A Highlander Never Surrenders (24 page)

“Claire.” Graham lifted his hand to swat away her sword. She gave his palm a stinging whack with the flat of her blade. His eyes blazed at her, but he did not move another muscle.

“Let us get one thing perfectly clear, Highlander,” she said, bringing the razor edge of her sword back to his neck. “Cowering is not in my nature, and I refuse to do it for another instant just to please you. Now, protect yourself so that I do not kill you.”

To please him? Why the hell . . . She allowed him no more time to ponder her words as she whirled her blade in a deadly dance before his eyes. Graham leaped back, his eyes wide with disbelief that she would actually strike him.

“Claire, put down yer sword before I . . .

She swung and nicked his forearm. Her mouth hooked into an unrepentant smirk. Eclipsed by a lock of flaxen hair, her blue eyes flashed. “Before you what? Run?”

He stared at her, fire leaping from his eyes, his blood pumping hard and fast. The thought of actually fighting her both worried and excited him. He knew he should concede whatever point she was trying to make. He did not want to hurt her—or Robert—but hell, she looked so damned alluring standing there, ready to take on his sword.

He dragged his powerful claymore from its sheath and clipped her meager weapon away from his face. Instantly, her sword swooped over her shoulder, and grasping the hilt in both hands, she returned it once again to his throat. This time, he gave more force to his swing, and metal met metal in a grinding clash that sent her reeling back a few steps.

She smiled, igniting the blood in his veins to scalding. He advanced. She released one hand from her hilt, extending her arm for balance. His claymore sliced the air where she had been standing less than a moment ago.

“Ye were a good student,” Graham remarked, cutting his sharp gaze to her when she came to a halt slightly to his right.

“Aye, Connor’s best.” She brought down a chopping blow, which he parried just before it cut through his shoulder.

Catching her sword beneath its edge, he swung wide and grinned when she held on to her weapon. But he’d pushed her off balance just enough to deliver another crushing blow that dropped her to one knee. Positioning the tip of his blade under her chin, he tilted her face up and flashed his dimples at her. “Surrender now, and I’ll ferget ye lifted yer blade to me.”

She quirked her brow as if he were the biggest dimwit in all of Scotland, blew her hair out of her mouth, and swept her leg cleanly across both his ankles.

Graham went down like a felled tree. Flat on his back, he looked up just in time to see her thin blade flash high over his head. He rolled to the side, astounded to think that she truly meant to whack off his head.

Luckily, she didn’t, and backed up to give him a moment to gain his feet. Well now, he thought, pushing back his cap and facing her once again, if this was going to be a serious fight . . . She deflected two more mighty strokes that made her arms visibly tremble, but she did not back down. They both advanced, meeting face to face in a clash of sparks.

Graham stared deep into her eyes, his heavy breath sweeping tendrils of hair off her face. Hell, she excited him beyond endurance. He wanted to take her until she screamed her surrender.

Snatching her wrist with his free hand, he twisted her sword arm behind her back and hauled her body hard against his. His mouth descended without mercy; open, insatiable, devouring her with his plunging tongue. She struggled briefly, firing his passion even more. They dropped their swords at the same time. His arm snaked low around her waist to drag her closer, deeper against his stiffening erection. She gasped into his hungry mouth and pulled her wrist free to clutch his face in her palms. He knew she would answer his fervor with the same zeal once he had her, but when she rolled her hips to caress him more fully against her warm niche, his control snapped. Lifting her off her feet, he whirled her around and slammed her back up against the tavern’s outer wall. Cupping her buttocks in his tight grip, he surged every throbbing inch of his arousal over her, cursing the fabric between them. He growled low in his throat with the need he suffered for her, and broke their kiss. Nothing needed to be said between them. They both wanted the same thing, though Claire did not understand what it was. He wanted to show her, to teach her—slowly and thoroughly. He wanted to forget Robert existed. His expression darkened as the thought crossed his mind,

“What is it?” The strain of Claire’s breath pushed her breasts up hard against his chest. “What is so terrible about me that it keeps such a devilish rogue away?”

His gaze warmed on her as he covered her fingers with his and kissed them. “There is naught terrible about ye, Claire. Ye are perfect.”

She looked so surprised and pleased, he began to smile. Angus’s gravelly voice stopped him.

“Fer hell’s sake, no’ again.”

Still clutching Claire’s hand between them, Graham turned his head to see his longtime friend shaking his head at him.

“Ye both do these lasses an injustice,” Angus complained despite his commander’s black look. “Rob’s inside wi’ another man’s promised wife, and yer oot here wi’ his.”

“Angus!” Ready to haul the burly warrior back inside before he said another word, Graham broke away from Claire, but he paused and his heart stalled in his chest when he heard her voice.

“What are you talking about?” She passed Graham on her way to Angus, her footfalls light and cautionary. “I am not Robert’s promised wife.”

Angus lifted his pitying gaze from hers and shot Graham a repentant look for what he was about to do. What Graham and Robert should have done outside Edinburgh.

“Aye, lass, ye are. Yer brother wished it to be so, and it canna be undone.”

She laughed, and Graham closed his eyes. He did not want her to find out this way. He should have told her. When he opened his eyes again, it was to aim his murderous glare at Angus. He did not notice that Claire had stopped laughing and was staring at him.

“Graham?” she asked quietly. “What is this nonsense he speaks?” When he did not answer her, she rushed to him and clasped his arm. Panic, disbelief, and rage all played across her fair expression. “This is not true. Tell me it is not true!”

“Claire . . .”

“Nae!” She pulled away from him as if touching him pained her. “My brother would
never
have promised me to a Roundhead! Monck told you this, did he not?” She spun around back to Angus. “He lies!”

“It does not matter, Claire,” Graham spoke softly behind her. “Monck has decreed it, and Robert will not disobey the law.”

Slowly, she pivoted on her heel to face him, her eyes aflame with defiance . . . and pain. “And you think I will obey it? I am but a woman who should do as she is told by the men who rule her. Men who would have me believe that my brother betrayed me.”

“Nae.” He reached for her, but she backed away.

“You knew this, and you did not tell me.” Her eyes glistened with tears she refused to let fall. “Did you all laugh together at night while Anne and I slept?”

When Graham opened his mouth to answer her, she slapped him hard across his face. Without waiting for his reaction—or even caring what it was—she whirled around, snatched her sword from the ground, and stormed toward the tavern.

Graham shot Angus one last lethal glare and took off after her before she killed someone. Most likely, Robert.

Claire had no intention of killing the Earl of Argyll. Not yet anyway. She liked Robert. He just needed some convincing that if he obeyed the law in this, she would be forced to cut out his heart and feed it to a homeless dog. He was a reasonable, intelligent man. He would listen to her.

She pushed open the door, yanking her arm free when Graham appeared at her side and tried to stop her. She stepped into the tavern and looked toward the table where her sister sat with the smiling earl. Dear God, what would Anne think of all this? She would hate Robert for keeping this from her. He deserved it, Claire told herself. But poor Anne . . . Satan’s arse, who was her sister promised to? She thought about asking Graham as she strode to the table, but she never wanted to speak to him again.

When Robert saw her coming, her sword clenched in her fist at her side, and Graham hot on her heels, he stood up.

“Roundhead,” Claire spat when she reached him. “What spells do you weave for my sister with your pretty words and bewitching eyes?”

“Claire!” Anne sprang from her chair and stepped in front of him. “What is the matter? Put your sword away.”

“Nae, I will not,” Claire said, staring at Robert over Anne’s head. “Tell her.”

“Tell me what?” Anne insisted, dragging her sister’s gaze back to her.

“That he intends to marry me while he woos you! He intends to, but it will not be. Do you understand me, Roundhead? I will kill you first.”

“I do not intend . . .” Robert began, stepping around Anne. She stopped him and held her palm up to Claire, as if to stay her blade.

“Sister, Robert does not want this any more than you do, but it was Connor who chose him. Our brother knew . . .” Her words trailed off as Claire’s expression grew chillingly dark.

“How long have you known, Anne?”

“For some time now,” Anne admitted, almost relieved to be finally telling her sister the truth. “General Monck told me when he brought me to Edinburgh. He was Connor’s friend, Claire. He is our friend.”

“I see.” Claire’s smile was strained to the point of being painful. “Well, that changes everything. Does it not? Now I agree to hand over all titles and lands to a Roundhead—whom my brother, a Royalist rebel, chose for me, according to a
Roundhead
governor who claims to be our friend. I was foolish to mistrust the general, despite this being a truly ingenious plan to put an end to the rebellion.”

Behind her, Graham met Robert’s gaze. It would have been an ingenious plan. What proof had Monck given them that he was an ally of Stuart’s? His men were attacked. By Claire. Had they been wrong about Buchanan? Was this Monck’s plan all along? Tie one sister to the new leader of the rebellion and the other to a Presbyterian Campbell?

“And to whom has the general promised you?” Claire asked her sister. When Anne told her of her betrothal to James, Claire aimed her scathing expression at Robert first, and then at Graham. “Now it becomes clear to me why you accused him of such treachery.” Without giving either of them a chance to reply, she stepped forward and reached for her sister’s hand. “General Monck lied to you, just as he did to Connor. Come, now. We are leaving.” She stared wide-eyed when Anne pulled her hand away.

“Are you mad, Claire? Where shall we go? I cannot fight like you.”

“No one’s going anywhere.” Graham stepped forward.

“Back to James.” Claire ignored him. “To Connor’s true friend.”

Graham turned to her with a look of disbelief that quickly darkened into anger. “Ye’re not going near Ravenglade.”

“Why not?” Claire challenged, fisting her hands on her hips. “James is no more guilty of betraying Connor than you are. Now step aside and let us go.”

“I am not going.” Anne backed into Robert’s chest. Her large, liquid eyes begged her sister not to go either. “Please, do not do this. We will not make it back to James alive.”

Claire’s spine went rigid. Pushing Graham out of her way, she glanced at her sister and then lowered her eyes as she passed her. “You insult me, Anne.”

Silence fell over the table as they watched Claire climb the stairs and disappear silently around the corner.

When she was gone, Graham turned to Robert. “Walk with me. We need to talk.”

Chapter Twenty-two

E
verything you desire is in my hands, and I will give it to you freely.

Rob followed Graham across the rushes without hesitation. They had been through much together these past two years, strengthening their friendship. Despite the seriousness of what he wanted to speak to Robert about, Graham felt his expression warming as he thought of his friend. He’d been fond of this lad from the day he first met him. Robert Campbell had the heart of a knight and the courage of a thousand warriors. He did what he believed was right, no matter what the cost. A most noble trait, that—and one that he paid for with his hide more than once. All the more reason Graham had grown to admire him for it. Never would he ask Robert to abandon his ideals . . . to sacrifice what he believed was honorable. But Graham wanted to make certain his friend had all the facts before he chose the side on which he would stand.

Stopping at the hearth fire along the northern wall, Graham turned and looked Robert in the eyes—something he had been unable to do since they left Edinburgh. “What if Claire is correct about Monck?”

To Graham’s surprise, Robert nodded. “I admit that such a devious scheme had not entered my mind. The determination to plan it, and see it through, would require an excellent pretender.”

Graham agreed. “With Connor dead, who would contest him? Not the Campbells, who were gaining a royal Stuart in their clan. Not Buchanan, even if all he wants is Connor’s lands. He cannot contest openly.”

As Graham’s points became obvious, Robert turned toward the hearth. His eyes lightened, capturing the searing golds and green-blues of the flames. “Our marriages would unite both parties.”