Chapter Twenty

Ross studied Grace for a moment, trying to think of something else to say, how to explain what he was feeling. Worry shone in her eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to ease her fears, protect her, and see to her needs. He was different with her. He had not been lying when he'd said he wanted to trust her. He did, and as he looked at her beautiful, kind face, he knew he did not want her to wed another. Mayhap they'd not end up together, but that would be their decision, not one dictated by her father.

"Nay, because I could imagine it. I could imagine ye as mine, but I will avenge my family and to do that, I must strike at yer da. And I ken ye love him. And I ken that will make us in opposition to each other, and that ye may verra well nae want me as yer husband, so if ye will allow me, I'll aid ye and Arya in fleeing, and accompany ye wherever it is ye wish to shelter from yer da."

Her eyes widened with obvious surprise. "If ye do that, ye'd likely nae get yer heart's desire—the confession from my da."

For a moment, her statement rendered him incapable of speaking as a realization struck hard and fast like a sound jab to the gut. His greatest desire was to be with her. Yes, he wanted retribution for his family, and he would get it, but he would not sacrifice Grace to achieve it. He closed the distance between them, and when she did not step away again, he reached out and tugged her close until all her soft, feminine curves pressed down the length of him. Her light freesia scent filled him when he inhaled, and he ran his palm up the silken skin of her arm, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

"There is nae anything I desire more than ye," he said, aware his voice had dropped low and husky.

"Nae even revenge?"

"Nay, lass, nae if it means losing ye."

A soft but sad smile curved her lips. "I kinnae ask ye to throw away yer chance of discovering the truth of what happened to yer da. My sister and I will flee, and Conall can aid us. Could we shelter at the Watch for the time being?"

He nodded, though he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

She nibbled on her lips. "Ye will stay and have yer chance to discover what ye may," she said quietly, but with a thread of steely determination in her voice. It was but another reason the lass appealed to him so much. Never had he encountered a lass with a will like hers. It was forged of thick iron.

"Ye did nae ask me, Grace. I insist as yer betrothed." He would have said more, but he was not quite sure how to put what was inside of him into words. "If ye wish to stay betrothed to me, that is."

A pretty blush colored her cheeks, and her hand moved tentatively up his back until her fingers curled at the base of his neck and curled into the strands. "I wish it verra much, but—"

He slanted his mouth over hers, determined to cut off any protest she had left to lodge. She was as warm and silky on the inside of her mouth as she was on the outside, and as he kissed her upper lip, then lower one, she made little mewling sounds that made him nearly crazed. If he'd had any control left, which he figured he did not, it broke like a stick underfoot with each slide of his tongue against hers, each curl of her nails into his back, and each time she pressed her pelvis into him. He started to slide his hands down her back to cup her bottom, but she broke the kiss while pushing a hand against his chest, so he released her and looked to her concerned face.

"If ye feign trying to stop us from fleeing, mayhap ye could get in my da's good graces and then ye could somehow get the answers ye need, and then make yer way to us. That way ye'd nae be in danger by aiding us, and—"

"Have ye just made a plan in yer head while I was kissing ye?" he asked, dumbfounded and slightly amused.

"Well, aye," she said.

"I must nae have kissed ye properly," he said, leaning in to kiss her again, but she pecked his lips and said, "ye kissed me verra well. Too well. Ye nearly muddled my thoughts, but my need to protect ye won out over my need for—" She halted her words and blushed.

"Protect me?" he said, astounded.

"Aye," she replied. "Ye need me to protect ye, whether ye like it or nae, just as much as I need ye to protect me."

Not once had a lass he'd been with ever uttered such caring and selflessness words. He didn't need Grace's protection, but the fact that she wanted to protect him filled a hollowness inside of him. He was rapidly becoming attached to the notion of waking up to her every day, going to bed with her, having her arms and legs tangled with his—as well as her entire naked body—watching her sleep, hearing her snore, and seeing her belly thicken with their bairn. He frowned at the last thought. Grace was more dangerous than any enemy he'd ever fought. He'd never seen her coming, so he'd never had a chance to protect himself from her.

"In this instance, Grace, one of us needing protecting will have to trump the other, and I'm sorry to tell ye that I'm going to trump ye."

She got a look on her face like a bee had stung her in the arse. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and her nostrils flared. She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word, the alarm horns began to blow, and in the distance, the torches announcing an escape from the dungeon sprang to life one by one.

He looked to Grace, and she to him, and in unison they said, "Conall!"

"Do ye think yer sister would be so foolish as to try to free Conall?" he asked Grace.

But she didn't need to respond with words. Her look told him all, and he grabbed her by the hand and started running back toward the castle. They raced hand in hand through the woods and up the pebbled path. They started up the long stairs that led to the inner courtyard, but near the top, crying and shouting drifted toward them.

"Arya!" Grace said at the same time Ross heard Conall's shout. Ross started for his sword, but Grace's hand came to his. "Ye will nae be able to help him if ye are dead, and my da will surely kill ye if ye try to aid him. Come. Let us first see what has occurred."

By the time they reached the courtyard, Conall was being dragged away by two guards and Grace's father was holding Arya back. She was writhing in his hold, crying and alternating between screaming her hatred of her father and her love for Conall. Suddenly, Conall broke free from his captors and started to run toward Arya, and that's when Ross saw the archer to the right of Conall, standing near a door and raising his bow to shoot him. Ross released Grace's hand, whipped out his dagger and flung it with all his might. It spun blade over hilt and lodged into the archer's chest. The man fell with a thud and attack orders rang in Ross's ears. A breath later, he was being driven to the ground by three men. Someone grabbed his sword from its scabbard as he took a fist to the gut and one on the chin, and then he landed one to an eye and split a lip. He reared back to strike again, but the point of a dagger came to his heart and another came to his throat.

"Try it," a man snarled close to his ear. "I'll gladly kill ye."

He went limp, knowing he was defeated for now, and he was jerked to his feet, his plaid ripped down his chest, exposing the brand that marked him as his father's son. His gaze clashed with Grace's father, and the man recoiled as if he'd been hit. His mouth gaped open, and he looked as if a ghost stood before him.

"My God," he said, seeming to sway for a moment before stilling. "My God," he said again and looked from Ross to Grace. "Grace, come here," he ordered, releasing one of Arya's arms to wave his hand frantically at her. Her father knew who Ross was. He knew it from the symbol upon Ross's chest. The truth was as obvious as Grace's astonishing beauty.

She did not move but lifted her chin and seemed to grow in height before them all. "Is it my welfare yer concerned for, Da, or are ye concerned I'll be killed and ye'll nae be able to use me to gain an alliance?" she demanded.

"Dunnae be foolish, Grace. Whatever he's told ye is a lie."

"Nay," she said, her tone as certain as the setting sun. "Ye're the liar. Ross has my complete trust, which is something ye betrayed."

She was a warrior at heart, and as Ross stared at her, brave enough to defy her father, he understood she had his heart. She'd not asked for it. She'd taken it.

A hit so hard came to his head that all sound stopped and darkness spread over his vision, consuming the light, Grace, and all his thoughts.

He awoke to water dripping on his face, and when he went to wipe it away, he could not move his arms. Ross blinked and stared at what appeared to be stone. Where was he? His mind did not want to cooperate and answer the question.

"Thank God ye're awake."

Ross blinked again. He knew that voice. It belonged to Conall.

"Raise yer head up, ye big clot-heid."

With some effort, Ross complied. Dizziness overcame him, and the memories of what had occurred came flooding back. "God's blood," he cursed, tried to jerk his arms once more, then saw the ropes tied to his arms, holding him in place. The ropes led to hooks in the ceiling, which effectively had him suspended where he stood. This sentence is odd. Maybe

As the blood rushed back into his head, a sharp pain slithered through the right side to splinter and move all around, causing him to squint and grit his teeth. When his vision finally cleared, he stared at Conall, who was tied exactly as Ross was, arms spread wide toward the ceiling. Bloody lash marks crisscrossed Conall's chest, his lip was split, and blood dripped from his nose, which now sat crooked upon his face.

"I see I missed all the fun," Ross said, the words coming out sounding more like a croak than his normal voice.

Conall managed a smile, and winced. "Dunnae fash yerself, I'm certain Laird MacDonald and his brother will return. They were verra interested in where ye have been, who ye have lived with, and what ye ken."

"Oh, aye?" Ross spit out a string of blood, which made him realize his own lip was bleeding. "What did ye tell them?"

"I told them to suck my verra large bollocks."

"Excellent," Ross said, spitting more blood. "What happened?" he asked, assuming Grace and Arya had both been taken by their father. Mayhap they'd even been locked in their bedchambers.

"Well, I was a fool," Conall said, shaking his head.

"What did ye do?"

"Arya freed me, and I changed my mind at the gate to the outer courtyard because I tasted revenge."

"Ah," Ross said. "That was foolish, but dunnae fash yerself. We will work it all out. When Grace's father comes to pay his respects to me—" Conall chortled at that "—I'll remind him that it's nae so friendly to tie up yer daughter's betrothed."

"About that," Conall said.

"What?" Ross demanded, worry hammering at him.

"Errol arrived right after ye fell, and Grace's father immediately ordered a priest to be called."

Scalding fury made it impossible for Ross to think for a moment, and then the desperate need to free himself consumed him. He yanked on his wrist, the ropes digging into the skin and finally cutting it. When warm blood ran down both wrists, he gave up, but then kicked his feet up, thinking to possibly undo one side of the rope with his feet, but instead he got stuck hanging upside down with one foot caught behind his arm.

"To think some say ye're the best warrior they've ever seen," Conall said, tsking.

"Shut yer trap, so I can work out how to release myself."

"Kick yer right leg back and swing yer body," Conall said.

Ross did just that, and to his astonishment, it worked.

Breathing heavily and his head throbbing in time with the pulsing gush of blood in his veins, he righted. The rope yanked both arms, cutting deeper into his skin as his toes grazed the ground. "I have got to get free and save Grace."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but ye'll nae get free. I have tried, believe me. But dunnae fash too much over Grace. She made it clear she refused to wed Errol, and if anyone has the backbone to stand their ground, it's that lass."

"She is a brave one," came a voice from the shadows.

"Damn it to hell," Conall muttered. "The devil has returned. Did ye bring yer minion?" he shouted.

Grace's father suddenly appeared on the stairs, torch in hand, and behind him, leaning on two thick sticks, was a man with hair the same flaming color as Grace's. Ross's attention was immediately drawn to the man's useless legs. They were gnarled from lack of muscle, pasty, and withering away. But for whatever strength Niall MacDonald might lack in his legs, his chest and arms were massive from years of having to use his upper body to do the work of his lower.

Grace's father strode away from his brother, leaving the struggling Niall on the stairs. The Lord of the Isles stalked across the dungeon to stand in front of Ross. "Ye're supposed to be dead."

"Alas, I'm alive and here to claim my vengeance and yer daughter, my betrothed." He'd never been more certain of anything in his life.

Grace's father offered a smile as cold as the winter winds. "Aye, Grace conveyed the information to me, along with her refusal to wed Errol. But I ken Grace's heart, and so I used it against her for her own good."

Fear settled into Ross's chest, splitting open his heart. "What did ye do?"

"I gave her a choice. A bargain, if ye will."

The fear in Ross slithered like a zealous weed in every direction, chilling him, choking him, making him cold with hatred for the man before him.

"Cut down Douglas," Grace's father said, motioning to Conall. The two guards with MacDonald began to do as they'd been told.

"I suppose ye're going to kill me," Conall said as one arm was released and then another. The smirk that came to Grace's father's face hinted otherwise, and Ross was glad, very glad, that Conall did not appear to be in danger. But he had a terrible foreboding that he was not going to like the bargain Grace made.

"Ye're free to leave the castle," MacDonald said, without turning to look at Conall, who was being held on either side by the guards. MacDonald held Ross's gaze, his own filled with curiosity and a hard edge of contempt. "Arya is waiting for ye."

That foreboding feeling gripped Ross in an iron hold. MacDonald turned from him to face Conall. "Dunnae return. If ye do, I'll kill ye." He flicked his fingers, and the guard dragged a stunned-looking Conall out the door as MacDonald faced Ross once more. He smiled then, but it did not reach his eyes. "I held ye as a bairn," he said, a wistfulness in his tone as his faded blue eyes took on a faraway look. "Yer da was my ally, my closest friend, until he thought to betray me. All I have ever done has been for my clan, my family, and the good of Scotland."

"Bran told me of the treaty with the King of England," Ross said simply. "Conspiring against the King of Scotland, yer king, was nae for the good of Scotland."

"He was a child king, and I kenned he'd be a weak king, so I sought to add strength. That is nae conspiring against Scotland. That is working to keep Scotland strong. The King of England fully intended to take the throne."

"Aye, with yer help," Ross bit out. "But he could nae do it, and ye killed my da because he discovered what ye were up to."

The cold smile that had been on MacDonald's face faded. "History says otherwise, Ross. Now, where is Bran?"

"I dunnae ken," Ross said, and it was the truth. Bran had said he was going to find Margaret and Graeme, but he had not said exactly where he was going to look.

"Dunnae make me torture ye to get what I need. Yer death could be quick and painless."

"I'd rather it take months to die than aid ye in finding and killing Bran."

"As ye wish," the man said. "I'll be back, but I'm afraid I must depart to wish the bride and groom felicitations."

Ross recoiled at the news, and that made Grace's father smile genuinely. It was a slow smile that grew. "As ye might have guessed by now, the bargain I made with Grace was if she wed Errol, I'd allow her sister to leave with yer friend."

"Just leave?" Ross asked, his heart racing with a new, awful possibility.

"Aye," MacDonald replied. "The devil is in the details, boy." He turned and strode toward the stairs.

MacDonald was going to kill Conall the minute they left the castle. Of course he was. He'd not allow his daughter, his other bargaining chip, to wed a man who could not bring him a strong alliance, and Grace, in her selfless haste to save her sister, had failed to consider this. Or mayhap she'd simply not been capable of accepting just how wicked her father could be.

Grace.Grace had wed Errol. Shock yielded to fury, which turned to overwhelming loss. He'd lost her, and he'd just found her, just realized he cared for her. He began to shake with rage, and then he began to yell her name over and over again. "Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace."

He more than cared for her. She had him completely. He was hers, and she was another's. He yelled her name until his throat was hoarse and sweat dripped down his forehead. Then he began to work at his bindings, tugging and pulling, the blood dripping from the cuts the ropes made. He had to get loose. He had to find her. He didn't care what law of God or man he had to defy, he would be with her.

He gave a vicious yank on his right arm, and his wrist, slick with his blood, tugged free from the binding. As he reached toward his other wrist, horns began to sound one by one. He knew just enough to understand that the castle was being invaded, and these horns were a call to arms. And in the battle for the castle, Grace could well lose her life.