Chapter Fifteen

Ruairi had offered and Grace had insisted that Austin and Fiona use one of their spare tents, and Austin could imagine no reason to refuse his generous hosts. By the time the fire had ceased to blaze and several mac Caileans had wandered off to find their beds, Austin was ready to make his with Fiona. He wasn't too concerned what any might think of them sharing a tent and the rush mat Grace had also provided. And frankly, he didn't believe that Fiona was in any condition to have qualms about it either.

She wasn't soused completely, but she also wasn't much closer to sober, being a bit listless as she walked away from the dwindling fire after a lengthy and swaying embrace with Grace. With the rolled canvas tent wrapped in the rush mat thrown over his shoulder, he kept one arm around Fiona, steering her away from the clearing and into the silvery moonlit blackness of the forest at midnight.

"That was a guid evening," she concluded with a wobbly nod of her head as Austin sat her down against a stout pine trunk when they were about fifty yards from the Carnoch Cross.

"Guid company," he remarked, making use of two closely set trees and the rope Ruairi had given him to raise the small tent.

"Nae tall enough to stand up in," Fiona commented, and then chuckled quietly to herself.

Grinning, he was made to recall some of the first—decidedly arrogant—words he'd spoken to her.

"I have nae felt so... unfettered, nae in a long time," she said next.

"I'll have to see about procuring more Flemish wine," he said, stomping on the iron stakes, as he had no axe or mallet to hammer them firmly into the ground.

"Aye, I guess it was the wine," she supposed. A yawn followed this, through which she added, "Guid wine."

"C'mon," he invited a moment later when the tent was settled to his satisfaction.

When Fiona did not move or react immediately, did naught but lift her arm slowly, Austin collected her small hand in his and went to his haunches in front of her. She was little more than a shadow of dark gray against the tree, though her eyes glistened as she lifted them to him.

"I ken I should be happier," she said.

"Happier for having drank the wine?"

"Happier," she repeated. "as I was—am—tonight but am nae regularly."

"Aye, ye should," he agreed. "All of us would likely benefit from larger doses of happiness."

"I am...proud of Fiona Rose who leads the humble Rose army," she said, in the way that drunken people waxed philosophical, which elicited another smile from Austin, "but I dinna often like living in her skin."

His smile faded slowly, and his heart ached at her words, having some idea of the burden she carried. "Ye are fierce, Fiona, but even warriors should have an expectation of joy. Ye dinna have to be tough all the time."

Her gaze wavered, and for a moment, he saw not the hardened soldier, but the vulnerable woman beneath.

"I dinna ken another way or if...." Her words trailed off. She shrugged helplessly.

"Ye do," he whispered, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Ye did so tonight. But ye dinna need wine to show ye that ye can or should." Standing, still holding her hand, he pulled her to her feet. "Come, let me hold ye."

"Och, an expectation of joy," she quipped, the melancholy swiftly dispersed.

Austin's soft responding chuckle pierced the quiet of the night as he guided her into the tent. He doffed his sword and plaid, laying them inside the narrow space, and joined Fiona within.

And while he might have only held her, considering her near-drunkenness and her questioning of the warrior she'd become and what she'd had to sacrifice for it, Fiona would not allow it. The vulnerability he had glimpsed only moments ago gave way to an unexpected boldness. Her eyes, though still slightly glassy from the wine, sparkled as she glanced up from his chest when he'd pulled her close.

Fiona shifted, not without some difficulty and an elbow to his ribs, to bring her face close to his. She lifted one leg and draped it over his thigh and glided her hand over his chest. Her breath was warm against his neck, her touch more insistent than hesitant. "I dinna only want to sleep, Austin," she whispered, her voice low and cajoling. "I want more."

Taken aback by this, Austin found himself smitten by her half-cutt audacity.

She pressed her lips clumsily to his, a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened with a hunger that matched her spirit and his desire. Austin allowed her to take and hold the lead, responding eagerly, captivated by the passion she wasn't afraid to show.

In the dim light of the tent, and much to Austin's delight, Fiona's hands roamed freely, exploring with a confidence that spoke of a woman completely at ease with her own desire. Austin marveled at her fierceness in this regard—this same woman who had faced down enemies with unwavering resolve now approached him with a different kind of intensity.

When the tent indeed proved too small to make the removal of clothing effortless, Fiona's laughter, soft and breathless, filled the small space, a sound so beautiful that it made his heart constrict.

Fiona's openness was intoxicating, her eagerness to discover and learn an aphrodisiac in and of itself, and Austin found himself surrendering to her completely, or trying to. While he was thrilled to lie back and let her explore, it proved to be some of the most excruciating moments of his life, testing his resolve as never before.

As he'd kissed so many parts of her flesh the night before, so Fiona visited the same gorgeous torture on him, surprising him by exploring so freely with her hands and lips. And when he could stand no more the torment he turned her onto her back and slid into her tight heat, nearly whimpering as she did at so perfect a fit and feel.

"God's bluid," he whispered harshly against her ear when she clenched around him. He could hardly breathe, couldn't think, of naught but this, the feel of her, and soon was lost in the greatest sensation, which crested at the same time as her pleasure was found.

In the quiet aftermath, as they lay tangled together, Austin held her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Ye are remarkable, Fiona Rose," he murmured, his voice filled with awe and affection.

She smiled against his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "With ye, like this, I feel truly alive," she replied softly, and shortly thereafter drifted off to sleep.

SHE FELT AS IF SHE'D lost a head-to-head contest with a trebuchet.

At the same time, she felt, even hours later, decadently spent and languid.

In both regards, Fiona decided that morning came too early, even as she woke alone in the tent.

The soft light of dawn filtered through the fawn-colored canvas, casting a warm, golden hue inside. The tent was sparse but cozy, with a simple rush mat under her, providing less comfort than it did protection from the cool ground. The scent of pine and fresh earth mingled with the lingering fragrance of the rose soap. A small bundle of her belongings—Grace's borrowed léine and kirtle and Fiona's new sword—lay now where Austin had lain overnight, his heavy plaid the only thing covering her.

The tent flap rustled gently in the morning breeze, hinting at the world outside.

She was in no hurry to greet it yet.

Fiona stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in her muscles, a reminder of last night's intimacy. Despite the early hour and her solitary state, she couldn't help but smile at the memory of Austin's touch and her own bold exploration. She took a deep breath, savoring the quiet and the rare feeling of undiluted pleasure, suffering no qualms for how brazenly she'd behaved with Austin. Instead she was imbued with a sense of gratitude and wonder.

At length, she did rise, awkwardly dressing while sitting up in side the tent, her head brushing against the side. Recalling the location of the burn in which she'd bathed yesterday, she went there first after dropping and rolling up the canvas and mat. At water's edge, she scrubbed her face, hands, and teeth as best she could, having learned that wine tasted much better from a wooden cup than it did in her mouth the next morning.

Austin found her there as she was straightening from the water and drying her hands on the skirt of Grace's léine.

The smile that came to her was mechanical, instinctual, in response to the sight of him and the warmth in his dark blue gaze. He was dressed as usual, in his tunic and breeches, but the way he looked at her was different, softer.

Fiona's eyes feasted upon him. She traced his rugged face, the chestnut hair that fell over his broad shoulders, his thick arms, and his narrow waist—just as her hands had done so wondrously last night.

"Morning, lass," he greeted tenderly, his gaze scouring her face. He kept coming until his boots touched the hem of Grace's gown and dipped his head to kiss her sweetly. "I kent I'd have to wake ye, but I see ye've made yourself ready for the day."

"Aye," she replied, her voice a bit husky from sleep and the remnants of last night's indulgence. "Though, to be honest, I could use several more hours of sleep."

He chuckled softly. "Nae doubt. The wine is guid at the time, but often bad in the aftermath."

She nodded, her cheeks pinkening at the memory. "Fortunately, it was more guid than bad."

As he held a lumpy cloth in one hand, he wrapped his other around her waist and drew her up against him, sending a familiar and welcome shiver down her spine. He covered her mouth again in a kiss and said against her lips, "Verra guid, lass." Loosening his hold, he presented his other hand to her. "I brought ye bread and a hard egg to break yer fast." His grin improved, raising crease lines in the corners of his eyes. "I dinna ken if ye're up to it, but Ruairi expects to meet with de Graham today and wants to ride out anon."

Fiona accepted the cloth-wrapped bundle he held, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank ye," she said, uncovering the modest fare, happy to put something into her belly. She bit into a crusty hunk of bread and tilted her head at Austin, who was regarding her closely. "He does ken or recall that we've nae steeds to ride?"

"He does, and has offered one of the mac Cailean mounts, if ye dinna mind riding with me."

The idea actually excited her. She loved to ride, felt sometimes powerful and invincible upon her charger, with whom she hoped soon to be reunited, but could not deny the thrill roused by the idea of sharing the saddle with Austin, being in his embrace.

The thought of his strong arms around her, the warmth of his body pressed close, and the rhythmic motion of the horse beneath them stirred a longing in her. She imagined the simple pleasure of being in close contact with him for however long or far they might ride, feeling his breath on her neck and the steady beat of his heart against her back. As much as she prided herself on her independence and strength, there was an undeniable allure in the idea of surrendering, even briefly, to the comfort and protection he offered.

"I'm up for it," she informed him. "And I will happily ride with ye." She stepped around him, continuing to eat, and said over her shoulder as she began heading back to the mac Cailean camp, "But nae if ye're going to keep yer hands to yerself."

Austin's laughter echoed behind her. He caught up to her swiftly, delivering a playful smack to her behind. "I'll do nae such thing," he retorted, his voice carrying a wicked undertone.

Fiona shot him a sidelong glance, her smile radiant as she quipped, "I ken I could count on ye."

As they walked toward the Carnoch Cross, Fiona grappled with a burgeoning sense of self that felt both exhilarating and unfamiliar. Who was this woman who now toyed with flirtation, who'd waded fearlessly into the waters of intimacy with Austin Merrick? It was a departure from the stoic warrior she had always known herself to be, a revelation that both thrilled and disoriented her.

In truth, she felt as if she'd blossomed. For so long, she had lived under the weight of expectation, molded recently by the demands of duty and in her youth, in the shadow of her father's indifference. But in these last few days with Austin, including last night around the fire and later within the confines of their tent, she had glimpsed a different version of herself—a woman unburdened by pretense, unafraid to embrace desire and vulnerability.

The wine had emboldened her, certainly, but Fiona sensed something deeper at play. It was as if, in Austin's presence, she had discovered a new facet of her identity, one that resonated with a profound sense of authenticity.

She realized, with a pang of clarity, that she hadn't been born sullen and fierce; she had crafted that persona, sculpted it to fit the expectations she'd place upon herself, ever hopeful of her father's attention.

But I want to be free, she decided, willing to embrace this new version of herself.

SHORTLY AFTER FIONA had collected and donned her breeches and tunic, returning with genuine gratitude the clothes she'd borrowed from Grace, the small party set out from the Carnoch Cross. The air was crisp and cool inside the forest and Fiona was grateful for the warmth of Austin's arms and plaid. Birds chattered noisily overhead, chirping out warnings as the group moved along an unseen path among the towering trees.

When the forest allowed, Ruairi and Grace rode side by side with Austin and Fiona.

Though the pace was not yet swift, Grace seemed to wince often, and then groaned aloud about the slight headache she was nursing from last night's indulgence.

"I'm never touching Flemish wine again," Grace muttered, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. "Lesson learned."

Fiona chuckled softly, feeling a twinge of sympathy for her friend. "Aye, it seems we overdid it a bit," she admitted, taking note of Ruairi's amused smirk.

"If you're laughing at me, mac Cailean," Grace warned without turning to see if he was.

"I would nae, love," Ruairi lied smoothly, briefly rubbing his hand up and down Grace's arm in some effort to console her.

As they rode, the forest gradually gave way to open moorland, the landscape stretching out before them in a vast expanse of steep, rocky outcrops and heather-covered slopes. The sky above was a brilliant blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds that drifted lazily in the breeze.

Though they rode swiftly, it seemed they were forever upon the grasslands, never seeming to get closer to the distant crags. After several hours of steady riding, Ruairi drew them to a halt in a clearing in the heart of the moors.

Fiona surveyed the landscape, taking in the swells and dips of undulating green grass and gray rock. She was as surprised as Grace—who gasped softly—when a massive force of mounted riders came into view, rising over a distant hillock like a wave cresting the ocean's surface. The large army disappeared briefly as they descended the far slope, only to reappear again, rising again over a closer knoll, transforming from a distant, shifting mass into a multitude of individuals, hundreds of them, all garbed in tartans of forest green.

The sight was splendid, and a chill raced down Fiona's spine. She was ever inspired by the magnificence of such a display of raw strength and unity.

Unless this was an enemy...?

She turned to Ruairi and lifted her voice above the clamor and thunder of their approach. "De Graham?"

"Jesu, I hope so," Ruairi replied, but his grin advised it was.

Returning her attention to the massive army that bore down on them, Fiona was further impressed at the sight of the arresting figure leading the army, a man sitting tall and proud in the saddle at the head of the approaching horde. She'd been leading the Roses and entrenched with enough militias by now to be able to recognize the leader of one.

Torsten de Graham was at least ten years older than either Austin or Ruairi, possibly nearing forty, with close-cropped, mostly gray hair. In contrast to so many men who seemed rugged and disheveled from the rigors of marching and fighting, Torsten appeared fresh and unruffled; sunlight glinted off the shiny steel of his sword and off the polished metal of the stirrups in which sat boots of pristine black leather. Ruairi and Austin were formidable in their own right, exuding power and confidence, but Torsten de Graham was a remarkably commanding presence, distinguished by both his age and immaculate appearance.

He pierced the waiting party with narrowed eyes, radiating an air of easy confidence and restrained menace as he reined in ten feet in front of them. Nothing in his ferocious mien suggested he possessed either an ability or a want to smile, his demeanor naught but cold, unyielding authority.

Ruairi was the first to dismount, helping Grace alight before striding forward with a nod of respect. "Torsten," he greeted. "?Tis guid to see ye."

Torsten's hard gaze softened fractionally, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment before dismounting himself. "Ruairi," he replied, his tone gruff but not unfriendly as they met and clasped forearms. "And Grace Geddes," he said, acknowledging Grace's presence at Ruairi's side. "I am gratified to find ye well and safe."

Austin and Fiona swung down from the saddle, stepping forward next to Ruairi and Grace.

"Torsten," Austin said warmly. "Still looking as unruffled as ever, I see."

"Merrick," he returned. "And ye look as though ye've been enjoying the hospitality of the woods."

Austin chuckled, shaking his head. "The woods have their charms, but they dinna compare to a well-made bed."

Torsten's eyes shifted to Fiona, his expression inscrutable. "And who might this be?"

Austin stepped in smoothly. "Fiona Rose, of the Roses of Dunraig, a valuable ally in our fight."

Fiona met Torsten's gaze without flinching, a spark of defiance in her eyes as she sensed what she sometimes did from prominent chieftains, a dismissive attitude toward women. "A pleasure, sir."

He studied her for a moment longer, his gaze lighting briefly on the sword at her hip. "The pleasure is mine, Fiona Rose. Nasty business, what was done at Dunraig."

"Aye, and just as odious," she furthered, "what happened at Castle Wick."

De Graham nodded, his gray and black brows furrowing. "Aye, we've heard. News came down with Urry to the king's camp."

"Urry abandoned Wick?" Austin seethed with annoyance. "Met with the king?"

"Aye," de Graham answered. "Said ye were dead. I canna say I trusted wholly his disjointed report regarding the failed siege but imagine my surprise to ride up and find ye nae only alive but outside Wick."

Austin briefly explained their capture, departure from Wick with the English, and their subsequent escape.

When this was done, with de Graham's frown growing heavier by the moment, he said thoughtfully, "Of course, this changes everything. The king was prepared to abandon Wick and his hopes to secure it, in favor of overtaking another English-aligned house, Lochlan Hall."

"Lochlan Hall?" Fiona questioned. "Is that where ye're heading?"

"Aye," answered de Graham, settling his hands on his hips. With a questioning gaze directed at Austin, which briefly included Fiona, he guessed, "Ye're heading north, I presume. Meaning to finish what was started?"

"Aye," Austin replied. "Do ye ken if MacLaren abandoned Wick as well?"

"He did, came down with Urry. King Robert sent them off to Dalwhinnie, where it is expected they will do little harm." He shrugged indifferently, seeming unperturbed by Urry's uselessness. "Come a larger action, he'll be recalled. Every battle needs fodder for the English armies."

While neither Ruairi nor Austin appeared taken aback by Torsten de Graham's cold-heartedness, Fiona froze, her brow knitting for the man's icy pragmatism, a ruthless pragmatism even, which prioritized victory at any cost. To him, the men of Urry's army were mere pawns in the grand game of war, expendable resources to be used and discarded as needed.

His nonchalant attitude toward the sacrifices of men fighting for the same cause as he did hinted at a deeper ruthlessness, a willingness to make the hard decisions and accept collateral damage in pursuit of his goals. But while it showed that he was a commander who valued results above all else, unburdened by sentiment or empathy for those under his command, it also chilled Fiona to the bone.

"Christ," Austin muttered furiously. "If they've nae killed them yet, we've other Merricks and Roses in the dungeons there. And de Rathe will only be emboldened if he's nae stopped. But shite, without Urry and MacLaren's armies, we've little hope of effecting a proper siege." He lifted his hand to Ruairi. "Even with the mac Caileans, we scarcely have enough to mount an attack against Wick."

De Graham chewed on this, a speculative gleam entering his dark eyes as he tapped his hip impatiently with the forefinger of his left hand. "And ye're hoping I will discharge my orders from the king and give an assist?"

"Discharge temporarily," Austin acknowledged his desire, and clarified the time frame.

Fiona glanced at the massive army sitting behind Torsten de Grahm at the moment, surely no less than four-hundred strong. She would not have categorized his help as an assist. With the numbers in his force, he could take Wick and Lochlan Hall at the same time.

"Mayhap Lochlan Hall will wait my arrival," he said after a tense moment, a decision seeming to have been made. "I'll send a rider back to the king, advising of a delay in my plans. Nae doubt he would be pleased to have access to and control of both Wick and Lochlan Hall." Inclining his head at Austin in a formal manner, he said, "Ye have my army, Merrick."

Fiona's heart leapt with profound excitement.

Austin's annoyance fled, the relief noted in the relaxing of his stiff posture.

"Ye have my gratitude, Torsten," Austin said, a smiling diminishing his scowl. "Yer assistance will make all the difference."

"Come," Torsten said, gesturing toward a lone stand of trees in a sea of moorland, under which they would confer about their plans to overtake Castle Wick. "We've much to discuss and little time to waste."

Grace sidled closer to Fiona, threading her arm through hers. They followed behind the three men as they walked toward the shade of the birch trees.

"Sweet Mother Mary, but he's fearsome, is he not?" Grace whispered.

Fiona imagined she almost heard a shiver in Grace's tone.

"Aye, he is at that," Fiona agreed, but with a wee more admiration than alarm.

"I know a man in want of a good woman when I see one," Grace said, grinning as she stared at the broad back of Torsten de Graham. "And, my Lord, does he need a woman."