Chapter Two

When she was sure she had put enough distance and a wealth of trees between her and the odious eejit near the loch, Fiona Rose allowed herself to stomp more firmly, her ire raised to a degree it hadn't been since the last time her sword had met the flesh of a man.

Of all the insufferable, distasteful, boorish things to have said to her! To have suspected of her! What kind of man went around assuming a woman—upon whom he'd so grievously trespassed—was of a certain occupation merely because he happened to find her half-clothed? He proved the magnitude of his boorishness, had he not? So readily transfixed by the way her shift clung to her body that she'd been able to retrieve her small dagger from her belongings without his notice.

Oh, but his eyes! And the way they'd feasted on her! Twenty-two years she'd known in this life, but never had she ever been subjected to so indecent, so coarse, so shocking, so...so thoroughly devouring a stare as that man had fixed upon her. She thought she should check herself for bite marks, for the way he'd eaten her alive with those skewering blue-gray eyes.

No longer oppressed by his heated glance, her aching hands were given liberty from the tight fists they'd mostly been in his impertinent company. She breathed raggedly now, scarcely having drawn breath when he'd been near, too shocked by what he had assumed of her.

Saints alive! But who was that man?

Admittedly, he'd been less fiendish in his erroneous assumption and lazy pursuit than he'd been clearly saturated with an inflated opinion of his own charm. Had he leered more or spoken with a more sinister snarl rather than that deep drawl of self-confidence, she'd have been more afraid than infuriated. While she trusted her own ability to protect herself, the devil with the pale blue-gray eyes was an imposing figure, cast of stone, layered in sculpted muscle—said the broad shoulders and impeccably trim hips and flat belly—and had he been of a mind, he could have easily overpowered her.

Because he had not, she was less consumed by fear and horror but more with furious indignation for his belief that she was a...a common strumpet, willing to sell her favors to slake what appeared a sudden and powerful lust.

Far removed from the soothing water and the horrible man, Fiona paused and dropped her belongings, wanting to dress properly before she returned to the Rose camp. She blew out a breath of annoyance and doffed the sodden shift, which she rarely employed save for modesty's sake when she bathed, and found the long linen strip and began to wrap that snugly around her chest, binding the breasts that had held so much of the stranger's scorching gaze. Having bound her breasts as such hundreds of times by now, her actions were swift and efficient. She'd adapted the linen slightly, having pilfered and affixed a frog closure from a once-cherished cloak, which allowed her to fasten the binding securely, directly in the middle of her compressed breasts. ?Twas not any self-consciousness about her ample bosom that made her want to hide them, but rather it was born of necessity as she had more freedom of movement with sword and targe by flattening them a bit.

She then dressed properly, kicking off her boots to don hose and the wretched braies—one day she would own a pair made of soft cotton, she vowed. Next, she pulled her s?rk over her head, the short undershirt adapted to her size, and then pulled on her tunic and breeches.

She thought all the while of that man, still flustered by the encounter.

Adhering her belt to her person, the leather soft and supple, she returned her small dagger to the sheath attached to it and decided that clearly, the man was a warrior, the sword attached to his person appearing as another appendage. He was large and fit, his upper body honed in part she was sure due to regular use of that sword, while his large thighs suggested frequent riding, as Fiona knew firsthand that mounted fighting engaged so many muscle groups in the legs, demanding strength and endurance.

Fully dressed, she moved on through the trees, considering the man's face and form even as she was losing none of her frustration for continuing to reflect on him. Aye, his presence had been commanding, but it might have proven even more magnetic had he not opened his mouth.

His hair, a cascade of chestnut and gold, fell in loose waves past his broad shoulders. The sunlight played tricks with the strands, making them gleam like spun bronze. His face was all hard angles and sharp lines, not at all uncommon for men who long had braved war and the harsh elements. A strong, chiseled jaw framed a mouth of full lips that seemed to smile with enough ease to suggest he was aware of his own fortunate looks. And yet despite the grin, his striking blue-gray eyes were cutting, assessing her with an intensity that had made it difficult to hold contact.

His skin bore the burnished color of someone accustomed to labor under the sun, a warm contrast to the plaid draped over his shoulder, the predominantly red tartan unfamiliar to her. She clenched her fists again, nails digging into her palms, and her stride became a stomp, forcing her mind to focus on his flaws, wanting to nurture her disdain but finding it difficult to deny the undeniable: the man was every bit as striking as he was infuriating.

Resolutely, she decided his lips were too full, almost feminine, and the muscles that rippled beneath his tunic and the warmth of his grip on her wrist presented more of a threat, was more repellant than appealing. And, it remained, she recalled, that he was, in fact, horribly unpleasant.

With that resolved, she put the disconcerting run-in with the man out of her mind just as she broke through the trees and into a clearing of verdant green grass, which was presently occupied by the Rose army. Greatly depleted were their numbers since the siege of Dunraig last year so that now, numbering no more than thirty, the Roses were clustered closely about the small camp.

Fiona caught sight of the Rose banner, flapping gently in the center of camp near her tent, the pike supporting it having been struck firmly into the ground. At one time, the banner had been a deep crimson field with a beautiful rose in full bloom embroidered in brilliant white at its center, the intricate stitches capturing every delicate petal and thorn, representing purity and resilience to reflect the Rose motto, Constant and True. Surrounding the rose, golden vines intertwined, their shimmering threads catching the light with every movement.

Now, after a grueling year of relentless war, the banner bore the scars of countless battles. The crimson fabric had faded in places, its rich hue now a muted, battle-worn red. Jagged tears and frayed edges told tales of fierce clashes and narrow escapes. The once-pristine white rose was smudged with dirt and stained with blood, its petals no longer gleaming but still discernible. Often, Fiona imagined that the flag fluttered with defiance, and she drew hope from its irrepressible dance in the wind.

Standing near the Rose banner was Fraser MacHeth, the captain of what remained of the Rose army, speaking quietly with Keegan.

Fiona's eyes rested warmly on Fraser. Though not bound by blood, Fraser was the heart of her true family. He had saved her life more times than she could count, standing by her side through every siege and skirmish, every victory and defeat. She adored him, not just for his unwavering loyalty, but for the genuine care he had always shown her. In this war-torn world, with all her blood family lost to the cruel hand of fate, Fraser was her rock, the one person she trusted above all others.

His towering frame was as solid and unyielding as the ancient oaks surrounding them, shoulders broad and arms thick with muscle. Coming recently from his own bath, his chest was bare, covered in a fine layer of graying hair, bearing the scars of countless skirmishes, each one giving evidence of his unwavering loyalty and fierce protectiveness.

His hair, once a vibrant auburn, had turned a dignified gray, curling wildly around his head and framing his face like a lion's mane. It cascaded down to his powerful shoulders, untamed and free, much like the man himself. His beard, equally gray and thick, was meticulously groomed, a stark contrast to the unruly locks atop his head. It lent him an air of wisdom and authority that commanded respect and inspired trust.

Fraser's eyes, an intense blue, were both sharp and kind. They could flash with a fury that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies, yet softened to a tender warmth when they rested on Fiona.

Fiona felt a rush of gratitude as she watched him. This man, her loyal captain and protector, had been more of a father to her than her own ever had been. Fraser's quick temper and mercilessness in battle belied the deep well of patience and wisdom he held within. He had always been there, from her earliest memories, offering guidance and support with a gruff kindness that had become her anchor.

She was an accomplished rider and archer, efficient with both sword and dagger, educated by Fraser himself when he understood her want to prove herself to her father in the only way she could imagine he would notice, to have skills such as her brothers did, being trained as they were. Perhaps blinded by archaic traditions, her father had always refused her training. But Fraser had stepped in, teaching her what her father would not. With patience and dedication, he had taken her under his wing, imparting upon her the art of combat—the deft handling of a dagger, the graceful power of a bow, the secrets of survival in the wild. Under Fraser's clandestine tutelage, Fiona had learned more than just the physicality of warfare; she discovered her own strength.

Sadly, her skills had not earned any more attention from her father than her previous lack of expertise had. However, empowered by knowledge and her own increasing ability, Fiona had long ago given up any hope that her father might take notice of her. Fraser had made her understand that she might never fully comprehend the reason behind her father's indifference, but that it shouldn't consume her thoughts. Instead, she should focus on honing her skills and finding fulfillment within herself.

She was alive today because of his kindness toward her. On the very day the Rose keep, Dunraig Castle, had come under attack, she, her brother, Fraser, and several units of the Rose army had ventured beyond the walls to a neighboring clan's demesne. Fiona's father, eager to stay by his wife's side as they anticipated the arrival of their first child after over a decade together, assigned his son and heir, Malcolm, the responsibility of representing the Roses in a Highland council meeting. The meeting's agenda centered around the murder of John Comyn and Robert Bruce's ascension to the Scottish throne. Having risen to captain of the army by then, Fraser and several units had accompanied Fiona's brother. And because Fraser realized her wish to go as well, he'd ably argued to her father on Fiona's behalf as he'd done on several other occasions, for permission for Fiona to accompany the party on their journey.

As she crossed the camp, her reverie was interrupted by someone asking as she passed, "Feel better?"

Despite the fact that she should have been pleased that her reverie was interrupted before it had reached it's natural but horrific conclusion—what they'd found at Dunraig upon their return from the council meeting, images from which she would never escape—Fiona rolled her eyes.

"Has anyone ever felt worse after a bath?" was her impatient response to an unsuspecting Fergus, whose young face scrunched up a bit in confusion.

A year ago, she would have felt guilty for responding to him so acerbically, save that since the demise of her brother, Malcolm, in the retaliatory action against the Mackintoshes who'd decimated Dunraig and all within, Fraser had worked hard to establish Fiona, the last surviving Rose, as their leader. And part of that role meant learning not to apologize for her decisions and commands, or even her attitude, as the weight of responsibility was indeed a heavy and oft daunting mantle to bear. She no longer felt the need to excuse herself for any perceived slights, rudeness, or even displays of impatience when she deemed them necessary.

Leadership, Fraser maintained, required a certain distance and authority. Apologizing too often or showing too much vulnerability could undermine her position and erode the respect and discipline she needed from the Rose army. By maintaining a firm unapologetic stance, Fraser had assured her time and again, she projected confidence and ensured that her commands were taken seriously. This shift in her behavior wasn't about arrogance, Fraser vowed, but about survival and effectiveness as a leader in the harsh, unforgiving environment of war.

Upon her arrival at his side, Fraser pulled a fresh tunic over his head and announced to Fiona in his deep baritone, "The Merricks have come, joining Urry's ranks."

Having known the man all her life, she recognized that he was gauging her reaction to this, feigning a lack of concern while he studied her with seeming nonchalance.

This was naught but a continuation of her training. He forwarded information and awaited her response, allowing her first to give her own opinion or assessment before he weighed in with his own. Having encouraged her to think independently and come to precise conclusions, she often imagined that Fraser was gratified by her evolution as a leader.

The Merricks, though. In her mind, that long-held feud was both unsustainable and irrelevant presently..

"The feud is nae ours, Fraser," she declared after a moment. "It died with my father and my brothers. We've enough to fight against without dredging up old wounds that never caused any of us living any harm. Scots disloyal to the rightful king, the English, and the Mackintoshes—those are our enemies now."

Fraser nodded with somber approval, his gray beard riding up and down on his chest.

Those with her, fighting under what was her banner now, might imagine her disloyal to the Rose clan, but frankly, what did it matter? She glanced around at the thirty-plus people sitting, standing, and idling around her, all that remained of the once proud and mighty Roses. Her father was likely turning in his grave, knowing that the fate of his beloved clan, of which he'd been so proud, so dedicated, rested in his overlooked daughter's hands.

The Merricks have come, she thought dispassionately, drawing out a wee bit of that ancient feud herself now, supposing only a Merrick man could have behaved so unseemly as that one had down by the loch. It made sense and offered some relief, as she and her party had been embedded with the Urry army for almost a week and she'd thus far considered them a civil—if cool—army with which to pass the time.

Fiona had initially served John Urry willingly, her loyalty driven by the king's command and Urry's noble birth rather than his competence. However, having been embedded with the Urry army for a week, she now questioned his abilities. As a commander, Urry's leadership lacked the skill and distinction one would hope for in a commander; though his strategic decisions were unknown to her yet, his commitment to the army's well-being seemed secondary to his own comfort.

For the most part, reception to an army directed by a female was looked upon with nothing short of scorn. This too, Fraser reminded her time and again, was not something she should take issue with. Other people's reactions, impressions, or beliefs were beyond her control.

Before long, and while Fiona combed her fingers through her hair and then braided the length of it into one thick tail that drooped to the middle of her back, her tent became a gathering place for others.

Keegan, with whom Fraser had been in conversation, was soon joined by his brother, Kieran. The twins, identical in their blazing orange hair, piercing blue eyes, and stout builds, sported matching drooping mustaches and short beards. Their similarities extended beyond appearance; both possessed an intensity that manifested in either jovial banter or fierce combat, their laughter as unpredictable as their fighting styles. However, Keegan bore a distinguishing mark—a perfectly round scar at the center of his forehead, a reminder of the arrow that had grazed his skin but thankfully had spared his skull.

Sparrow came, showing no evidence that like so many others, she'd availed herself of a bath. The only other female in the Rose party, at ten and nine she was petite, with a slender yet toned build that hinted at her agility and strength. She scratched at her head, where once tight braids had given loose and were now tousled, dark orange tendrils framing a delicate face, adorned with defiant blue eyes that burned with intensity, not unlike her brothers, Keegan and Kieran. Dirt and grime streaked her youthful skin, giving her the air of a seasoned warrior, or, as her brothers sometimes teased her, a slovenly charboy's appearance.

Just as Knobby—named such for his peculiar gait, which thrust forward his skinny knees before any other part of his body—meandered into the group, Sparrow said, "Another militia has come."

Her moniker had been earned due to her ability to dart and flit like the bird, and as one of the army's scouts, that agility and her utter lack of fear made her indispensable.

"Aye, the Merricks," Keegan informed his sister.

"Och," proclaimed Knobby, his eyes narrowing with distaste at the mere mention of the name. "Dirty villains."

Fiona glanced at Knobby, who was oft mistaken for a sibling to the twins and Sparrow for owning his own crown of reddish hair, her expression painted with a bit of pride.

Since the siege and fall of Dunraig, what remained of the Rose army and retainers was a shadow of its former self. Unpaid and homeless until they regained the Rose ancestral keep, there were no coffers to draw from, no mercenary's wages to rely upon. Yet they stayed, bound by a loyalty to the only family they'd ever known, because of bonds formed in the aftermath and since, or they remained because having lost everything, they had nowhere else to go, no other purpose to drive them forward.

Possibly their hearts were invested more in Fiona Rose and the idea of kinship rather than the cause behind the battles they fought.

"As we might assume their mission to be the same as ours," Fiona said," we will put aside our animosity while we are embedded with Urry. Neither the war nor this siege deserve us bringing our personal grudges into this greater contest."

"Aye," agreed Keegan. This was undermined, however, by a quick flash of white as he bared his teeth with a mock feral growl. "But if we stumble upon any one of them alone—say the laird; aye, that's who we'll be looking for—we might give him a taste of what those Merricks have been doing to—"

"Nae, we willna, Keegan," Fiona said calmly but firmly. "We will nae denigrate the name of Rose by injecting an ancient quarrel into Urry's—and the king's—fight. We must be better than those who seek to tear us down."

"But if those Merricks instigate a fight...?" Keegan persisted, seemingly disgruntled by her directive.

Fraser, having donned his breastplate, belt, and the Rose plaid, paused in the act of straightening the pleats over his shoulder to glare at Keegan.

"Then we will respond accordingly," Fiona instructed, "but I will nae exist the next few weeks in their company only waiting for some slight to occur simply to act out against them."

Another Rose soldier, simply called Plum though Fiona knew not why, came running into their circle, drawing up sharply, his brow perspiring and his chest heaving.

"Sir John requests yer presence, lass," he said breathlessly. "Wants a meeting with the commanders of all these joined forces."

Fiona exchanged a glance with Fraser.

"We'll be moving soon," he guessed as the reason for the summons.

"Aye, might have only been awaiting the arrival of those Merricks," Fiona supposed.

She ducked into her tent and retrieved her own plaid, very sorry she'd been forced to cut it down to size. The full breacan, which had been her brother's before he'd fallen, had been originally viewed more as a nuisance than with the pride she should have felt, for the way her brother's plaid had overwhelmed her. No matter how she folded or affixed it, either the length of it or the weight of it had proven bothersome and posed a threat to her ability to move freely. With tears in her eyes many months ago, she'd taken a knife to the long wool fabric, cutting it nearly in half so that it could be gathered neatly over her shoulder, draped across her chest, and tucked safely into her belt, falling only to the top of her thighs.

Despite what she considered a nearly unforgivable abuse, her trimming of the garment, she wore it proudly and every day strived to live up to the spirit of the tartan, Constant and True.

Moment's later, she was astride her swift charger, Ben Síde—which referred to an otherworldly female fairy— relieved that after a week of frustrated idleness they might finally have a clearer idea of their strategy and begin to move. Flanked by Fraser on his destrier, Knobby, Sparrow, and the twin brothers, Fiona led her party toward Urry's encampment, naught but a half mile away.

The sun was yet high in the sky when Fiona and her attendants arrived at Urry's campsite, outlined by hundreds of tents standing in orderly rows. The ground beneath Fiona's horse was soft from recent rains, the hooves making a muted thud as they pressed into the earth. She inhaled deeply, the cool air invigorating her and bringing to her the scent of wood smoke and roasting game. The normal din of a bustling camp—scraping metal, muted conversations, the occasional jangle of harnesses—slowly quieted as she walked her sleek mare along the main pathway.

Fiona spotted John Urry standing near a large central tent, deep in discussion with another man. Though it showed not on her face, her heart skipped a frantic beat as she recognized him—the same man who had so rudely interrupted her bath. Easily recognized him, for it was not half an hour ago she'd left him, and despite every part of her that hated the truth, he was a striking figure, embodying strength and charisma.

Mother have mercy, but please don't let that be the Merrick!

Garbed now as he was an hour ago in a plaid of bright red—the Merrick tartan, she realized now—the man's gaze sat heavily upon Fiona, causing a blush to rise in her cheeks, reminded that he might well have stumbled upon her fully naked for the inability of the drenched shift to have concealed any part of her body from his probing gaze.

I am Fiona Rose, she reminded herself, and if he was Austin Merrick as she now presumed—the son of, but not yet the laird of all the Merricks—she actually outranked him in social status if not in battle experience. Lifting her chin, she reined in and dismounted gracefully, a feat in and of itself knowing those steely eyes watched her.

The camp fell completely silent now, soldiers turning to observe the female-led Roses with curious eyes.

"Sir John," Fiona called, her voice steady and clear despite the myriad emotions coursing through her.

As Urry stepped forward to greet her, the man at his side remained slightly back, and yet not for one minute did she deceive herself that he hadn't recognized her or that he'd since taken his gaze from her.

"Lady Fiona," Urry acknowledged, bowing his head with courtesy. "Thank ye for answering my summons so promptly. With the arrival of the Merricks, I'd hoped we might discuss detailed plans for the siege of Wick." He stepped backward a bit, pivoted, and extended his hand. "Austin Merrick, Lady Fiona Rose, chief of Clan Rose," he introduced, his sharp eyes swinging back and forth between the pair.

Every opinion and kernel of information she'd managed to glean from their short interaction less than an hour ago held true as he maintained his inflated confidence. He did not bow to any degree, and nor did he incline his head, but rather grinned at her as if he were pleased—and not at all embarrassed—to discover that he'd carelessly propositioned a clan leader as if she were naught but a woman paid by the quarter-hour.

"We've actually met," said Austin Merrick by way of greeting, his eyes now sparkling with mischief, "though nae so properly."

Though her cheeks flamed red at his thin insinuation, which unless he was the type to boast of such things—she wouldn't put it past him—only he and she would understand, Fiona managed a similarly cryptic response, her voice steady.

"Did ye manage to collect all yer meager coins, those strewn about the ground in rejection?"

He smiled outright at this, revealing a set of strong, white teeth that contrasted sharply with his rugged, sun-bronzed face. The smile transformed his features, softening the hard lines as his smirks had not. Genuine amusement warmed his eyes and made him seem, for a moment, almost boyish.

"Aye," he said. "All guid, lass."

"Lady Fiona, she is to ye," Fraser said, coming to stand beside her.

Oh, but she'd be questioned thoroughly about this exchange, she was sure, as soon as they took their leave.

"Lady Fiona," Austin Merrick repeated, his gaze barely registering Fraser's extraordinary presence before returning to Fiona.

Whatever John Urry made of this interchange was hidden beyond his want to move forward.

"And ye recall Lord Eamon, whom ye met earlier this week," Sir John said, indicating another man standing beside Austin Merrick.

Fiona smiled reflexively, inclining her head and murmuring a greeting, indeed having met the young lord, and now feeling a bit of shame for how she'd overlooked his presence just now in the light of another. In her defense, however, Eamon MacLaren stood as a small, pale lad in the formidable shadow cast by Austin Merrick.

Others surrounded this core group as well, officers from each clan, identified only in groups by the tartans they wore.

As Urry directed the group toward the planning board, a table laden with maps and accessories set up in front of his tent, Fiona flicked her gaze again toward Austin Merrick.

Possibly he'd not expected her eyes to find him now; he was not smirking at the moment but watching her with deep and thoughtful attention. His gaze was a mix of curiosity and appraisal, a penetrating stare that seemed to see straight through her rigid defenses, making her pulse quicken and her cheeks flush, a reaction she found both irritating and impossible to ignore.

Fortunately, he smirked once more, a clear reminder of how thoroughly detestable he clearly was, and thereby causing her heart to flutter with an already familiar annoyance that was far preferrable to any other reason for her pulse to be racing.

Sweet Mother of God! But how she wished he were the enemy, either English or aligned with them, so that she could take her blade to his hard flesh. What she wouldn't give to wipe that smirk permanently off his face!