Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“ No .”

The word burst out of her. Emma twisted to wrench herself free, even as she shut her eyes and tensed up, waiting for a blow—or worse.

Instead, to her surprise, those strong hands let her go. With a gasp, her eyes flew open, and she retreated a few steps. Breathing hard, she watched the man watching her, his eyes slightly narrowed and a smile still playing on his lips.

She waited for him to speak, to chide her or say something uncouth, but instead, he held out a small bag.

Emma gasped as she recognized it and seized it, staring at the man wordlessly. He offered her a small smile and a shrug, then swung the other bag off his shoulder. He’d retrieved her possessions.

“Why?” Emma whispered.

Why would you help me?

He gave her a look that she couldn’t read, then looked her over with some sympathy, and she clutched her bags tighter.

This man must have thought her a helpless maid and had taken pity on her. This Highlander did not see her as a Lady, and Emma knew, with a sudden flash of clarity, that he might not let her go if he did.

Nodding at him, she murmured a soft, “Thank ye.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and she tried to smile, but it felt tremulous. As she made to turn around, he suddenly moved in front of her and caught her chin, forcing her face up to his.

Emma trembled from head to foot, unable to look away from that green gaze. Heat and nerves clashed low in her belly, while her legs pressed together.

Could he see past the unkempt hair and messy clothes to the Lady below?

She squeezed her eyes shut, and a tear rolled down her face. To her surprise, his grip loosened, and a gloved thumb swept across her cheek. Emma gasped at the lick of heat that went through her at that touch, but when she opened her eyes, he was walking away.

About to call after him, she stopped herself and instead watched him vanish, as though he were a part of the woods. Even his kilt of bold blues and reds against a lovely, soft tan could not be seen.

A nervous laugh escaped her, and she put a hand to her head, breathing out. “That was too close. I must get away from here. Of all the people to run into—a bloody Highlander.” Tossing back her head, feeling emboldened, she continued to talk to herself as she walked along—a childhood habit from growing up without siblings. “Her Majesty would’ve been pleased no doubt. Perhaps Her Will is strong enough to cause such a thing.”

Laughing louder, Emma imagined herself being presented and explaining to the Queen, “Why yes, we met in the woods after he mistook me for a maid fleeing bandits. A proper bard’s tale, no? And I curtseyed to him, saying, ‘Oh, yes, My Laird, take me away to the barren lands of the north, to your dreary castle and raucous kin, where a noble lady of England might thrive’.”

Emma rolled her eyes and then bobbed a deep, mock curtsey in the woods.

Only to look up and spot the Highlander standing a few paces away from her, leaning against a tree, his arms folded, his green eyes blazing at her.

And this time, his smile held no pity.

The last place Grant wanted to be on was the road to London to treat with the Queen. But her Summons were inexorable—especially when she meant to pardon his crimes in exchange for taking a wife.

After all, Grant Miller, Laird of Clan Ronson and former assassin of Clan MacCabe, was one of the catalysts for crafting the Queen’s Edict.

Rather than risk war, the canny woman had decided to twine the bloodlines of the South and the North, solidifying her power and putting someone like Grant in his place.

The crafty Queen had pinned him neatly, Grant would give her that. She had proof of his crimes in one hand and a pardon in the other.

However, Grant saw his bargaining chip in the comely shape of the blue-eyed runaway standing in front of him.

When he saw her run from the bandits and noted the poor old grandfather lying in the grass, his blood boiled. Especially when he’d heard the rough accent of his own people.

Did these fools not realize that their selfish thievery hurt their innocent kin in the north?

So, he’d cut two of them down with ease, snatched back some of the lass’s things, then set to track her down. It had been a simple matter, and Grant had thought to show her back to the road when he’d heard that soft voice, then taken a closer look.

She could wear beggar’s clothes all she wanted, but her beauty and poise were unmistakable. Grant thought he’d be able to recognize her immediately for the rest of his life.

Now, the woman stared at him with pure panic, knowing that her ruse was up, but she did not attempt to run. Yet.

For it seemed the lass was as crafty as her Queen. The quick intelligence in her eyes told Grant that she was waiting to see what he would do—what he wanted.

Perhaps she imagined that he wanted her for a bride.

A snort escaped him, and he took a step toward her, a flash of admiration welling up inside him when she did not quail or step back. Instead, she held her ground as he came toward her.

“What, do you want a reward?” she asked, breathless.

A smile tugged up Grant’s cheek as he came to a stop in front of her and gazed down.

And what would an English lady offer such a Scottish beast?

For he had heard her laughter and jibes, which had filled him with equal measures of amusement and irritation.

He caught her chin again and almost said, What would ye say if I told ye I was nay beast—ye’d be glad of a beast. For I am kenned as the Devil of Banrose and I am one of the reasons the Queen thought to tame the north with fair maidens.

“Unhand me, sir,” the woman warned, a flush rising in her cheeks.

Grant felt a peculiar, deep burst of desire. She had a round face with a pert chin, clear skin, and high cheekbones. He’d never seen someone so sweet and winsome, yet with the kind of beauty that stole his breath. Indeed, when she’d first appeared in the woods, he’d wondered if he was dreaming at first—though his dreams of late had not been so amorous. Nor had Grant entertained such fancies in nigh on a decade.

Now, though, Grant couldn’t help but imagine slanting his mouth over those full lips, tasting and taking her. Ruining her. She was a Lady, so he would fulfill the Queen’s desires, would he not? And wouldn’t it be such an infuriating insult that the Queen would not retaliate if he were to take this lass in such a way?

Grant fought down those base temptations. Nay. Those demons were born of the cruelty his father had inflicted on him, and he could choose to control them for a better purpose.

But he could seduce her. Ah, that would be too easy. Already, he could see she was enthralled and curious. A burst of excitement shot through him. More than that, she seemed equally attracted to him. Perhaps he could take her to London, explain that he’d rescued her and that he’d like to wed her. She seemed lively and capable enough, if a bit spoiled. And he’d happily disabuse her of her misconceptions about Scotland.

But ye cannae marry who ye choose, said a voice in his head. Aye, there was that.

He still did not want to let her go, though.

Perhaps… He gazed at her. Perhaps ye can help me in another way.

Grant was so lost in his thoughts, not paying attention to the lady, when he heard a twig snap.

His head snapped up, and he looked around. But the Lady had not moved.

Grant barely had time to draw his blade and turn around as a man swung down his broadsword. The impact reverberated through Grant’s bones, and he snarled at the man, shoving him back. But the soft ground was poor for such close combat, sucking at his boots.

Worse, the brute was massive, with a black cloth tied around his face and a hat pulled low over his eyes. Grant heard a gasp behind him and turned to see the lady backing away from another brute, similarly attired, wielding a knife.

“Ain’t ye a pretty thing?” the man crooned. “Too pretty a thing to be muckin’ about with a Scot, I tell ye.”

Grant’s blood boiled, and he dropped low, causing the brute he was fighting to stumble forward as he drove his shoulder up. The big man went flying and landed on his back, his arms open wide. His comrade stared down at him, not even noticing Grant moving low and fast, not until Grant was on him.

The man barely lifted his sword in time, yet as their blades clashed, Grant felt a prickle of annoyance, as well as confusion. What in the reach of hell were such good swordsmen doing in a forest between Yorkshire and London, going after this lady? He’d thought they were common rabble or bandits, but unless English scallywags learned swordplay from birth, these were trained soldiers.

And as the man cursed, Grant slowed down in surprise, staring at the man, who jolted.

Ye are from Northern England. Bloody, hell—Shillmoor bandits.

Their accents were as close to his own as the English could manage, and yet these folks were terribly proud—sometimes worse than a Londoner in their adamant loyalty to the Crown. They also were not the sloppy bandits who’d killed the old grandfather on the road.

No, these Shillmoor men posed an actual challenge, and Grant felt a surge of excitement and wariness.

With a wicked grin, Grant huffed out a soft laugh and twirled his blade. His opponent blanched and backed up, his sword dipping toward the earth. At the same time, he heard a sharp whistle, and saw the gleam in his opponent’s eyes.

With a gasp, Grant spun around and barely missed the dirk that came his way, pinning his sleeve to a tree bole. Another came, and he knocked it down with his sword, driving it into the earth. But by the time he’d wrenched the dirk free, the other bandit he’d been fighting had vanished, and the big brute was scrambling to escape, the cloth around his face torn.

Grant stalked over to him and kicked the back of his knees, causing him to fall to the ground. Then, he kicked him again, forcing him onto his back. The man groaned and wheezed, spitting out blood, then winced as a dirk sank into the ground by his head.

“Who are ye?” Grant snarled, leveling his blade at the man. “And who is that?—?”

He sucked in a breath and spun, but he already knew.

The lass had fled.

Dammit.

His pulse quickened with fury and fear. What if the other brutes got to her?

“Speak now,” Grant rasped.

But the man’s eyes had widened. “The Devil of Banrose.”

Grant only smirked, bowing mockingly to him.

The man’s lip curled even as fear filled his eyes. “Go to hell. The lot of ye. We shall not let the Queen fill our land with yer rotten blood of the north, and I know my comrade who got away shall see it done—ye shall not see him comin’. He will kill you all–”

The brute gasped and gargled as Grant’s blade sank into his belly and then cut his throat.

Grant spat and then began to run, his eyes darting across the forest floor. The lass had not bothered to cover her tracks—she probably knew nothing of such things. His strange anxiety heightened. He did not want to see her hurt—he had to find her.

I shall catch ye, lass.

Harsh breaths tore from Emma’s lips as she rushed through the forest, her skirts hiked up and her hair tumbling loose. Behind her, the forest rustled with the wind, echoing the distant baying and even more distant shouts.

She was certain she had lost them, but those men were not who she feared, no.

Abruptly, she came to a grassy incline and scrambled up it. The evening was cold. It was mid-spring, but in this cove tucked into Northern England, the seasons were at the whims of the sea.

She inhaled the salt and pine when she reached the top. Though she wanted to keep moving, Emma was finally forced to lean against a tree until her heart and lungs stopped burning.

Through a break in the trees, she saw the distant glimmer of the sea, and her heart misgave her. How could she hope to get to her best friend’s family cottage before the sun rose?

So many things had gone wrong in so little time. Yet, she’d made it this far and was not wed to the Beast of Briorn.

Once she made it to the cottage, she and Helena would leave these shores forever, two friends free from the fates that others wanted to impose on them.

I will not marry a Scottish Laird as long as I draw breath.

Pushing back her dark hair, Emma took a deep breath and began to walk again. She picked her way carefully through the woods, her mind unable to stop from noticing the plants blooming around her, naming the flowers and the trees. It soothed her, and by the time she reached an open glade, the green brighter than the gray wood around her and a sweet fragrance of violets in the air, she was calm again.

A smile touched her lips as she stepped into the empty space and stretched out her arms, her heart light.

Not far now.

When she lifted her head, she heard nothing. Her ploy had worked—she knew enough about herbs and woods to throw off any tracker.

Suddenly, a twig snapped from behind her, and she whirled. Eyes wide, she searched the shadows as she took a step back.

Another snap and her heart lurched. Turning, she made to flee and crashed into a solid line of muscle. Big hands caught her wrists, keeping her from falling, and she gasped as she was steadied.

Eyes wide, Emma Wells stared up at her captor, who gave her a lazy, slow, and familiar smile.

A smile that said, Ye kenned I would catch ye in the end.

“ No .” Emma tried to pull free, and his grip tightened. “Not you.”

Anyone but you.