A Highlander Never Surrenders (39 page)

“Only your trust, my great lord,” Graham told him earnestly.

But Lambert was still not convinced. “If, as you say, I need only you at my side, then gain it by cutting off the arm of one of these men.”

“As you wish.” Graham readied himself once again, but no soldier came forward. Instead, Lambert called out Connor Stuart’s name.

Hauled from his horse, Claire’s brother almost fell to his knees as he was shoved forward by another soldier. Keeping his expression stoic, Graham marveled at the raw determination Connor possessed to remain upright. Clothed in rags, his tattered mantle snapping in the frigid wind, he lifted his ice-blue gaze to Graham, a gaze charged with the same defiance, the same stubborn refusal to surrender that his sister possessed.

“What is this?” Graham drawled with mild disgust. “You mock the skill I pledge to you by bringing me a broken peasant to fight?”

“This is Connor Stuart, leader of the Royalist resistance,” Lambert sneered. “A rebel movement that reaches deep within Monck’s camp. Prove to me that the general has not sent you to aid him and I will make you my second in command.”

Graham smiled and dismounted. He circled the prisoner, sliding the edge of his blade gently along Connor’s collarbone. “I have heard of you, Stuart. A warrior arrayed in the frost of winter told me of your great skill.”

Connor’s breath faltered slightly, but that was the only proof he gave that he understood of whom the man behind him spoke.

Lambert spat at Connor’s feet. “Aye, show Major Hyde how brave you are now.”

“Aye,” Graham came face to face with Connor, whose eyes now shone with hope and disbelief, and tossed him an easy grin. “Show me.” He handed Connor his sword even as Lambert stammered his protest.

“You do not expect me to fight an unarmed man, do you, my lord?” Graham cut Lambert a disapproving glance. “I do have
some
honor, which—” He turned back to Connor while he pulled a dagger from beneath his belt. “—your sister will flatly deny.” Connor smiled as Graham slashed a wide gash into the chest of the soldier standing closest to him—and the men around them suddenly came alive.

As Graham had suspected, Lambert’s army was weak and weary, and more than half fell within the first ten minutes of battle. Connor, Graham was pleased to see, fought relatively well, considering his poor condition. But he would not last much longer against Lambert’s better fighters. Graham had to get him away from the fray.

While Monck’s men hacked away at the rest, Graham tossed Claire’s brother over his shoulder and ran for his horse. He heard Lambert shout his false name as he hurled Connor over his saddle and leaped up behind him. He did not slow, knowing Monck’s men would stop anyone who tried to follow him.

He had almost made it to the tree line when a shot rang out. Pain seared his chest and arm like a molten flame. He looked down to see darker red drenching the fibers of his mulberry doublet. Hell, the bastard had a pistol! Still, he did not stop but broke through the trees like an arrow being shot through hay. He heard a shout; a female voice, but his mind refused to register who it might be. She wouldn’t! She couldn’t have disobeyed him! No man had ever disobeyed him in battle. Then he saw her, her long pale braid snapping out behind her, her sword raised and ready to cut down anything or anyone in her path as Troy crashed through the trees.

Graham felt his heart fail him as she whipped past him. “Claire!” he roared, then set his murderous glare on the five men following at her heels. He swung his horse around, vowing to kill every one of them for not keeping her safely hidden.

“My brother,” Connor yanked on his reins, slowing his horse. “You cannot return to the fight. We will surely die.”

Graham ignored him and drove his heels into his horse again. Dear God, she was fighting! He would not reach her in time.

“Look!” Connor lifted a bony finger to the fray. “Your men are behind and in front of Lambert’s. The general himself retreats! Let her fight. She is my best man.”

“She is not a man!” Graham screamed at him. “She is my wife!” He tried to reach her, but, following his orders, three of his men used their horses to block his path, protecting Connor at all cost.

He could do nothing but watch her, both horrified and in awe of her skill and strength. The melee lasted only a few moments, but it seemed like eons to Graham, helpless to get to her. She blocked, jabbed, and swung, slashing her victims with vicious expertise. Finally, when only a handful of their enemies remained, she shouted an order and Monck’s men immediately retreated.

Graham stared at her as she rode to him, a mixture of blind fury and sheer terror darkening his features. Without pausing in her gait, she snatched his reins and yanked him into moving.

They rode in silence, surrounded on every side by General Monck’s men, of whom none were lost, until they were safely away. The moment they stopped, Claire leaped from her mount and helped Graham lower her brother into her arms.

“I thought you were dead,” she cried over and over while she washed his face in kisses and in tears. “I thought I would never see you again.”

Dragging his sister into his arms, Connor closed his eyes and held her as if he would never again let go. “I prayed each day to see your face one more time. To hear you argue with me.”

Hearing them, Graham almost smiled.

“Tell me, sister,” Connor withdrew and looked deeply into Claire’s eyes, “where is Anne? Tell me she has not been given in marriage to James Buchanan.”

“She has not. Graham and Robert suspected his treachery and followed Monck’s orders to take her to Skye.”

“Thank the saints,” Connor breathed with profound relief. “Do you speak of Robert Campbell, the Earl of Argyll?”

“Aye.”

Connor nodded and looked up at the man who saved his life. “I knew Campbell was a good man who could be trusted. Might I assume that you are Graham?”

“Aye,” Claire answered for him. “He is Graham Grant, commander of . . . Dear God, Graham, your shoulder! You are hurt!” She tried to tug him off his horse, but he only shook his head, his gaze hard and unblinking on her.

“ ’Tis nothing. A minor wound. The shot went straight through. I am fine.”

“Nonsense,” she argued, sounding close to hysteria. “Get down here so I can get a look at it.”

“I said I am fine.”

She stared at him, confusion and concern marring her flaxen brow.

Seeing her distress, Connor leaned in close to her ear. “Your husband is angry with you for rushing into the fight. Give him time to—”

“I am not her husband,” Graham corrected him woodenly.

“But you called her your wife.”

“A wife of mine would not disobey me.”

Bristling in her spot, Claire folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “And a husband of mine would not give me orders.”

“He would if he believed ye too ill to fight because of the babe ye carry but have nae regard fer!”

“Babe?” Connor blinked at his sister first and then at Graham. “You are carrying a babe?”

But Claire was too busy gaping at Graham in mute fury to give her brother a response.

“He would,” Graham continued, his voice growing louder, more fevered with emotion, “if the verra thought of yer lifeblood being spilled upon the ground drove him to madness! I have never felt terror on the field before this day, thanks to ye, ye stubborn wench! I vow, ’twas the last time!”

He whirled his horse around to leave her, but stopped when a small rock struck him in the back. Turning slowly, he glowered at her, then dismounted and stalked toward her like a predator after its prey.

“In case ye have forgotten, I was shot.”

“You said you were fine.” She faced his most lethal look and fisted her hands on her hips. “Do you think to leave me?”

“D’ye think to stop me by hurling rocks at me?”

“Aye; I will do whatever it takes to keep those I love at my side.” As he came closer, her anger melted at the blood staining his doublet. The scent of him, the sight of him, and the sound of him all worked at chiseling away her defenses, as they had from the beginning. Her heart gave in, surrendering all she was to him. “I am sorry I disobeyed you, but I heard the shot of a pistol and the thought of losing you drove me to madness, as well.”

His expression went soft, his green eyes warmed like a summer glade as he reached her. “What did ye say?”

“I said the thought of losing—”

“Nae, before that.”

When she realized what he meant she quirked her mouth at him. “I said I was sorry.”

Graham looked at her brother. “Ye heard that, nae?” Then he slipped his arms around her waist and drew her close, careful of his wound. “Does this mean ye will obey me from now on?”

Claire tilted her face to kiss him, then leaned up on her toes and spoke softly against his ear. “Graham, my truest love, I will do as you say from this moment on. Now please, let me see to your shoulder and clean your wound.”

When his sister returned to her horse to retrieve some water, Connor Stuart caught Graham’s satisfied smirk and shook his head with pity. “You do not believe all that about her obeying you, do you?”

Graham flashed his dimples at Claire when she turned to smile at them both. “Of course not. If I must fight again while she is in her delicate condition, I will tie her to a tree.”

Connor laughed softly. “She will only chew her way through the ropes.” He caught an apple Claire tossed him from her saddle. He bit into it and groaned with pleasure, then turned back to Graham. “So, are you sure you can tame her? Many have tried before you and failed.”

“Nae,” Graham admitted, settling his loving gaze on her. If she ever again frightened him the way she did today, he would throttle her, but he . . .

“Satan’s blasted balls!” Claire cursed, spilling the water and interrupting his thoughts.

He could not help but smile. “I’ve nae intention of taming her. None whatsoever.”