A Highlander Never Surrenders (22 page)

She almost walked straight into the loch. The forest ended abruptly, with a three-foot fall directly in front of her. She would have tumbled over a few rocks before she sank into the water face-first. When she looked up, she saw him and almost stumbled head over heels anyway.

Soaking up the sun like one of Poseidon’s lazy princes, Graham stretched his back over a large boulder along the bank’s edge, his clothes and weapons resting close behind him. His golden hair was slicked away from his face. Droplets glistened on his bare chest and dripped in sinuous rivulets over his rippled belly and down the beguiling crease above his hip, back into the water. One arm lay sprawled out at his side, his hand clutching Angus’s pouch of whisky. His other hand was hidden from her sight beneath the murky surface. His muscles flexed as his grip tightened and he rode his arm up and then down again. Suddenly, Claire knew what he was holding. She knew about cocks, having seen and heard enough about them in the garrison. She’d found out by accident how men pleasured themselves when they were without a woman for too long. She knew by the tautness of the rest of him that his was probably swollen and stiff. She watched him, mesmerized by the pleasure on his face, growing hotter and wetter as his arm plunged and then pulled. She’d never seen a man climax before. Hell, it was sinful, but she couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to. Shockingly, she found herself wondering what it would be like to swim to him and climb up that hard body. Her eyes basked in his fine form as he bent into himself, his arm moving with an urgency that made him purse his mouth and grit his teeth. Finally, he tossed his head back and groaned with unabashed ecstasy. Claire didn’t realize, until it was over, that she was panting with him. And then she fled.

She broke through the tangle of trees and into the campsite as if there were a horde of generals on her arse. Anne looked up, startled. Robert leaped to his feet.

“What is it?” he demanded, looking behind her.

Calling up every ounce of control she had left, Claire smiled and waved away his concern. “It is nothing. I thought I saw a wild boar. That is all.”

He did not look convinced. “Were you looking for Graham?”

She shook her head and broke away from him. “Nae, and I would prefer not to speak of him.” Or think of him ever again, she thought, blushing to her roots. She felt like a stranger in her own skin. A shameless trollop who spied on men while they . . . Her cheeks flamed hotter and she turned her back on the others, fearful that they might see and recognize the depth of her depravity.

Anne would never have watched. And she certainly would not have become aroused by it. Her sister was pure, modest, with feminine thoughts filling her head, not immoral ones. Anne was soft and delicate; the kind of woman men preferred. Why couldn’t she be more like Anne? Connor had never asked that question of her. He had been the only man in her life who accepted fully that she would rather fight than stitch. She closed her eyes, missing him. She wanted to speak to him about these unfamiliar, unchaste stirrings, the way she spoke to him about everything.

She heard Graham enter the camp. Her face burned all over again as he strode past her, filling her lungs with the fragrance of forest and fresh water. Unable to stop herself, she lifted her gaze to look at him as he handed Angus back his pouch, and then wished she hadn’t. He looked as maddeningly virile half clothed as he did naked. His tunic dangled from his hand. His plaid was draped low around his hips, enthralling her senses with the splendid view of his broad back and lean waist. Damnation, even the sight of his booted calves made her breath stall. He turned and she looked up mortified to find him staring at her. She blushed from her neck to her scalp.

“We should leave now. We could cross the mountain range by tomorrow,” she blurted out, not wanting to spend another instant here with nothing to do but gawk at him.

“We’ll nap first,” he replied, tossing the extra wool of his plaid over his shoulder for comfort. He said nothing else as he sat against the rough bark of an old oak and closed his eyes.

“Claire,” her sister called out behind her. “Take off that Godawful cap and come here by me.”

Claire reached up and yanked off the cap she had forgotten she was wearing. Hell, not only did she think like a man, but she looked like one. No wonder Graham scowled every damn time he looked at her. She went to Anne and dropped down beside her.

“You remind me of Connor,” Anne sighed sadly, pulling Claire closer. “You and he always looked so much alike.”

Normally, Claire would have delighted in such a sentiment, but now it only served as a reminder that she possessed such manly attributes.

“Let me work on this hair a bit,” Anne said, positioning herself behind her. “Goodness, it looks like it hasn’t been out of this plait in ages.” Without waiting for her sister’s consent, Anne tugged at the string binding the long braid and began unraveling Claire’s pale tresses.

“Robert told me all that happened. You are distressed about James.”

“Aren’t you?” Claire turned slightly to ask her. “You don’t give any credence to this madness about him betraying Connor, do you?”

“Of course not. But they are only trying to protect us.
Someone
is responsible for Connor’s death.”

“Aye. General Monck.”

“I do not believe that either.”

Now Claire turned to face her sister fully. “How could you not? What lies did he feed you, Anne?”

Her sister merely shrugged, pushing Claire’s shoulders forward again. “Contrary to what you believe, I am not so gullible as to believe whatever is told me.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“That I did not spend my days wielding a sword with Connor doesn’t mean he did not tell me things.”

“I know that, Anne.”

“He spoke very highly of General Monck, and after spending time with the governor, I understood why.”

Claire said nothing as her sister stroked her fingers through her hair.

“I also understand why Robert and Graham think James is guilty.” She held Claire’s shoulders still when her sister tried to whirl around again. “Claire, I am not saying that I agree, only that I understand. James was the one who gave Connor the alleged message from the general. Our brother trusted Monck, aye, but he trusted James, as well. He would have done as either of them asked.”

Claire shook her head. It made no sense. “Why would James want Connor dead, Anne? He loved him.”

Behind her, her sister sighed. “I don’t know, and I don’t know how we shall discover the truth in this.”

“I already know the truth. James is innocent. We have known him our whole lives. We must have faith in him.”

Anne nodded and continued working the thick strands of Claire’s hair.

“Robert assured me that as long as we continue onward toward Skye, where he knows we will be safe, neither he nor Graham will leave us to go back to Edinburgh. So we needn’t worry over James at present. Robert has also guessed that it has been you fighting General Monck’s men. Do not fear, though. He has promised not to tell the governor.”

“That is kind of him,” Claire muttered, letting herself relax a little now that she knew James was safe from the noose—for now.

“Aye, he is kind. He told me of his sister Katherine in Skye. He said she is a combination of you and me. She can wield a sword, but is as finely fashioned as a rose.”

Anne being the rose, of course, Claire thought despairingly, and hugged her knees to her chest.

“Och, now I see why you wear your hair so tightly braided. There is so much of it!” Anne pulled and twisted Claire’s long locks but soon gave up whatever she was trying to do. “I think a pair of braids will suit you better. I need another string.”

They both looked around, then, realizing there was nothing in the grass that would work, Anne tapped her sister on the shoulder. “Go and ask your Highlander for a thread from his plaid. It looks tattered enough. There should be plenty of threads hanging loose.”

“He is not my Highlander, Anne,” Claire corrected her with an audible frown in her voice. “And besides, he is asleep and I do not want to disturb him.”

“Nonsense. He is awake and looking right at you. Now, just go ask.” Anne gave her a push to get her on her feet.

Claire slipped her gaze to him from beneath her lashes. Hell, he
was
awake, and he did not look away this time when their gazes met. He barely blinked as she reluctantly rose to her feet and swept her mane off her shoulders. The short journey to him was a torturous one. His penetrating gaze unnerved her. His naturally pouty mouth made it difficult to focus on what she wanted from him. A kiss. A smile. A flattering word. An apology.

“I need a thread from your plaid.” Saints in heaven, was that her voice that sounded so shaky and unsure? She wanted to kick him for making her so muddleheaded. “For my hair,” she added tersely when he continued to do nothing but stare up at her. Finally, he lowered his head and lifted his hand to the wool draping his chest. Without looking up again, he broke off one of the loose fibers and offered it to her.

Claire took it and backed away, fearful of the mad urge coursing through her to drop to her knees, clasp his face firmly in her hands and kiss him . . . or slap him for being such a brute at Ravenglade.
They are only trying to protect us.
Was it truly this noble cause that made him force her to leave Ravenglade? Dear God, she was mad, all right. Why wouldn’t he look at her? Just a short while ago she had been angry with him for charming her to get what he wanted. Now, she was angry that he obviously wanted nothing. He was a rogue, for hell’s sake! A careless seducer of women. Why was he holding back with
her
? Was it displeasure that darkened his gaze, or something else? Something that made her legs weak, her mouth dry: desire, emotion, and the resolve to resist both.
He would kill to protect her.
Did he resist her because he knew Monck was going to choose her husband? Rogues did not care about husbands, did they? Was he angry at her for being angry at him? Was it simply that she was not womanly enough for him? She felt dizzy from all the uncertainties floating around in her head. Satan’s balls, fighting the English was easier than this!

With a muttered curse she stomped off and flung herself down in front of her sister. “He is not what I want in a man anyway.” She handed Anne the thread over her shoulder.

Parting Claire’s hair down the middle, Anne glanced at the object of her sister’s contempt. Graham Grant, commander at war to the MacGregors, of all people. A man from the misty north where warriors were born, not taught. Even without his halo of sun-kissed hair and glittering green eyes, Commander Grant would be a difficult man for Claire to resist. Why, Anne believed him to be everything her warrior sister wanted in a man. Claire would never be happy with Robert. The poor earl had known it all along and had tried to tell General Monck. As perfect a man as Robert Campbell was, Claire was not meant for him. Connor had chosen the wrong sister.

“Then your heart remains free to love another?”

“Love!” Claire scoffed at her sister’s hesitant question. Och, God, what did she even know of it? “I was not born to love, but to fight.”

“But what about a husband? General Monck said that . . .”

“I don’t care what he said! If he tries to force me into marriage, I will breach Edinburgh’s walls and do what I had intended to do a sennight ago.” Ignoring her sister’s sharp gasp as Anne concluded what her sister’s intentions had been, Claire crossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. “Now, I have something to ask you.”

“What is it?” Anne asked, fumbling with Claire’s braids.

“Do you think I could fight in a skirt?”

Chapter Twenty

W
e are the same. Split apart in our mother’s womb, though secretly, and because I love you, I have wished it were not so.

General George Monck rested his feather quill on the table and blew his breath onto the missive, drying the ink. He read and reread his words. He knew that if this parchment fell into any hands save those of the one to whom it was written, all his plans would come to naught. It was a chance he had to take. The time was approaching. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. Decades of battles hard won had honed his senses to know when his enemies were about to make a move. His men had sent him word that since the expulsion of Parliament, London had fallen into chaos. To quell the uprising, the military Committee of Safety was reinstated to act as an interim government and Lambert was restored to the rank of major general over all the forces in England and Scotland. Now, Lambert’s men were in Scotland, which could only mean that Lambert’s arrival would be next. He would come to seek Monck’s support against Parliament. Support he would never receive.

With careful fingers, Monck folded the letter and melted his wax over a flickering candle flame. Fate would dictate his course of action from this night hence.

With nothing more to do than see it delivered, he rose from his chair and beckoned to the man waiting beyond the shadows of his private solar.

“Edward, guard it with your very life. Deliver it into his hands yourself.”

“I vow I shall do both, my lord.” The steward took the parchment, bowed slightly, and left to perform his task.

Rubbing his hands down his face, the general went to the window. His eyes turned toward an unseen ocean. It would be many months until he saw Edward again if the messenger proved successful.