under her legs while the other went behind her back, and before she knew what he intended to do, he'd scooped her off the ground, into his lap, and close to his chest. "I thought ye were dead."

"Did ye?" Her head thumped something fierce. "What happened?" she asked, snuggling into the warmth of his chest and the strength of the solid arms around her.

"A tree fell, and yer horse—"

"The horse!" she gasped, attempting to push out of his arms, but he held her firmly.

"Grace!" Arya cried out, practically falling on her sister and hugging her tight. Wet hair brushed Grace's cheek. "Ye could have been killed!"

"I'm fine," Grace said, squinting up at Brus's face. "Let me stand. I need to see to the horse."

"'Tis bad," Arya said.

Grace's heart squeezed. "Let me stand," she insisted, pushing on Brus's chest, but he didn't do as requested. Instead, he set her off him, rose, then hauled her up, taking hold of her hand as he did. When she was standing, he did not release her hand but held her in place.

"I dunnae think ye'll wish to see," he said gently.

She didn't wish to see the injured beast at all, but her temper and impulsiveness were the reason the horse was injured. She untangled her hand and turned toward the struggling beast.

Her anguish at what her rashness had done almost overcame her, and she doubled over for a minute, feeling sick. Brus's hand came to her shoulder. "Grace, I can take care of the animal. Ye dunnae need—"

"Nay." She straightened up and stared at the panting horse. The twisted angle of his leg made her stomach recoil. She swallowed the large lump in her throat. "What can we do?"

Brus kneeled, talking softly as he ran his large hand over the horse's dark neck, down its muzzle, and then over its body and legs. She held her breath as she watched, amazed at the tenderness and care he showed the beast. After a moment, Brus rose and came back to her, facing her. "The leg is broken verra badly. Tantor will need to be put down."

A cry caught in her throat, and she had to clear it to speak. "Are ye certain?" she asked on a shiver as Arya came to stand beside her.

"Aye," Brus replied and withdrew his sword. "Ye lasses should walk away."

Arya nodded and immediately left, but Grace stood there, heart thudding, throat constricting, and gooseflesh peppering her skin. "I did this. I did this by letting my temper get the best of me and pride rule over reason. I will stay with the horse." She brushed past Brus and kneeled by the beast, who let out puffs of air. "Do what ye must."

He met her gaze. "Are ye certain?"

She nodded. Warm tears leaked out of her eyes. "Go on, quickly please."

She didn't realize Brus had raised his sword until he plunged it into the beast. There was one excruciating whimper and snort of air before Tantor went limp. Tears tracked fast down her face, rolling off her chin and into her lap. She leaned toward the now-still destrier, set her hand on his neck, and whispered, "I'm sorry." She rose, legs shaking, and that trembling traveled quickly to every part of her body. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and then the world tilted and everything went black.

"Drink this," Brus said the moment Grace's eyelids fluttered open. She blinked at the sight of flickering flames against stone walls.

"Where am I?" she asked, setting her hands on the ground, expecting to feel mushy mud, but instead, soft material met her fingertips. Looking down, she stared at the muted colors of the Northern Watch plaid.

"I brought ye into the cave. We'll take shelter here for the night," he said, nudging the wine skin into her hand. "Drink," he urged gently when she just stared at it.

She didn't deserve to quench her thirst. Her actions had killed a precious animal.

He rested his forearms against his knees as he crouched in front of her. Flame danced across his chiseled face and over his broad shoulders and muscled arms. Her belly tightened with what she now recognized as desire. She was a horrid person. She was responsible for a horse's death moments ago, and in the blink of an eye, she was sitting here lusting for a man who wanted nothing to do with her.

He let out a long sigh. "I ken how ye feel. My impetuousness has also gotten a horse killed afore."

"It has?" she asked as the tears started once more. She could not stop them.

He started at her long and hard, and his gaze held such tenderness that, despite herself, she felt hope for them. "Aye, lass," he replied, holding the wine skin before her once more. "I vow to ye, ye'll nae ever make the same mistake again."

"I should hope nae," she said, unable to calm the tears that kept coming. She took the wine skin from him and took a long sip, welcoming the trail of warmth from her mouth to her belly. It was so nice that she took another drink before lowering the wine skin to her lap. "I'm so sorry," she said, sniffing and looking down at her lap as tears plopped one after the other onto her sodden gown.

His hand came to her chin, warm and firm, and he tilted her face up until she was looking into his eyes. She tried to look down once more, but he held her face there. "I'm the one who needs to apologize. I caused ye to react by being such an ass. I'm sorry. I... I was—That is to say, I was trying—" He let out a disgruntled sigh and shoved a hand through his hair, which was almost totally dry and curling at his neck.

"What were ye trying to do?" she asked, leaning toward him, feeling as if there was an invisible string tugging her to him.

"I was trying," he said, sounding as if he'd been defeated in battle, "to keep distance between us."

She would have taken it as an insult, but his hungry gaze raking over her face, then sweeping down her body and returning to her face, showed her it was anything but an insult. And throwing caution and pride to the wind, she kissed him.

There were no thoughts of "what if" or modesty. There was not even a worry that he'd push her away. She knew by the raw desire in his kiss that he wouldn't. He wanted her every bit as much as she did him, but he was fighting it with all his being. He tasted as before of smoke and mead and hints of dark grape in the wine. His mouth was warm, and the hand that came to her back and then to cup her neck, was even warmer. He grunted and pulled her across the bit of space that still divided them as his tongue traced the crease of her lips. She knew he wanted entry, and she was only too happy to grant it.

She opened her mouth, and his tongue delved inside, touching and tangling with her own. Each tug on her lips between his built heat and desire until it was so intense that she was crawling into his lap. She set her legs on either side of his hips, and his hands came to her outer thighs as his lips seared a path down her cheek, then her neck, to her shoulders.

When he slipped a finger under the inside edge of her bodice, she threw her head back on a moan as her blood rushed through her and made her tremble all over. She curled her nails into his shoulder as he tugged her bodice farther down to expose one nipple, and when his hot mouth closed over her sensitive, swollen bud, she cried out in pure pleasure.

"Everything all right in there?" came Arya's voice.

Grace froze, but Brus did not. He pulled away from her, tugged her gown up, set her off him, and scrambled backward, putting space between them. His hands came to his upper thighs, and his knees pressed onto the other plaid he'd laid out. His gaze bored into hers, darkening with pain and regret as he shoved a hand through his hair. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling exposed and miserable.

"I should nae have allowed that," he said, and the despair and disgust in his voice ripped her heart open.

Hot anger filled it. "Nay," she said, seething as she tugged her gown over her bare legs. "Ye should nae have since ye are a coward."

His eyes narrowed into slits. "A coward?"

"Aye," she replied. She'd dreamed of meeting a man, of wedding one, who made her feel the desire and passion Brus did, but the dream was turning into a nightmare because he made her feel those things and kept rejecting her. "Ye are a coward. I ken ye feel what I do, but ye are too scairt to give us a chance because ye fear we will end up on opposing sides of a battle that is nae even our battle!" She was yelling now, and her sister and Conall most likely could hear her, but she didn't care.

"I'm nae a coward," he growled.

She stepped to him and poked him in his chest. "Ye are. Ye are a coward."

"Ye dunnae even ken who I am," he bit out.

"I. Ken. Ye," she replied, poking him between each word. "Ye desire me, but ye're too scairt to let me in because ye think yer mama abandoned ye."

He grabbed her finger that she'd just poked him with and held it firmly. "Ye dunnae ken me. I barely ken who I really am."

"Who ye really are!" she said, her irritation with him spiking. "Ye are who ye have made yerself to be, Brus."

He released her finger and shoved both hands into his hair to grip two fistfuls of the black strands. "I am who yer da made me," he snarled.

The words were so filled with hatred that she sucked in a breath. "What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

He reached down and brought his plaid up over his head. For a moment, she watched transfixed by his fluid graceful movements and the way his muscles rippled beneath the surface of toned skin. He tossed his plaid to the ground and pointed at his chest. He'd been branded.

Horror seeped into her mind and then her body. "Why were ye branded?" she whispered, her mind reeling with the amount of pain that must have caused.

"Because, Grace. I am nae Brus Stone, the bastard. I'm Ross Stewart, lost son of Laird Gilbert Stewart, the Lord of Lorn. I am the son of the man yer da killed."

She frowned, feeling as if she had not heard him correctly. "I dunnae ken what ye are talking about."

"Nay?" he snapped.

She shook her head, the intensity of his expression making her take a step back.

"I am the son of the man whom yer da betrayed. I lost my mama because of yer da. I lost my brother and sister, mayhap forever. I lost my name for a time, and my memories it seems for life."

Her mind whirled, and she was so confused she found it hard to form words. "Nay, that kinnae be true."

"Which part, Grace?" he demanded, his lips turning into an unpleasant smile. Before she could respond, he spoke. "The part about my nae being a bastard? The part about my da being Laird Stewart? Or the part about yer da being a murderous, lying, treacherous man?"

Heat pounded at her, and her limbs shook. She wanted to sit down, but she locked her knees. "My da is honorable."

"Yer da is a liar."

She pressed her fingers to her temples. It wasn't true. It could not be true. "Ye said ye did nae ken who yer da was. Ye said yer mama abandoned ye."

"Because I thought it to be so," he said. "And then I brought ye to the stronghold. And Nigel—nay, Bran—saw the way I looked at ye and the way ye looked at me, and when ye kissed me—" He shoved his hands into his hair once more before he tugged them out. "Well, I caught him lying about why I could nae accompany ye to yer uncle's, and he finally told me the truth."

She frowned. "Why would ye believe a man who ye ken was lying to ye?" she asked, feeling hope at that. She stepped toward him and touched his arm, but he flinched and brushed her hand away.

"Dunnae. I kinnae stand it. Every moment around ye is torture. I'll nae bother trying to explain it because ye'll nae believe it. Ye will believe yer da, and I can accept that, but that only reinforces what I have said: we stand on opposing sides. Enemies. I will seek retribution for my da, my mama, myself, my siblings, and my clan. And I'll nae stop until I get it. Ye could nae ever stand beside me for that, so ye will always be against me. We will always be at odds, so we dunnae have a future."

He turned and left, and she let him, frozen in place as she was by his words and his accusations. It could not be true. It could not. But there, in the back of her mind, was a niggle of doubt that sent her to her knees.