Chapter Seventeen

"I think I made it clear that I dunnae wish to be near ye," Ross said, wading out of the water naked as the day he was born. Unsurprisingly, Grace's eyes widened, and she quickly turned her back to him, which he was glad of. It had taken him a very long swim in the river to cool his lust and his anger, and it took one glimpse of her, hair tumbling in wild disarray over her shoulders, and her damp gown clinging to the swell of her breasts and her hips, for his lust to burn hot again. But not his anger. It stayed at a low simmer, because his time away from her in the cold water had reminded him that she was as much a victim of her father as he was. That didn't change much, except to remind him not to direct his ire at her.

"Aye, ye were clear, but here I am anyway," she said, a determinedly stubborn lilt to her voice that made the corners of his mouth itch to turn up in a smile. "And I'm nae leaving until we talk."

He believed that. She was, by far, the most stubborn lass he'd ever met. He liked it, though he wished he didn't. In fact, he liked everything he'd learned about her, except who her father was. With a frustrated sigh, he bent down, grabbed his clothes, and quickly dressed.

"Ye can turn around now," he said, shoving his hands into his hair to slick the wet strands off his face.

When he brought his hands down, her gaze was on him but not his face—it was on his chest. The knowledge that she desired him the way he did her sent lust rushing through him once more, and every moment of touching her that he'd tried to repress bombarded him. He could smell her freesia scent, feel her silken skin, hear her soft moans when he took her bud into his mouth, and he could recall in acute detail the fullness of her breast in his mouth and hands. By the gods, he'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted this woman. Fate was a jealous mistress indeed.

"Will ye sit with me?" she said, motioning toward a rock formation that jutted out into the water. It sat directly under the moon that had finally decided to make a full appearance.

"If I say nay, will ye let that be my answer?"

"Nay," she said with a grin that made his chest tighten.

"'Tis what I thought." He motioned toward the rocks. "After ye," he said, thinking that by having her go ahead of him he could keep distance between them as long as possible, but he'd failed to consider that walking behind her meant he had the perfect view of her hips swaying. And each sway of those hips made his desire grow hotter and his frustration and ire increase.

They got to the four rocks that were positioned neatly in a row into the river, and she maneuvered the first one without a problem, but on the second one, her foot slipped, and it sent his heart plunging. He feared for her safety as he'd never feared for a lass's safety before. He didn't know how that could be, but not knowing the how didn't change it. He grasped her arm and steadied her.

"I vow that was nae on purpose so ye'd have to touch me," she said. Her earnest, serious tone was not lost on him.

"I ken ye're just clumsy," he teased and shook his head. He was supposed to be building a wall between them, not a bridge that she might misconstrue and think he wanted her to cross. He didn't. Well, his logical mind didn't anyway. His body and his heart wanted her to skip across the rocks and twine her arms about his neck. Instead, they settled on the rock, side by side, enough space between them that they were not touching. It didn't matter, though. He didn't need to be touching her for her to affect him. Just having her near set a crackle in his blood.

She let out a long sigh, and then she turned to face him. He wasn't looking at her, so he couldn't see her, but he could feel her gaze on him. It was like feeling the sun and not needing to look up to know it was shining. He met her gaze and was again struck by her ethereal beauty.

"Will ye tell me from the beginning what Nigel—"

"Bran," he corrected.

"Fine. Bran," she said. "Will ye tell me what Bran told ye?"

"Why?" he asked. "Ye'll nae believe me, and then we will argue, and then—"

"Because I kinnae deny that what ye said could be possible. I want to, believe me I do, but I kinnae just dismiss the possibility."

He was amazed that she was even willing to listen.

She cocked her head as she studied him, and he could see in her gaze that she was attempting to puzzle things out. "Who taught ye to dance?"

He frowned at the odd question, and she offered a small smile. "If ye'll indulge me for a moment, I do have a point, and the answers will aid me, I think," she said, so he nodded.

"I was nae taught. I could just dance."

"What about yer manners?" she asked. "Did Nigel—" She shook her head. "I mean Bran. Did Bran teach ye those?"

"My manners?"

"Aye. Ye bow like a courtier, and ye have a genteel way."

"Bran has the manners of a hound, lass," Ross said with a fond chuckle. "So, 'twas nae him."

She nodded, and a sad look settled on her face. "Aye, I suspected as much." She tapped her teeth together for a moment, then spoke. "Ye ken how to dance, ye have manners as fine as any of the great lairds and their sons that I have ever met."

He expected her to say more, but she grew quiet and stared out into the distance with a forlorn look upon her face. "I'm afraid I am nae following ye, lass," he finally offered.

"All of those things," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "All of those things point to ye nae having been abandoned, but having been reared by a loving mama with genteel manners, such as a lady of a great stronghold."

His chest tightened at the thought that she believed him or was willing to consider the possibility. That took great courage and selflessness. Whatever was between them, those invisible threads of connection that kept forming, despite his efforts to stop them, grew stronger in that moment and multiplied. She let out a shuddering sigh. "I love my da," she said, her voice sad but firm. "I love my da, and he has always been a good—nay, a wonderful da to me and Arya."

She was twisting her fingers in her lap. It was a small gesture but a telling one. She was nervous. He wanted to question her, but silence allowed her to speak at her own pace and he wanted that for her.

She swallowed. "I dunnae believe he could do what ye say."

Disappointment hit him. "Aye, I said ye would nae."

She frowned, her hands moving from twisting in her lap to twisting a lock of hair around her right index finger. "But there are the things that I mentioned as well as other things—"

"What other things?" he interrupted.

"Mostly, it has to do with my uncle," she said, sounding sad.

"Do ye ken something about what yer uncle did to Conall's sister?"

She shook her head. "Nay, but there was a kitchen wench who asked my da to keep my uncle away from her, and she disappeared from our home the verra next day. When I asked my da about Leila and where she'd gone, he said he did nae ken to whom I was referring. He said we had so many servants that he could nae be expected to ken the names of all of them, but I ken it was a lie. I ken it because I heard him and my uncle arguing about Leila. I had forgotten about it until Conall revealed why he was on the Watch."

"So ye ken yer da is a liar," he said, regretting that he'd said it in such a harsh way the moment the words left his mouth.

She leveled him with a sharp look. "Mayhap. But so is Bran. He lied to ye, if he is to be believed now, for years. And if he is to be believed, then I'd wager he lied to ye to protect ye. To keep ye safe."

He didn't like that she had deduced exactly what Bran had said, nor did he like that he had a sliver of doubt about how fully he could believe Bran, because Bran had lied, just as Grace had pointed out.

She reached out and touched the top of his hand very lightly and only for a moment, but she may as well have struck him with lightning for the way her touched affected him.

"I need to hear what Bran told ye so I can sort it all out in my head."

"Why should I trust ye enough to tell ye what Bran told me?"

She looked at him long and hard. "Because I have nae given ye a reason nae to trust me."

He snorted. "Nae yet. I imagine when we get to yer da's, ye'll tell him who I am because ye love him, and ye'll want to try to protect him, and then he'll simply rid himself of me."

"If ye believe that," she said, her gaze not wavering from his, "we'd nae be sitting here. Ye would nae have allowed me or my sister to come. Ye would have simply come yerself and killed my da. Ye need to trust me. Ye want to trust me."

"Did ye deduce all that after I left ye?"

"Aye," she replied, her voice dropping low.

God's blood, she was right, except for one thing. "I'd nae have marched into yer uncle's home and killed yer da, because I need him to speak the truth and clear my da's name."

She worried her lip as she stared at him. "If it is true, I will help ye to clear yer da's name."

He knew what that would cost her, so he knew the offer was an enormous sacrifice. He had vowed in the water never to touch her again, but the misery in her voice, the heartache, smashed his vow, and he slipped his arm around her to pull her close. Her thigh pressed along the length of his, and his arm rested over her shoulders. They sat quietly for a few moments with nothing but the hum of the moving water and night insects. The air was so crisp his chest felt tight, and his breath came out in puffs of white. There was reason for them to be enemies, but when she leaned her head on his shoulder, he understood one thing for certain: for the hundreds of reasons for them to be enemies, there was one reason for them not to be, and it was this moment, this feeling of connection, of peace that he found when near her.

As he stared out at the water glinting in the moonlight and the shadows across the bank that danced on the rocks, he began to speak and tell her everything Bran told him. She sat up, turned to him, and traced a finger over his brand. It was as if she touched his soul.

"I dunnae want to believe ye," she said, "because it will destroy the life I ken, it will obliterate the father I ken, but I kinnae—" She paused, looked down, and shook her head before looking up once more. When she did, tears trailed down her cheeks. It nearly crushed him to see what this was doing to her, but it could not be undone and he could not simply forget it. It wasn't just himself he had to think about. It was his sister and brother, who were hopefully somewhere out there still alive. He needed them to have a home to return to. He needed that home to be the one they had been driven from. It was his dead father and mother. He was suddenly torn between his need for revenge and his yearning for her.

"I am nae certain," she said, gulped in a breath, then shuddered. "I'm nae certain of him, and I must be certain."

"And what if ye believe him?"

"I will tell ye. I will nae give ye up afore I tell ye I believe him and give ye time to go. If I believe my da, I kinnae simply stand by and ken ye wish to kill him."

"I dunnae wish to kill him, Grace. I told ye so, and I vow it."

She looked skeptical. "Nay?"

"Nay. I wish to make him suffer for the rest of his life for his crimes. That's worse than death."

She sucked in a sharp breath. "Aye," she finally agreed. "That is."

"So, what do ye propose?" he asked, rubbing his chest because it hurt inside.

"I propose, for the time being, that ye trust me and I trust ye. Ye will allow me to get what information I can and trust I will nae betray ye, and I will trust ye are nae going to kill my da."

"That is a lot of trust to ask," he said.

"Aye," she agreed. "But I dunnae ask for more than I'm willing to give."

He thought on that for a moment. It was the complete truth. She was trusting him blindly, and it made him want to do the same. He couldn't forge a future with his enemy. That was the truth. But Grace was not his enemy, and for now, they were not forging a future but simply a path. He opened his palm between them without a word. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know if they had any chance at a future. All he knew was that he'd felt lost for a very long time, and with her, he didn't.

She set her small hand in his without speaking or looking at him. They both looked forward to the river, to the dark night full of shadows, and the moon full of light. It struck him suddenly that the shadows were his past and maybe Grace was the light out of the darkness. He curled his fingers over her smooth skin, letting her warmth seep into him. He wanted revenge, but if she was the price, he wasn't sure he could pay it.

They sat there for a long spell, and eventually, Grace leaned her head on his shoulder. After a while, the steady rhythm of her breathing filled the silence. He sat still, listening to her, almost relishing it. She showed a great amount of trust in him to allow herself to fall asleep, and he yearned to give to her the gift of trust in return. He didn't feel the pit in his stomach he always had when he thought of opening himself up.

As the temperature began to drop, he knew they needed to go, and he gathered her into his arms as carefully as he could. She didn't wake, and he realized the lass had been utterly exhausted. But he also realized she would have pushed herself to continue with the journey if he'd said they were going to. She was not only bonny but smart and brave, and he had the urge to lie beside her just to see what waking up to her was like. He carried her to camp, expecting Arya and Conall to be asleep, but Conall was there, sitting by the fire.

When Ross approached, Conall looked up, a serious expression on his face. "I need to talk with ye," he said.

Ross nodded, inclined his head toward Grace, and then toward the shelter. Conall nodded his understanding, and Ross made his way to the shelter, lay Grace inside, and returned to Conall. "Talk."

"I need to confront him," Conall said. "I need him to admit the truth."

"He'll nae give it to ye," Ross said simply, knowing Conall was speaking of Grace and Arya's father.

"I ken," Conall agreed, "but he may give it to her."

Ross frowned, not following at first, but then he thought he understood. "Ye mean Grace?"

"Aye."

Ross shook his head. "Her da is nae going to admit the truth simply because she asks him."

"I ken that, but if her da thinks she kens why he did what he did, thinks she would side with him in the matter... If she thinks I'm so desperate for the truth that I will risk my life—"

"Ye are."

"I. Was." The two words were given slow and deliberate.

"Ye were?" Ross asked, disbelieving.

"Aye. I was."

"And now?"

Conall gave a small smile and a shrug. "I want justice, dunnae misinterpret what I say. But I have discovered I want something else as well, something I did nae expect." When Conall's gaze flicked to the tent where Ross assumed Arya was sleeping, realization struck him.

"Ye want Arya."

"I do," Conall said simply. "I have nae ever met a lass like her."

"I ken completely," Ross replied, thinking of Grace.

"I thought that might be the case," Conall said, his smile growing. "Arya kens who ye are."

"God's blood, Conall! We dunnae ken we can trust her!"

"I ken I can."

"That easily?" Ross growled.

"Aye, that easily."

A strange feeling invaded Ross, and he realized after a moment that it was envy. He was envious of how easy it was for Conall to give his trust. "Why are ye telling me all this?"

"Arya thinks the best way to get a confession about my sister from her da is to use Grace to get it."

Ross shook his head. "She is already going to confront him."

"Arya thought as much, but she believes it will take more than Grace just confronting their da. Arya believes their da's tongue will only be loosened if he thinks he's losing both of his daughters because of his lies. If he believes Arya has turned against him, and that Grace might too, Arya thinks he will admit the truth to Grace so that he can convince her not to turn away from him. But for this to work, Grace needs to believe Arya has turned against him. And Arya says Grace knows well that the only things that could turn her sister against their da is the desire to protect the man she loves."

Ross felt his frown deepen and then a sort of cloud parted in his mind. "Arya has given ye her heart." When Conall grinned, that same envy from before snaked through Ross, but he tampered it. Grace might give him her heart if he'd only let her in. "What are ye and Arya planning?" he asked, confused.

"I plan to attack her da as soon as we get there. All ye need do is stop me, so that Arya can come to my defense, and I need ye nae to tell Grace."

"I dunnae like the idea of keeping Grace in the dark," he said.

"She'll nae be in harm's way, Ross, and this may be the only way her da ever confesses the truth. She must have real emotion about her sister's reaction and belief in my word over their da's."

"Ye're going to get yerself killed," Ross said, with a shake of his head.

"Nay. I dunnae believe so. Arya will release me from the dungeon, and I'm willing to wager her da would nae harm me in front of her and risk pushing her further away."

"And if he makes the confession to Grace? What will ye do with that?"

"I'm hoping Grace will agree to speak to the king for me."

"Ye want to be released from the Northern Watch," Ross said, certain it was true.

"Aye. I do. I've come to love it, and in all honesty, I did nae have a problem staying forever until I met Arya."

"Does she ken yer hope?"

"Aye." Conall said. "She kens that the king has the power to release me from my life vow to the Watch, and she kens as I do he'd nae ever consider it unless her da told the truth of his brother's actions and what happened that day. Her da's words are what sealed my fate."

He wanted this second chance for Conall, but to use Grace? To betray her trust? She may not forgive him. But Conall and Arya were right that this was likely the best way to lure Grace's father into a confession about Conall's brother. Arya was undoubtedly right in thinking her sister would be so distraught for Conall and Arya that she'd confront her father. He hoped that by aiding his friend, he did not put a divide between himself and Grace that could never be crossed again.