Chapter Six

The Present ~ 1475

Rough Bounds, Scotland

Brus reacted without thought and dropped down beside the lass, grasping her long hair with one hand and sliding his other arm around her waist to hold her up as she kept heaving.

"Grace!" her sister cried, rushing to them and kneeling to face them, the worry obvious in her eyes.

"I've got her," he assured her as he held tight, his fingers curled around her sister's small waist. After a few moments, her retching stopped, and she sagged toward the ground in his grip. He pulled her back to his chest, spreading his thighs to bring her between them for support. She didn't protest but gave a low moan. Her silky head came to rest under his chin, and her soft bottom pressed against his manhood. In any other circumstance, this woman would have lit a fire in him, but he doused the spark that wanted to turn to flame. This lass wore fine clothes and traveled with a man who would be a laird; lasses like her did not bother with bastards like him.

Despite knowing that, he had the overwhelming urge to offer her what comfort he could. "Ye're all right," he whispered to her.

He frowned at the oddly gentle tone of his own voice. He didn't know what the devil had come over him. He'd aided any number of lasses with the Northern Watch, and he'd never fawned over a single one of them. He glanced down at her as she turned her head a bit to look up at him. A lock of thick, red hair had fallen across her left eye, nose, and half her rosy lips. He reached down and brushed it back to tuck it behind her ear, and a small, tentative smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"Thank ye."

He nodded. "Ye're welcome," he replied. "Why are ye traveling with Errol MacLaren?

She frowned. "How do ye ken—" Her words stopped abruptly, and she scrambled to her feet and swung to glare down at him and then Conall. "Are ye two part of the Northern Watch?"

Technically, he wasn't "part" of the Watch since he had yet to take the vow to join them, despite the man he called his father pressuring him to do so, but he nodded. He went on missions with the Watch, he'd grown up with the Watch, and this mission of his and Conall's had been assigned to them by the leader of the Watch, Torquil. "Aye, we—"

She bent down and slapped him before he even realized what she was doing until her palm connected with his cheek.

"Grace!" her sister exclaimed.

He gained his feet, just as her palm came toward his face again. He caught her forearm and held her steady as the vein by his right temple thumped. "What in God's blood was that for?"

"That," she said, the single word like a slash through the air with a dagger, "is for nae meeting us when ye were supposed to. And if ye'll release my arm, the next one will be for almost getting me ravished!"

"If ye strike me again, ye little she-devil, I'll tie yer hands behind yer back and leave ye that way until I deliver ye to Castle Tioram."

Her eyes went wide, then narrowed. "Ye would nae dare."

"He'd dare," Conall piped up.

"I did nae almost get ye ravished. Ye can blame that on MacLaren," he said, tilting his head to the man whose eyelids were only now starting to flutter open. "If he had used the sense I assume God granted him and a dash of the patience, he'd have kept his arse at our meeting place, given we arrived shortly after we were supposed to. He kens enough about the dangers of these woods to send a request to us for safe passage."

"He wanted to stay put," the lass Arya said, to which Grace gave her sister a look that could only be described as glacial.

"Well, then why the devil didn't he?" Brus snapped.

"I persuaded him nae to wait," Grace replied, shifting from foot to foot, her face twisted in utter misery.

He tilted his head as he studied her. "Ye must have some sort of hold on the man to make him take leave of his senses like that," he said, matter-of-fact, and when she turned a deep shade of red, it did cool the temper she'd ignited in him just a bit.

"I'm verra anxious to get to my da," she said, her voice ringing with embarrassed indignation.

"Who's yer da?" A wary look dulled her green gaze, and he smirked. "Have ye forgotten that we—" he motioned between himself and Conall "—are to guide ye safely though the forest?"

"Nay," she replied, her tone taut. "I've nae forgotten. But thinking upon it, I believe Errol told me it's the Northern Watch's duty to tamp down clan wars, aye?" She arched a perfectly formed, perfectly lovely eyebrow at him.

"Aye," he agreed, amazed that he had even noticed her eyebrows. It was a damned odd thing to find lovely, but it was true. He'd never seen eyebrows that framed the eyes quite the way hers did.

"Then how is it that Castle Tioram is under attack?" The question held a sharp accusation.

He suspected it was because Torquil had purposely decreased the Northern Watch guard on the night the MacLeans stealthily attacked the castle at the cliff, but he'd never utter such a thing aloud. Torquil had long been saying that the Lord of the Isles was using his brother's castle to increase his own power, so when the opportunity to aid someone trying to stop it had arisen, Brus believed Torquil had looked the other way.

He cleared his throat. "We kinnae be everywhere at once, Grace." He paused, surprised by how naturally her name rolled off his tongue. "We were otherwise engaged in another scrimmage that night." That wasn't a lie. Torquil had decreased the Watch that usually guarded the area of the woods that led to Castle Tioram, and he had sent those men, Brus included, to deal with reports of Wolf Warriors attacking riders at the northern end of the woods.

She frowned. "Why were ye two free to guide us? Has the king nae ordered the Northern Watch to come to the aid of Unc—"

She paused before finishing her sentence, but a suspicion rose in him. "Niall MacDonald?" She'd been about to say Uncle Niall. He was certain of it, and he glanced to Conall to see if his friend had noticed her slip and understood the significance. Conall had grown very still, and his expression was one of intense hatred.

"Who is yer father?" Conall asked, his tone matching his expression.

Grace looked at Conall, and she took a sharp intake of breath. Brus understood why. It was obvious Conall was fiercely angry.

The fair-haired lass began to speak. "Our da is the L—"

"Arya!" Grace shouted, slashing her hand into the air, which caused her gown to gape open, unbeknownst to her. Her breasts swelled before his eyes, and he struggled to look away. When he finally did, Conall was standing beside him, arms crossed over his chest and a dark look on his face.

"Is yer da the Lord of the Isles?" Conall asked, his gaze drilling into Grace and his voice holding a hardness Brus had never heard.

Grace took a step back, looking down as she did and gasped. She tugged her gown back together, and Brus instinctively put himself between her and Conall, facing his friend. "'Tis nae her doing that put ye here."

Behind him, he could hear her take another sharp breath. "I ken how men come to be in the Northern Watch," she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. Damn Conall for scaring her so badly.

Conall poked himself in the chest. "I came to be here because yer da is a liar."

"That's nae true!" Arya cried out and rushed to her sister's side.

Grace put her arm around her sister. The woman was beautiful, but the look of righteous indignation that came over her made her stunning and admirable. Whether he liked her father or not, he admired her loyalty to her sire. "My da is nae a liar. He's a good, honorable man."

"Maybe that's how ye ken him," Conall said, spitting each word, "but I ken a man that lied to protect his family's name and his brother's—yer uncle. Who tried to ravish my sister! I came to be here—" Conall poked himself in the chest once more "—because I did nae simply stand by and watch yer lecherous uncle have his way with my sister who was but nine summers!"

All the color had drained from Grace's and Arya's faces, and the two lasses glanced at each other. If he'd not been staring so intently at Grace, he'd have missed the look that passed between them, that showed they knew something about their uncle that made Conall's story believable. That look made Brus's blood run cold. What could their uncle possibly have done that would make them able to believe he'd try to ravish a young lass? God's blood, had the man ravished one of them? Both of them? Bile rose in Brus's throat, and he forced it back down.

"And Brus," Conall seethed, not waiting for either of the women to reply, "is nae a criminal of any sort."

"Oh nay?" Grace said, a disbelieving look on her face. "I suppose my da lied about something Brus said he did nae do, either."

Conall growled and then said, "Nay, ye pompous, foolish—"

"Enough," Brus snapped, glaring at Conall and then leveling Grace with a look that he hoped gave her pause. She had judged him lacking without knowing a thing about him other than what he'd shown her, which was honor and kindness. "Let her think what she will. All that matters to me is that we keep them alive until we deliver them to their da and uncle as we promised to do." It was true, but the lass had pricked his pride and temper.

"Well, that's nae all that matters to me," Conall bellowed, which Brus noted made both lasses jump. "Truth and vengeance matter as well."

Brus nodded, deciding maybe if he let Conall just speak his piece, he'd settle down a bit.

"Brus did nae take a life oath to the Watch to avoid death," Conall ground out.

"Dunnae listen to him, Grace!" came MacLaren's slurred words from behind Brus.

Brus turned to find the point of a sword at his chest and Errol MacLaren now standing, dried blood covering his face and plaid. Brus gave him an amused smile before scowling at Conall. "Ye did nae think to warn me?" he asked his friend.

"Nay," Conall said, sounding bored. "The day ye need warning from the likes of this," he added, motioning his hand toward the barely standing man, "is the day I dunnae wish to fight by yer side any longer."

"I'd like to see ye try to take me down!" Errol said, shoving the point of his sword into Brus's chest until it pierced his skin and brought a protest from Grace.

"Errol! Stop!" Grace cried.

The man paid her no heed. His sword pricked deeper into Brus's skin and his patience. Brus swept his right leg out at MacLaren, just behind his knee, taking him down as he pushed the sword away from his chest. He was standing over MacLaren, who groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Ye did nae have to do that," Grace chided as she came to stand beside Brus.

"And ye did nae have to judge me or Conall without kenning us."

Her cheeks flushed, and she sucked her lower lip in before releasing it to speak. "I'm sorry," she said, the two words low. "But ye must ken that all I have heard of the men on the Watch is that ye committed heinous crimes, and in order to gain clemency from the king, ye swore an oath to serve the Watch for life."

"Nae everyone who is accused of a crime actually committed it, Grace," he said, thinking of Torquil specifically. "And sometimes good men have to do harsh deeds to protect those they love, and that is more often than nae the case with the men of the Watch."

"Grace, dunnae trust this man!"

She kneeled beside MacLaren and set a hand to his chest. Something tightened in Brus at the sight of her touching the man. He didn't know why it should bother him, other than he didn't care for the sort of men who would ask for their protection through the forest and then treat them as if they were the lowliest of criminals to be feared. The thought spurred Brus to speak. "If ye dunnae trust us," Brus said to MacLaren, "then perhaps ye should nae have requested our aid in guiding ye through the forest."

"Aye," Conall said, offering a razor-sharp smile as he, too, looked down at MacLaren. "Since ye dunnae trust us, ye can see yerself on the rest of yer journey. Good luck to ye."

Brus cursed inwardly. MacLaren seemed just foolish enough to let pride make his choices instead of sound judgment.

"Fine," he snapped, proving Brus correct. Then the man sat up with a hiss of breath between his teeth and struggled to his feet. "Grace," he rasped, "hand me my sword." He swayed where he stood, barely fit to be on his feet, let alone wield a weapon. The question was, would the lass acquiesce or let common sense prevail?

"Hand ye yer sword?" she said as she stood. Her tone was one of utter astonishment. Brus had to press his lips together not to smile. Grace MacDonald was clearly a lass ruled by common sense.

"Aye," MacLaren bit out, his tone now harsh. "Hand me my sword."

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and her mouth turned down into a frown. She set one hand on her hip and pointed a finger at him. "I'm nae a hound to be ordered about."

"I did nae mean to order ye about," MacLaren said, his face red, whether from embarrassment or pain, it was hard to say. Brus suspected it was likely both. The man clearly had a tendre for the lass.

Grace's face softened just a bit at the man's words. "Ye're injured," she said, "and if the Wolf Warriors were to attack us again, ye would nae be able to protect us."

"I—"

"Dunnae let pride make ye a fool," Grace said, interrupting him. "And these men are correct," she added, looking first at Brus and then at Conall. Brus looked at Conall, too. He stared at Grace with obvious wariness. "Ye trusted them enough to ask them to guide us through the woods safely, so that's what we will do. But afore we do..." She locked her gaze on Brus. "If the Northern Watch stronghold is closer than my uncle's home, and ye will allow us, I think we should journey there first to tend to Errol's injuries."

"I dunnae need tending!" MacLaren exploded, but the effort rocked him back on his heels and sent him staggering into Arya, who'd stood there silently thus far. She caught him by the arm, or she tried to, but the man was twice her size and they both reeled into Conall, who caught Arya with one hand and MacLaren with the other. He steadied Arya, but he shoved MacLaren to the ground. The man landed with a groan.

"Nay," Conall said, sarcasm dripping from the word. "Ye dunnae need tending at all. Ye're bleeding at a nice steady rate and should be good and dead by morning if ye dunnae have our healer see to the wound."

"Oh, Errol!" Grace gasped and kneeled before him. She pressed her hand to his right leg, where blood had soaked through his braies. "Ye must have been cut during the battle," she said, her sister coming to her side. Grace reached down to her skirts and tried to rip them to no avail.

Brus watched for a moment, knowing full well she was trying to get a piece of material to tie around MacLaren's leg, and also knowing she would not be able to rip her skirts. He could see from where he was standing that the material was fine and thick. She'd need a dagger. He had one, but instead, he unwrapped his plaid from his chest and walked over to kneel beside her.

"Here," he said, thrusting the Northern Watch plaid out to MacLaren. "Ye can use this."

MacLaren glared, and Grace, with a disapproving cluck of her tongue at the man, took the plaid from Brus. When their fingers brushed, her gaze met his, and he thought he knew why. Something had jolted through his fingers at her touch, and she'd clearly experienced the same thing. She jerked her hand and the plaid away, that same lovely blush that had stained her cheeks earlier returning. "Thank ye," she said, even as she turned to Errol. Brus could have stood then, but he stayed kneeling there, lost in her freesia scent and the ever so careful and gentle way she wrapped the plaid around MacLaren's leg. He found himself wondering if they were betrothed. Then he gave a little shake of his head and stood. What did he care if they were to be wed?

He turned to Conall, who was looking at him as if he needed to explain his actions, and shrugged. He couldn't even explain to himself why he'd offered his plaid to a woman who had judged them and found them lacking, not to mention for the purpose of aiding this pompous man.

"I'm sorry," came Grace's voice from behind him.

He turned back toward her. She was still kneeling beside MacLaren, but now his head was cradled on her lap. Brus had the urge to stride over to him and jerk him to his feet. What in God's blood was the matter with him, feeling envious of the man she was caring for? He didn't need her care nor did he want it. When the day finally came that he allowed a woman to tend him, it would be after she had unequivocally proven herself trustworthy, and he'd not met a lass yet that had done so.

"For what?" he asked.

"Judging ye both without kenning yer story." She paused and waited. She was waiting, he knew, for him to tell her, to tell all three of them, how he came to be with the Northern Watch.

"I tell my personal business to those I trust without question," he finally said into the growing silence.

"And that list is short," Conall added, which was true enough. That list included his father, Torquil, and Conall. Not even the other members of the Northern Watch made the list. He trusted them, but only to an extent.

"I see," she said quietly.

"We dunnae need or want yer trust," MacLaren snarled.

"Shush, Errol," Grace said. "Ye need to be tended to, and ye would nae have sent the request for them to guide us if ye had nae thought we needed it." Grace looked to Conall and then Brus. "We would like for ye both to guide us to my uncle's after seeing to Errol's wounds at yer stronghold, if ye'll still take us."

Brus glanced to Conall, though he knew he would do it even if Conall refused, given who the lasses were. And Brus half expected his friend might do just that.

Conall paused for a long moment and let his gaze travel over Grace, then MacLaren, and then Arya. "I suppose it is as Brus said. Yer father's sins are nae yers."

Brus noted that Conall did not take his gaze off Arya, and she gave him a shy, small smile, to which Conall nodded. "I will accompany ye with Brus, but all three of ye need to do as we say for the rest of this journey."

"Aye," Brus agreed, seeing MacLaren open his mouth to protest. Brus didn't pause to give the man room to speak. "Conall and I ken these woods and ken best how to keep ye safe. The attack from the Wolf Warriors should be proof enough of that."

"What is it ye'd have us do?" Grace asked.

"I'd have ye and yer sister ride with me and Conall, and yer friend MacLaren there—"

"Her betrothed," MacLaren inserted, causing unexpected and unwarranted disappointment to rise in Brus.

"Ye are nae my betrothed yet," Grace replied, standing and reaching down to MacLaren, who was struggling to gain his feet. The man took her hand with a begrudging look, grunting as he gained his footing. She released his hand the moment he steadied, but he reached for her and snagged her hand in his once more.

"Grace rides with me," he said.

A tic began near Brus's right eye. He didn't care for way the man acted—as if the lass were his to be ordered about. Even if she were his, which she'd clearly said she wasn't yet, she had a mind of her own and could use it to decide for herself. He caught her gaze. "I dunnae recommend that, given his injuries, but ye are free to decide for yerself."

"I appreciate that," she said, giving MacLaren a pointed look. Brus wanted to smile, but he didn't. Gloating was never wise. "I'll ride with Errol to aid him."

"Nay," MacLaren said, surprising Brus. The man looked at Brus as if he'd sooner stab him than admit what he was. "I'm injured. I'll nae let my pride put ye at risk. Ride with Conall."

She frowned at him. "I'll ride with Brus. Arya can ride with Conall."

"Glad it's finally settled," Brus said, whistling for his horse, who came to him immediately. "Where are yer horses?" he asked her.

"Up the hill," Grace offered.

"MacLaren, ye collect the horses and ride the back of the line," he said.

"What right do ye have to order me about?"

Brus faced the man. "Would ye give yer life for this woman?" he asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

"Aye," MacLaren replied without hesitation.

"Then ye need to ride the back of the line. If we're attacked from the front, they'll have to get through me, and I'll toss Grace to Conall, while ye release the horses to catch up to him. If we're attacked from the back, I'll do the same to come to yer aid, and the attackers will have to get through ye. And I'd say, even though ye're injured, ye'd manage to find strength to protect the lasses. Am I right?"

MacLaren nodded.

"Good. Then with this plan, whether we're attacked from the front or behind, the lasses will ride away with Conall and two extra horses, and ye and I will fight off the attackers. Do ye see now?"

"Aye," the man growled. "But circling back to the issue of trust, I've a question that needs answering afore I do as ye ask."

"Ask it, then."

"Why has the Northern Watch nae sent support to Niall or the Lord of the Isles?

"I imagine," Brus said, "that the king has nae decided who to support in this battle, and we serve at the king's orders."

"Aye," MacLaren said. "I thought as much. I've a missive from the king to the Lord of the Isles. I believe he sends his word to give aid."

"Well, unless Torquil receives word—"

"And Torquil is?" MacLaren asked.

"The leader of the Northern Watch."

"Torquil Stewart," the man said, his tone full of disdain.

Brus frowned. "I see ye ken him."

"I ken him from fireside talks with my da and his men."

"Who is Torquil Stewart?" Grace asked. "Other than the leader of the Northern Watch?"

"He was once a renowned warrior and right hand of the now deceased Laird Stewart."

"The laird who Da fought in battle because he was conspiring against the king?" Arya asked.

"Aye," MacLaren answered. "Torquil was nae his right hand then, though. He'd been imprisoned by the old king some years earlier after Torquil killed his wife's lover in a battle of honor. The lover, as it happened, was the king's favored friend."

"That dunnae seem a crime worth having to trade yer life's freedom for in order to keep yer head, if the man was in a battle of honor and the other died," Grace said. "Especially since the man who died was the wife's partner in cuckolding Torquil."

"I told ye, lass, every man in the Watch has a story, and most are nae simple. Good men are sometimes forced to do bad deeds."

"Errol, why have ye nae opened the missive?" Arya asked.

"'Tis nae his place," Grace answered. "'Tis for Da, from the king, and only Da can open it."

"Surely, the king will support Da and Uncle?" Arya asked. The worry that settled in a puckered frown between the lass's brows revealed she was unaware of the king's displeasure with her father as of late.

"Dunnae fret," Grace answered. "I'm certain the king will come to Da and Uncle's aid."

Brus caught the wince that MacLaren quickly hid. So, the man knew the king was displeased with the Lord of the Isles but was keeping the truth of it from the lasses?

Brus didn't care for keeping them in the dark. It was like lying. He took a deep breath. "The king is currently displeased with yer father."

Grace frowned. "Are ye saying that the king may consider my father his enemy?"

"He may," Brus answered honestly.

"Then that would make us enemies," she said.

"Nae for my part," he replied.

"If the king orders ye to stop my father, ye would?"

"Aye," he answered honestly again.

"Would that make me yer enemy?" she asked, matter-of-fact.

"Nae yet," he answered and held his hand out to her to aid her on his horse.

"Why should we be enemies simply because my da and the king are nae in accord?" she asked as their gazes clashed and her small hand slid into his hand.

Something passed between them as they stared at each other. He felt it. It was like the crackle of lightning through the dark sky on a stormy night.

"Because we would both need to pick sides," he said. "I'd pick the king's, and ye would choose yer da's."

"I dunnae think I agree with that," she said as he lifted her onto his horse and settled himself behind her. Her soft bottom was nestled between his thighs once more and pressed against his manhood, making it difficult for him to concentrate on their conversation. He turned his horse from the others and with a cluck of his tongue, started them on their journey.

"Why must what is happening with the king and my da force us to be enemies when we have nae done anything to each other personally?" she asked.

He stared at her silky hair for a moment, debating if this line of conversation was wise. Undoubtedly, it wasn't. Normally, he'd extract himself, but for some strange reason, he found himself answering. "Because it's inevitable. If we're on different sides, then we would eventually do something to each other."

Her back stiffened in front of him. "Ye dunnae trust people verra much nae to hurt ye, do ye?"

He sat there for a long moment, thinking about not answering, and half-heartedly counting the trees they passed. She raised her hand to her hair, took up a strand, and wound the fiery lock around her finger, likely as easily as she could wind a man around that same delicate finger if he wasn't careful. She was too bonny and too smart, and she seemed kind and good. Something was not right. He didn't like personal talks about himself and could not recall a single time he had ever had one with a woman. A few lasses had tried, but he wasn't about to give a lass a weapon to use against him later. He should probably ignore her question, but the urge to answer it was more powerful.

"Trust must be earned, and I ken few people who have earned it. I trust those people."

"And the rest? The ones who have nae earned it?"

"I wait to see."

"Ye wait to see what?" she asked, turning just enough that he could see one bright, inquisitive, seemingly guileless eye before she turned to face forward once more. She was either a very good pretender or she was truly honest. The question was, which was it?

He was no fool. He was not walking into her woman's web, which meant he could answer without fear. He took a long breath and said, "I wait to see how they will betray me."

"Is this just women or men?"

"Both."

"So ye trust some women?"

God's blood. He'd just been baited and led to a trap, but he would not back down from the question. "Nay, but that's because I have nae met a woman who has earned it."

"I can hardly think every woman ye met has nae been worthy of trust. I would say 'tis ye."

"'Tis me?" he asked, curious and a bit irritated.

"Aye." She nodded. "Sounds to me as if ye have a problem trusting."

Truer words had never been spoken, but he wasn't about to admit it to this stranger, this lass, no matter the fire she kindled in him.