A Highlander Never Surrenders (25 page)

“Aye.” Graham looked across the hall, up the stairs. “A brilliant general’s easy victory over the rebellion.” Only Claire would never submit, and they would all pay the price.

Robert cut his gaze to Graham’s. “Even if this is all true, there is a consideration of even more importance to me.” He turned his head and met Graham’s gaze fully. “Do you care for her?”

For a moment, Graham simply stared at him. His answer came immediately to his lips, yet he could not speak it. Robert should know the truth, but the truth was too terrifying to admit aloud.

“That . . .” Graham shifted his weight, and his gaze. “Well, that has naught to do with . . . I am . . . fond of her.”

The more Graham stumbled over his words, the wider Robert’s smile grew, until Graham scowled at him.

“I have not acted upon it.”

Grinning, Robert slapped his friend’s shoulder. “Aye,
that’s
been painfully apparent to the rest of us who have suffered through your celibacy. Damnation, Graham,” he said, growing serious again. “Why did you not tell me when I first asked? I would have returned straightaway to Edinburgh.”

“I . . . well, I was not . . . I mean, I . . .”

Robert laughed. “You’re scared to death, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You haven’t the slightest notion of how to cope with your own heart.”

Graham offered him a sheepish look, pulled his cap off his head, and raked his hand through his hair. “My heart has never been involved before.”

Robert patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine, warrior. She will make you happy.”

“And the law?”

Robert shrugged. “That something is law does not mean it’s right. The MacGregors have already proven that.”

Aye, the heart of a knight, Graham thought, and smiled. “That they did, brother.”

A flash of pale hair along the stairs caught his eye and he turned to see Claire heading straight for them. With a small sachet tossed over one shoulder and her freshly braided hair over the other, she looked ready for a journey.

“She is yours,” Robert leaned in and whispered, giving up his claim on her.

Graham’s mouth curved into a slow smile.
Not yet.

“My sister has decided to put her trust in you.” Claire’s voice was as stiff as her spine when she stopped in front of Robert. “If she is harmed in your care before I return for her, I will hold you responsible. And you—” She swung her blazing blue eyes up at Graham next. “—If you come after me, I will kill you.”

She did not linger long enough to see the feral spark that lit his eyes at such a challenge, but swept past him and headed for the door.

Of course, he was going to go after her. He’d been chasing her since the day he first clapped eyes on her. Now that she was free again, he intended to lay claim to her before anyone else did. He knew he had betrayed her, but he would earn back her trust. He would go slowly and win her heart, as a lady should be won. Hell, he knew enough about the courtly rules of wooing from Robert.
’Twouldn’t be difficult at all,
he thought, pushing chairs out of his way and following her out the door.

Graham wanted to strangle her—and just as soon as he caught her, he would. He’d followed her to the stables, trying everything in his arsenal to convince her that riding into James Buchanan’s arms, whether he was innocent or not, would create a far darker threat to her dear friend than any general’s noose. Evidently, she hadn’t believed him, for she marched unfazed to her horse, leaped upon it without so much as a glance in his direction, and thundered out, into the darkness.

Within seconds of mounting and taking off after her, it became apparent to Graham that she was going the wrong way. Gaining speed, he rode her tail, warning her to slow her mount. Chunky ribbons of cool mist were rolling in from the east, already clinging to the treetops and absorbing the scant light from the waxing moon. Soon, the moist fog would creep downward like a gossamer veil, impairing Claire’s vision. She was not a Highlander. She did not know how to move about in the mist.

Racing up her left flank, he reached for her reins, then snapped his hand back and glowered at her as she swatted him away with her sword. He ground his teeth, swearing to himself that if he got his hands on that sword, he was going to ring her bonny throat with it. He found no fault with her wielding such a weapon, but he was damn tired of her pointing it at him! Had a man done the like, Graham would have sliced him open the first time.

Hoping she did not try to lop off his head, he made another grab for her reins as they barreled through the thickening mist. He yanked hard, lurching her forward as her mount came to an abrupt halt. She swung, clearly trying
not
to cause him injury, he realized, when her sharp blade slashed the air a full arm’s length away.

Taking no chances, he snatched the hilt out of her fingers and flung the weapon into the darkness. The blasphemy she hissed at him stung his ears, along with the punch she hurled into his lobe. Damnation, he should have this little hellion teach Rob how to use his fists! He reached for her, but she escaped his hold and slipped out of the saddle, cursing him while she stomped away in the direction he’d thrown her sword.

“Pray I do not find my blade, you son of a pig. For I fully intend to cut out your . . .” The remainder of Claire’s tirade ended when she glanced up and saw nothing but wispy tendrils of silvery mist swirling around the tree trunks. She spun around. “Troy?” Where the hell was her horse? “Graham?” A chill swept over her nape as her calls went unanswered. She took a step forward, then stopped, not knowing which way she should go. “Graham!” she shouted, now even more furious with him for leaving her unarmed. A sound to her right startled her and she reached for her dagger. Was it Graham? The mist was growing denser. She could barely see the small blade she held in front of her.

“Stay with me—” The shock of Graham’s throaty burr at her ear momentarily slowed her reflexes. A moment was all he needed to shackle her wrist and slip his other arm around her waist. “—and I’ll teach ye how to fight even when ye’re blind.”

His warm breath trickled over her flesh. His broad fingers splayed across her belly, holding her firmly in case she thought to resist.

Resisting him did cross Claire’s mind, but the satin caress of his voice, his tall, honed body pressed so intimately behind her, tempted her to ask him to teach her more than that. No, she reminded herself, and pulled away. He did not care what happened to her.

Breaking free of his embrace—and noting that he had plucked her dagger right from her fingers—she faced him, and for the first time, she backed away.

“You knew Monck had promised me to a life of obedience to the Campbells’ Protestant party, and you kept it from me.” She retreated another step when he advanced, breaking through the mist that separated them.

“Aye, and it nearly destroyed me.”

Taken aback by the anguish in his admission, Claire fought to keep her wits about her. He had told her that night at the inn that her life was not her own, and that he would fight to gain it back for her if it were against anyone but him.

Robert. His friend.

He’d resisted her that night, and every day thereafter, because she had been promised to Robert. He had betrayed her. But such loyalty to his friend, Connor would have admired—had taught her to admire. God’s blood, she could not fault Graham for so noble a quality.

He stepped closer, bathing her in his shadow, his intoxicating heat. He was temptation incarnate. Even the veil of darkness did not daunt his potent male virility. Instead, it piqued her awareness of his scent, his sound, his closeness, a hundredfold.

“Ye will not marry Robert,” he promised, closing his arms around her and drawing her into his embrace. “I vow the only man ye will surrender to, is me.”

Chapter Twenty-three

S
urrender. It is so powerful a word, and none more sweet to the ears of a true warrior.

The silence of the forest amplified his ragged breath. The darkness gave life to every shudder of muscle beneath Claire’s fingers. His embrace pulsed with the abandon of his resistance, and she responded with equal measure. She did not think. She did not care. She only wanted him. But she was never one to give up without a fight.

“It is not I who will surrender, rogue,” she breathed against his chin.

“Will it be me, then, warrior?

“That depends on what you want.”

“Ye,” he answered without hesitation. The touch of his hand gliding down her long braid sapped the last shred of her will. “Just ye.”

She was certain he would feel her heart pounding in her lips as his mouth descended on hers. She loved kissing him. Each time he had done it, it had chipped away her resolve. He had a right to be arrogant. For who could resist him? His lips caressed and teased while his tongue explored with bold curiosity. His large, broad hands traced a scalding path down the length of her back, then closed around her buttocks. He raked his teeth across her bottom lip, over her chin, biting and suckling the sensitive hollows in her neck until she thought she might scream with the need for something more.

Emboldened by his raw desire, she stroked her palms up his chest, delighting in every well-defined curve. Cupping his face in her palms, she drew him closer, inviting him to take his fill.

He growled like a beast about to plunder his mate, lifted his hands between them, and tore her tunic down the center. Bending over her, he captured her waist in one arm and swirled his tongue over her erect nipple. His hungry mouth made her writhe and clutch fistfuls of his hair when he closed his lips around her and began sucking.

The taste of her . . . the feel of her quivering in his mouth made him so hard he ached. He pulled at the stretched wool of his plaid and groaned with relief as his stiff shaft bolted straight up, unhindered. He gripped himself and drove his hand up and down over his hot flesh to appease his desire. But nothing could satisfy him now, save her. He unclipped her belt and hauled her back to him when he unhooked her trews.

Holding her still, he bent his knees and pressed his mouth to the crest of her pelvis. He licked and kissed her thighs while he pulled her trews down to her ankles. She jerked hard in his coiled embrace when he parted her with his fingers and flicked his tongue over her seething nub.

Rolling her head back, Claire beseeched the saints to forgive her for finding such unholy ecstasy in his tender ministrations. But when his touch became more sinful, sucking her into his mouth, laving his tongue over the full measure of her, she knew she was doomed. Tunneling her fingers through his damp, misty curls, she coaxed him closer, deeper, as wave after thrilling, spasming wave engulfed her.

She collapsed into his arms and drifted on the aftermath of bliss as he laid her down limp upon the moist leaves. Her muscles trembled with spent energy such as she’d never experienced before. Her lungs dragged in short, shallow gasps of cool air. Even after endless hours of practice, or fighting off the crushing weight of a man’s blade, she had never felt this alive. She could have died happy right in that spot—if her arse was not so cold. Her eyes shot open and she arched her buttocks in the air and dragged her trews up.

“Pity, I can barely see ye.” She heard his voice over her and sat up swiftly as he sat down, leaning his back against the shadowy figure of a thick tree.

The obscurity was a good thing, since he also could not see the fire in her cheeks. “You tore my tunic.” She could think of nothing else to say. What was there to converse about after a man did
that
to you? And what happens now? Would he forget her now that his game of hunter and prey was over?

“Ye can wear mine.”

He grew silent for a moment, then handed her his tunic.
That
meant that he was sitting two inches away from her bare-chested. How in blazes could that arouse her when she was so exhausted?

“Thank you,” she said, accepting his offering. The smell of forest and leather and sweat bombarded her senses when she slipped his tunic over her head. It was maddening how deliriously content she felt enveloped in his musky aroma.

“What did ye mean when ye said that ye cowered to please me?”

Her shoulders scrunched up around her ears while she wriggled out of her tunic beneath. Och, why did he have to bring that up? She certainly did not want to talk about how she had struggled to behave like a lady—and failed miserably—so that he would find her more to his liking. “You misheard me. I said that I desired to kill you.”

She felt his hands clamp her waist and her rump rising off the ground. “Tell me,” he demanded, planting her down between his thighs and closing his arms around her from behind.

Och, what sorcerer’s magic did he possess in that smoky, sexy baritone, in the searing heat of his breath at her nape that persuaded her to tell him all her secrets? Mayhap, it was the way he snatched her up, vanquishing the awkwardness between them, that made her want to share so much more with him. “I will not tell you,” she retorted coolly, covertly enjoying the feel of being held so possessively by him.

“Ye take pleasure in defying me, stubborn wench.”

“Your blithe arrogance tempts me often to do so.”

He laughed, sparking lightning bolts down her spine. “Such a sharp tongue on one so bonny.”