Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Grant caught her before she hit the ground and touched her forehead. No fever, but she felt clammy. Probably the shock of the day—or so he hoped.

Hurrying back to Morgana’s, he headed for the stables. He’d have someone fetch some water, but he needed to get her home.As he approached the entrance, one of the stableboys jumped up, grinning at him, and then scampered to fetch his horse, Balfire.

The sleek and strong warhorse appeared a moment later. Balfire had been considered too small, but he was still a MacLarsen horse, so he was meant for great things. Grant had been fortunate to receive the mount, which all folk told him when they found out.

Years ago, he’d spent a summer helping Laird MacLarsen and his man-at-arms track down bandits outside Edinburgh, at MacCabe’s behest. They’d barely survived, and yet, after Grant saved their lives—after almost causing them to die—Laird MacLarsen had jested that he had no choice but to offer Grant one of their fine horses.

Four years ago, after becoming Laird, Grant had taken MacLarsen up on his offer. And he had known from the second he laid eyes on young Balfire that the horse was meant to be his.

Balfire’s liquid eyes were bright with intelligence and mischief, and he butted his silvery head against Grant’s shoulder, then sniffed the lass.

“Who is that?” the stableboy asked, pushing back his hat and revealing a mop of bright red corkscrew curls. “Why’s she asleep?”

“Aye, I’d like to ken as well, Miller,” drawled another voice.

Grant smiled at Morgana as she came out, thankful that the tavern owner had alerted him to the lass’s escape. He idly wondered if Clyde, the man everyone assumed owned the tavern, was still hiding in the kitchen. The man had once seen Grant kill a thief with a dart to the throat and had never met Grant’s eyes since.

Morgana, meanwhile, was grateful that Grant had stopped the man from stealing her savings.

Grant lifted a shoulder, and Morgana gestured to her son, then nodded at Grant. “Let me ken if ye need anything else. And I’ll send out Elspeth with yer pack, some water, and what we owe ye.” He held up a hand, but she placed her own on her hip and scowled. “Ye need to stop overpayin’ me, or I’ll be insulted. Safe travels.”

Her eyes lingered on the English lass for a moment, and Grant had the sense that she saw more than he did.

“And take care of yer Sassenach, ” she added in a light tone. “Brave, foolish lass—‘tis hard to win when ye’re a woman against all the menfolk of England, Scotland, and the Crown itself.”

With that, Morgana and her son went inside, with the lad casting a few curious looks over his shoulder.

Grant adjusted the lass in his arms. Going to the well, he cupped some water in his hand and then pressed his damp fingers to her forehead. A pleasurable tremor of nerves coursed through his chest as her dark eyelashes fluttered.

“Oh,” Emma said and jerked awake, pushing at him, then gasping as she realized she was off the ground. “I fainted again?” she squeaked and clutched at him, then realized what she was doing and tried to squirm free. “You can put me down.”

Grant suppressed a laugh, the mirth burning in his throat like spiced honey. It was strange how she affected him. But even Grant, hardened by a near decade of cloak-and-dagger enterprises for Laird MacCabe, could not deny her liveliness—a sparkling sense of possibility and a buzz of energy. She didn’t seem able to stay still either.

At that moment, though, she stilled and gazed at him with those blue eyes. It was not the pale blue of summer, nor the warm blue of spring. Instead, it was the crisp and fierce blue of deep autumn—his favorite shade of the sky.

The heat in his throat melted and began to fill his chest, so he tore his gaze away and gave her a curt nod.

“I said, you may put me down, Sir.”

That prim, princess-like order in that high-pitched, polished English voice stirred his blood as much as it made him chuckle hoarsely. He set her down, steadying her as she swayed, and she pulled back, glancing toward the path. A shudder ran through her.

“Will more come?” Her eyes flicked back to him and then to his sword. She sucked in a breath. “Will you kill them as well?”

Aye, I shall.

The Sassenach had the temerity to lift her chin as she declared, “Well, just know that I can usually hold my own. That was…” she trailed off, and he raised an eyebrow.

I’ve nay doubt ye believe that, lass, but I ken when a man means to kill. And ? —

Grant swallowed hard and glanced away, suddenly cold with the thought of this bright-eyed, chattering wench gone from the world.

Drawing in a breath, he composed himself.

It’s probably the lack of sleep and food.

Grant looked back at Emma, noting she was still quiet, perhaps grappling with how close she had come to death.

I’m glad she’s safe.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. She pursed her lips before she added, “I know I should be grateful, but I am not. Not when you won’t let me go.”

Aye, I cannae.

“I shall die, you know,” she said in a biting tone.

Grant jumped, staring at her. But she took no heed of him as she began to pace, the words tumbling out of her mouth so fast that he wondered if she knew that she was speaking.

“I shall die as the wife of a laird. That is why I ran—” She paused and stared off into the distance, her chest rising and falling.

Grant would’ve given anything to know what she was thinking of. For a moment, he thought she might cry, but instead, she straightened and took a deep breath.

Admiration filled him. For all that she was a proper and pampered English princess, she also had the heart and courage of a lion. She was wrong—she would not die in Scotland, no. She’d be free, as she was meant to be.

For a moment, he could see her laughing and striding along, the wind ruffling her long hair, her eyes bright. A dirk at her waist and a warhorse at her side. Like Diana of the Greeks, in The Hunt.

“Well, lead me to my terrible fate, Sir.” Emma put a hand on her heart and smiled at him—a fearsome and bright thing.

It shot a bolt of light and heat through him, as though the old Greek gods had speared him where he stood.

“Nothing to add?” she asked, every hue of blue in her eyes alight with curiosity. “Why don’t you ever speak, hm? Or am I going to have to imagine what you are saying?”

The wind rose then, and Grant glanced away, then back to her, his chest rising and falling.

What could it hurt?

Only, at that moment, someone urgently called out his name.

“Laird Ronson.”

Emma watched the Highlander heave a breath and glance over at the fair-haired maiden rushing toward them.

“Laird Ronson,” the barmaid chided in a breathless, squeaking voice, and Emma’s eyes flicked to her. “Are ye ignorin’ me?” She didn’t even acknowledge Emma as she batted her eyelashes at the man. “Ye almost ran off without yer change. We cannae have that again. Morgana wouldnae be pleased.”

With a small huff somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, the Highlander held out his hand, and the barmaid put a small satchel in it, coins jingling merrily.

Using the distraction, Emma tried to pull free again. But Laird Ronson merely smirked at her, his eyes seeming to say, Are ye even tryin’?

At that moment, the barmaid noticed Emma, and her lip curled. “I hope to see ye soon, Me Laird,” she said.

Laird Ronson offered her a polite nod but did not look away from Emma.

Not until she said, “Morgana wanted me to tell ye that more hunters were spotted on the roads. North and south.” She added something in Gaelic, and he gave her a sharp nod, then looked back. The barmaid pouted, then said loudly, “I havenae forgotten that we were interrupted last week by that rotten thief. Have ye?”

Grant tucked the satchel in his jacket and then flicked a hand at the barmaid, who pouted her pretty lips in outrage before she marched off.

Emma watched her go, knowing that she should want to call her back. Instead, she felt a vicious satisfaction at seeing the woman’s retreating back and nearly stuck out her tongue.

What a brazen, rude creature to say such things. And it was clear that whatever the barmaid had meant, whatever past affair she had with the Laird, she was wildly overexaggerating to make herself feel better.

But none of that solved the tall problem standing in front of Emma and watching her. Heart pounding in her throat, she could barely meet his eyes, and she wondered again whether he meant to marry her to follow the Queen’s Edict.

“I do wonder,” Emma said in a fierce voice, worthy of any Wells. “Will you ever tell me what you want—or if you might help me?”