A Highlander Never Surrenders (12 page)

“You will win her heart, I’ve no doubt,” Monck finished for him firmly but gently. “Lady Stuart needs a husband who is patient and open-minded. You once told me that you taught your sister to fight, so you are familiar with women who choose to wield a blade, rather than a broom. You can teach Claire that though you value her sword, it is not needed.”

“Save to use it on me,” Robert muttered, more to himself than to Monck.

The general laughed. “I know she is headstrong. Her father complained of it many times. That is why she needs a man who can guide her with a firm yet fair hand.”

No. Robert raked his hand through his hair. He did not want to wed a woman he had to tame, and who would hate him every day of her life for trying to do so. And damnation, but he swore Graham had taken a fancy to her. How the hell was he going to explain to his best friend that he needn’t trouble his thoughts with James Buchanan any longer because Claire was his? God help him, he didn’t want her. “My lord, I fear that man is not me.”

“Does my sister displease you?”

He blinked at Anne’s furrowed brow; flicked his gaze to the dour tilt of her lips. Damnation, how was he to answer that?

“Nae, my lady, I displease her.”

Her mouth, as well as her voice, went soft on him. Her eyes grazed his face, his shoulders, and the rest of him standing before her until she looked away, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “Whatever would she find displeasing about you, my lord?”

Before Robert had a chance to reply, though he was quite certain the only words that would have left his mouth were words of devotion to
her
, General Monck rose from his chair. “I will put my decisions to Parliament once it has been restored, and it will be, and I know you will all be safe.” He stepped around the table and laid his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “You do this for Scotland, Lord Campbell. Trust me, if not in anything else, then in this; it is for her good, as well as the kingdom’s, that you wed her.”

Robert couldn’t bring himself to answer, or to ask what the governor’s words meant. There was only one thing he wanted to know at the moment. Monck had said he would put his decisions to Parliament. More than one. What else would he put to them?

With a heaviness in his heart he hadn’t felt since he discovered that his grandfather was a torturous madman, he set his reluctant gaze on Monck’s. “And Lady Anne? Who is to be her husband?”

Turning to her, the general reached for her hand. “Why, this fair gem will only be given to Connor’s first in command and most loyal friend, of course.”

Robert ground his teeth, and for the first time in his life, he felt like killing someone.

James Buchanan.

Chapter Eleven

J
ust as I could not save you.

As night began to fall, Claire rubbed the chill out of her bare arms and gazed out over the city in the distance. From her position—indeed, from almost any position in every direction—one could see Edinburgh’s ancient fortress, illuminated by thousands of torches, butted up against the heavens, as if it held dominion over all the earth and everyone on it. Almost everyone.

For the hundredth time, she cursed herself for not going with Robert and the MacGregors to bring Anne back. What if they were all dead, killed by General Monck and his mighty garrison? What if Robert had betrayed her and was sitting with Monck right now, drinking and laughing at her while she waited in the dark, freezing to death? He was a Roundhead, after all. And what if Monck, grateful for Robert’s loyalty, wed him to Anne this very night? Och, God, there would not be a rock big enough in Scotland to hide them from her fury.

“They’ll be along soon.”

The deep melodious voice over her shoulder startled her, but she did not turn around, lest he see the fear in her eyes. And what about Graham Grant? Did he truly trust Robert and the MacGregors to see this through? Why had she listened to him and let him keep her from her task? And why the hell shouldn’t she cut his blasted throat for ripping off her sleeves?

“What if they are all dead?”

His soft chuckle along her collarbone sent a quaver of heat through her body. “Monck is not so foolish as to start a war with Callum MacGregor fer killing his men and his wife’s beloved brother.”

He was too close. The velvety warmth of his breath drifted over her skin, and she closed her eyes at the odd comfort it brought her. She could feel the contours of his hard body framing her own. The scent of wood smoke, and an alluring hint of something undeniably male, made her ache to turn to him, or run the other way.

“Come, Claire.” He touched her arm, letting his fingers graze her bare flesh. “Ye’re cold. Come to the fire. All will be well. Come sit with me.”

She might have refused if he hadn’t closed his fingers around hers and drawn her gently along. In truth, she welcomed the reprieve from her worries. Still, when she sat, she found herself turning to watch the road for any sign of her sister’s approach. She jumped at the sound of some creature rushing through the bushes.

“Did ye fight at Connor’s side?”

“Many times,” she answered, craning her neck to look behind her.

“And he did not worry fer ye?”

Now she turned to him, her lips quirked with indignation. “Why should he have worried? Because I am a woman?”

One corner of his mouth hooked into a smile that made Claire’s pulse race, while his eyes poured over her features. “Because he might lose ye. Though it gladdens me to know that ye haven’t fergotten what ye are.”

How could she when he made her acutely aware of it every time he set his eyes on her? When she faced an enemy, she knew exactly what to do. But here, alone with Graham, she was unsure of the simplest things, such as where to put her hands. She severed her gaze from his and peered into the fire. “Nor have I forgotten what you are.”

“A man?” His voice was low, teasing, as he bent his knees to his chest and rested his elbows atop them. “A rogue . . .”

“A careless rogue,” she murmured into the flames, too aware of his closeness. She was beginning to perspire.

“I am not so careless, Claire.”

She shrugged, but cut her glance to his. “You think women are here solely for your pleasure.”

He laughed, and she found it astounding how guileless he looked doing it. “Do you deny it then?” she asked.

“Nae, I don’t. Nor am I sorry fer it. I was bred to fight. My father stood by Dougal MacGregor’s side during the atrocities his clan suffered at the whim of King James. I grew to manhood around bloodshed and battle. I’ve seen things that haunt me. I will not deny that I seek the pleasures of women to help me ferget.”

“I will not be one of those women.”

“Not true, Claire.” The deep pulse of his voice dragged her eyes to his. “Ye give me pleasure just looking at ye.”

Hell, why did he have to say that? It tempted her to smile at him like a besotted fool. Blast him, but he would say anything a woman wanted to hear to get her to his bed. “I’d wager you have left a trail of weeping wenches from Skye to Edinburgh.”

“And I’d wager that many of yer brother’s men lost a limb or two in battle with ye there to distract them.”

“You’re insufferable.” She resigned with a sigh.

“Ye’re pigheaded.”

She flashed him an angry look, and then she laughed in spite of herself. Och, he was right. She was pigheaded. Connor and Anne had told her enough times. But, damn him, the Highlander was just as stubborn as she. They could go on like this all night without either giving an inch!

Her laughter faded when she remembered Anne. She cast another anxious look over her shoulder.

“How about ye, Claire? What d’ye do fer pleasure?”

He was clever, the way he distracted her from worrying. She looked at him, expecting to see that devilish quirk of his lips, dimples fashioned for beguiling the senses right out of a woman. Instead, she found him staring at her with hypnotic intensity. His breath was a bit short, as if he’d just finished running a distance.

She thought about his question and shrugged one shoulder. “I practice.”

“Is that all?” He sounded surprised, and . . . relieved. When she nodded, he shook his head. “Pity, ye should laugh more.”

Satan’s arse, she was blushing! And she felt like giggling! His eyes glittered against the firelight, touching her, caressing her. She looked away in an effort to quell her pounding heart. She picked up a long twig and poked it into the fire.

“Tell me how a lass of royal lineage came to be a warrior. Does yer cousin the king approve of yer unconventional ways?”

Claire looked up. “He is aware that I fight for his restoration.”

“Still . . .”

She went back to poking, avoiding his gaze. “I have been frowned upon by everyone in my family, save Connor. It has been a struggle, but I am committed to restoring the king to his rightful place and bringing an end to Charles’s enemies in Scotland.”

“A noble cause,” he said. Claire could feel his eyes on her while moments of silence stretched between them. Then, “Is there nae man in yer life to help unravel yer nerves?”

The twig snapped in her fingers. “My nerves are not raveled.”

He moved closer and, reaching out, he smoothed a lock of her hair away from her cheek. When she angled her face, he did not move his hand away and she found her cheek nestled in his rough palm.

“And even if they were . . .” Her voice was wispy low, her lips, suddenly as dry as the broken twig in her hand. She licked them and his gaze fell to her mouth. “A man could not help me unravel them.”

“Then ye haven’t met the right man.” He leaned in, and slipping his hand behind her nape, he kissed her. Exquisitely. Masterfully. His lips caressed her, molded hers with such tender care, she sighed into his mouth and went weak against him. His tongue did not maraud, but he ravished her nonetheless with a silken lick across the seam of her mouth. He smiled against her when she lifted her hand to his chest and clutched a fistful of his plaid; then he opened his mouth to take her more fully as passion’s talons gripped them both.

“Ah, shyt. I knew we couldna trust the bastard wi’ her.”

Claire jerked away at the sound of Brodie’s voice above her. Behind him, her sister sat perched upon a horse of pale gray, but instead of returning Claire’s joyful smile at their reunion, she turned to Robert, flanked at her right, and looked about to weep.

“Anne!” Claire rushed to her, but Robert was already there to help her sister dismount. The instant Anne’s feet touched the ground, Claire took her in her arms. “Are you well?” She withdrew to sweep Anne’s hair off her shoulders and touch her cheek. “Have you been harmed in any way? Did Monck treat you poorly?” Before her sister could answer her queries, Claire pulled her into her arms again. “Thank God you are here with me.” She looked at Robert over Anne’s shoulder, broke away, and flung her arms around him. “Thank you, Robert. Are you hurt?” She pulled away to examine him next.

When he assured her that they were all well, she grasped Anne’s hand and kissed it. “I was so worried about you.”

“As I was over you, Claire,” Anne replied, but looked past her at Graham. “Who is he?”

Suddenly, Claire felt like a child caught playing in the pigpen. Without looking at him, for she knew he must look as disheveled as she, she told Anne his name. She was vaguely aware of Graham’s gentle greeting, and it seemed, Anne was even less interested.

“Claire,” she said softly. “Lord Campbell . . .”

“Gave her the sorrowful news of your brother,” Robert cut her off. He placed his hand over both of theirs, but when he spoke again, it was to Anne alone. “I pray that I should not be the cause of any more sadness this night.”

Looking up at him, Anne nodded, then turned to Claire with heavy tears gathering at the rims of her eyes. “Come, tell me what happened to our brother.”

As they walked together to the fire and sat, Graham smiled at Robert and started for him. Brodie cut across his path first, scowled at him, muttered something unintelligible, then wandered off into the shadows.

Arms spread, Graham tossed Angus a puzzled look. “What was that about?”

“Graham.” It was Robert who answered. “There is something I must discuss with you.”

Graham frowned at the mildly ill look on his friend’s face and the somber tone of his voice, then strode forward. “What’s happened?”

Robert waited for the others to disperse, and when they were finally alone, he pulled Graham closer. “I . . .” He looked toward the women and began again. “Do you care for her?”

“Who?”

“Hell.” Now Robert glared at him. “Claire. Do you care for Claire? You were kissing her. I would know if she means anything to you.”

“Why?” Graham asked, casting him a narrowed look. He knew Robert wanted him to find a woman, one woman, to give his heart to. He’d badgered him about it enough, but this was different. Robert was agitated, angry . . . forlorn. Graham’s eye caught the shimmering lights of Edinburgh Castle in the distance and suddenly his expression hardened. “Why d’ye want to know? Has Monck promised her to someone?”

“Aye.” His friend raked at his hair as if he meant to pull out every strand. “He has promised them both, with their brother’s approval. Anne is to wed James Buchanan.”