A Highlander Never Surrenders (6 page)

“The water’s brisk, but it served its purpose well.”

The amusement in his voice raked on Claire’s last nerve. She knew the meaning of his crass observation. Connor had often quipped with James about the consequences cold water had for a man’s . . . extremities.

“Not well enough, I fear,” she replied, with calm detachment she didn’t feel. He infuriated her. He set her nerve endings aflame, and she hated him for it. “You did not drown.”

Catching the Campbell’s faint smile while he rested, Claire suspected it was the first time he’d heard a female utter something other than
take me to your bed
to his companion, and he was enjoying it. If such was the case, she was about to make the young earl shout with joy.

“It is a pity you’re a Roundhead.” She feigned a despondent sigh when Campbell lifted one lid to look up at her. Curling a stray lock of flaxen hair behind her ear, she stepped closer to where he sat propped against the tree trunk. Both of his eyes were opened now. “I find your humility a refreshing respite from untrained hounds that bark arrogantly at a wolf.”

Robert’s eyes lit with amusement as he lifted them to his friend dressing somewhere behind her, and then back to her. “Aye, wolves are crafty.”

Claire nodded and tilted her head at him, wondering why he used the word crafty, when the nape of her neck went warm from the Highlander’s breath above her.

“But does not even the fiercest wolf fall prey to the hunter?”

It could have been his melodious burr, or the husky cadence of his voice grazing her ear, or mayhap it was simply the way he made his query sound like a promise that made her heart accelerate. Pivoting around, she found her nose inches from his damp, clingy tunic. She looked up from his chest, and with a smirk as coolly confident as his own, said, “Not this wolf.”

Stepping around him, she sauntered back to the edge of the stream and checked on Troy. The young steed appeared to be faring better than she. She didn’t realize her hands were shaking until she lifted them to Troy’s bridle. Her breath felt strained, her flesh warm against the cool breeze. Damn him for possessing a smile so shamelessly sinful, Satan himself would slap him on the back with delight. That he cast that smile on her every time she challenged him both infuriated and excited her. Claire loved a good fight, but she had no time for overconfident rogues. It was a pity though that the Highlander wouldn’t be around long enough to suffer his defeat. She would have enjoyed humiliating him with rejection. Ha! The lusty fool had no idea who she was, or how many suitors she had refused without so much as a glance in their direction. She had defied her father and even her brother at first, and chose to live in a man’s world. She was immune to their charms, impervious to their affections. She cared only for her kin, her country, and restoring Charles to the throne.

Angling her head, she glanced at Graham Grant while he adjusted his plaid over his wet body and spoke quietly with the Campbell. As if sensing her eyes on him, the Highlander looked up and winked at her.

Satan’s blasted balls, she thought as her toes curled. She had to get away from him. And fast.

Chapter Six

I
am plagued by the flower of Scotland crying, save me!

“Where d’ye think ye’re going?” Graham asked, watching as Claire fit her boot into her stirrup.

About to leap up, she paused with her hands on the saddle and cut him a glacial glance. “Where do I
think
I’m going? I’m going to Edinburgh. Alone.”

“ ’Twill be dark in a few hours and there’s naught fer leagues but woods. We’ll make camp here fer the night and—”

Her laughter cut him off, but when she stepped off the stirrup and strode toward him, her sneer turned murderous. “Do you truly think to order me about, you insufferable lout?”

Graham pushed off the tree he was leaning against just before she reached him. His gaze couldn’t help but examine and admire the hellfire in the sway of her hips. She was a saucy wench, aflame with purpose, and seemingly resistant to his attentions. He told himself that he wanted to remain with her to keep the determined lass from getting herself killed. But she made his blood sear hot through his veins like no lass before her. She ran rampant through his thoughts, inciting his curiosity for more. Normally, a chase, such as the one she presented, would have been enough. But he didn’t want her to run, and run she would if he cornered her.

“I would not dare to order ye about,” he amended softly. “I am giving ye a choice. If ye ride away now, be assured that I will remain hot on yer tail throughout the night.” One corner of his mouth lifted slightly, suggesting he meant something far more provocative than following her. “If ye wait until the morn, I will bid ye farewell.”

Claire stared at him, searching his expression for the truth. Would they both leave her to her task if she but stayed until the sun rose? Would they truly stay out of her way? She shifted her gaze to the earl, now on his feet, as well. His word, she would be more inclined to believe.

“Do I have your promise on this, Campbell?”

He cast his friend a tentative glance, ground his teeth, and then turned to face her. “I believe it best that we stay together. I hate thinking what would have become of you had we not been with you earlier.”

“I believe I’ve given you no cause to ponder such things,” Claire returned steadily, confident in her own abilities.

“I admit you wield a sword even better than my sister,” the earl allowed easily. “But I must ask you, what sort of brother does not teach his sister to fear the forest?”

A fair enough question, Claire decided, since he knew naught of her or Connor. This man was a supporter of the Republic, unacquainted with the hazards of living life as an outlaw. She could not judge him too harshly for his ignorance, so her reply was simple. “The kind of brother who taught her how to stay alive in them. Now do I have your word?”

His features grew taut with reluctance to concede, but finally he nodded and strode away.

Claire watched him go. When he reached the edge of the stream, he knelt and dipped his hands into the dappled current. Mayhap, she hoped, washing his hands of her. Sensing another pair of eyes on her, she shifted her gaze to the Highlander.

Saints, he was handsome standing there with his shoulder propped against the tree, his arms folded across his chest, and an irritatingly triumphant smile curling his sensual mouth. She decided that if she were ever to take a man, she quite preferred his companion’s quiet humility over the warrior’s unabashed arrogance. But when she turned from him, prepared to spend whatever time she had with the less intolerable of the two, her thoughts remained behind her. Why was a Catholic Highlander traveling with a Presbyterian Roundhead? Which one of them was betraying his allegiance? Probably the rogue, she thought, kicking the dirt. The devilment that made his eyes shimmer like polished emerald facets proved his scoundrel’s heart. His loyalty and devotion belonged to no one.Mayhap, he was a mercenary, paid by the noble earl to protect him on his journey to Edinburgh. Grant had likely been hired after Campbell’s face was pummeled.

“How did you fall to Lambert’s men this morn?” The earl’s question drew her attention from her thoughts and she looked down to find she’d reached him.

She looked out beyond the stream and into the opposite tree line. “They came upon me while I slept. I killed three of them, but the others came at me from every direction. I managed to take down three more before the rest grabbed me. They took my sword and dragged me to the tree where you found me.”

“Truly, I’ve never known a woman such as you.”

Hearing the regret in his compliment, Claire dropped her eyes to him.

“You speak like a warrior,” he said.

“And you disapprove?”

He shrugged shoulders encased in an indigo tunic and veiled his gaze beneath long sable lashes. “I believe it is a man’s duty to protect a lady.”

Claire fought the urge to smile. Such an earnest declaration did not deserve mockery, even though it was clear that he could not protect himself, let alone a lady. The Earl of Argyll possessed ideals born of another age, and as endearing as they might be, they were foolish in the present. “Did you not teach your sister to fight?”

“There was not much else to do.” He raised his large eyes and watched her as she knelt to sit beside him. “We were raised by soldiers and servants after our father died. I practiced my skills in the field each day, and Kate just came along at first. Then Amish and John taught her, as well.”

Resting her elbows on her bent knees, Claire studied him while he spoke. He was a Roundhead, an enemy of the monarchy. He, like many other nobles of Scotland, had traded his fealty to the king for a title and lands. But sitting here with him amid the serene sounds of rushing water and rustling leaves, she found him quite likable. “You’ve been practicing since you were a boy and you still cannot fight. Is that why you hired the Highland commander to keep you safe?” Before she could stop herself, she turned and looked at Graham. Rogue. He was lounging beneath the tree as if he hadn’t a care in the world, his cap pulled over his eyes while he rested, his long legs sprawled before him.

“Graham?” the earl asked, following her gaze. “It’s true he saved my life on more than one occasion, but I can fight well enough with a sword. I just don’t think it necessary to kill everyone who comes against me.”

Claire turned back to him and gave him a puzzled look. “A contrary belief for someone raised by soldiers. Tell me, then,” her gaze hardened, “what you think of the armies who torture those who do not adhere to their generals’ ways of thinking?”

“General Monck is a fair man. I know of no—”

“General Monck is even worse than the others,” Claire interrupted, with passion’s sting in her voice. “They lead men to war. They know nothing of loyalty or governing kingdoms. Should we trust the good of our nation to bloodthirsty men who care not for its people, but only for power?”

“And the Royalist resistance would stop them by killing them all?” Campbell questioned her in return, his tone neutral, his eyes keen yet dispassionate upon her. “Is the man who leads them to war any less bloodthirsty?”

Claire bristled at his unfair judgment of her brother but caught herself before rushing into battle. It was obvious that she was a member of such a resistance, and Claire did not care if Campbell knew it. But that was all she was willing to expose to his watchful gaze. “We refuse to accept that which is forced upon us,” she answered coolly. “We have no other option but to fight. Your Highlander should understand that.”

“He does.”

Claire arched a curious brow at his brief response and stared at him, waiting for more.

“Graham fought at the side of the MacGregors for many years. He remains a loyal friend to them, despite the proscription and its consequences to sympathizers.”

Every nobleman south of Aberdeen knew the Grants had allied themselves with the MacGregors for many years now, even claiming them as kin. But Claire was surprised to hear of Graham’s steadfast devotion to the outlawed clan. She believed him to be committed to no one. Hell, he had told her with his own words that he was a shameless knave, and stripping naked before her eyes confirmed his claim.

Fighting the urge to look at him again, she wondered what compelled such faithfulness in a self-avowed scoundrel. And more, if he was truly a friend to the MacGregors, what was he doing with a Campbell? “You said your sister was once abducted by the MacGregors. How is it then that you ride with their ally?”

“He is more than just their ally. He is their commander.”

Claire raised her brow, impressed.

“Kate is now wed to the MacGregor laird and there is peace between Argyll and their clan.”

“Peace is fleeting,” Claire scoffed, and bent forward to dip her hand into the stream. She scooped some water into her palm and splashed it across her face. “I heard my brother often tell of the laird of the mist. A great warlord who fought against the laws that would oppress him. He is rumored to have killed Duncan Campbell, the earl before you, and you expect me to believe there is peace now between your kin?”

“The laird of the mist did not kill my uncle.”

“How do you know he did not?”

“Because he is my sister’s husband, and I was with him and my uncle when they fought.”

Claire laughed. “Your brother in marriage is the Devil MacGregor?” When he nodded, she cast him an understanding look. “You did not succeed in rescuing her, then. That must weigh heavily upon you, knight, but I will not suffer the same failure.”

“I did not fail my sister.” Robert leaned back in the grass, canted his arm behind his head, and closed his eyes. “And if yours is anything like you, Monck and his men are likely the ones suffering right now.”

Claire flashed his tranquil features a heated scowl, then poked him in the side with her finger. “Do not speak unkindly of my sister. Anne is nothing like me.”

He yawned. “What’s she like then?”

“She’s quiet and . . .” she paused, searching for the truest word to describe her dear Anne. “Wistful. Demure, and so much more elegant than I. She is secretive, but her emotions play so openly upon her face, it is easy to read her thoughts.” Claire smiled and then remembered the man beside her. She looked down and was surprised to find him still awake and staring at her.