A Highlander Never Surrenders (7 page)

“What else?” he asked.

Claire didn’t mind speaking of her. In fact, it helped her focus on her quest. She had lost her brother. She would not lose her sister, as well, even if it was to marriage. The thought of it stilled Claire’s heart. She would die before she or Anne were wed to a Roundhead. As the king’s cousins, she’d always known their future was written on the whims of the monarchy. She didn’t want to take a husband and give up the life she’d chosen as a warrior. But if she had to marry, it would be to someone of King Charles’s choosing.

“She has hair like my mother’s,arrow-straight and painted in deep shades of vermilion. Her eyes are the color of the sky before a storm, and looking into them is like looking into the eyes of a falcon.”

“She sounds very beautiful,” the earl said, sounding as if he truly believed she was.

“She is,” Claire agreed quietly. “And she is as dutiful as I am rebellious. She will go before the priest, and though her heart silently protests, she will wed whoever General Monck chooses for her.”

The earl sat up, his usually pleasant features marked now with consternation. “She is in Edinburgh to be married?”

“Aye, and to a Roundhead. Now you see why I make haste to save her.”

He stared out across the water for a moment, his furrowed brow casting a shadow over his eyes and the warring thoughts within. He was quiet, and then ran both hands through his thick brown hair and said, “We will leave for Edinburgh at first light.”

“We?”

He cut his gaze to her. “Aye. We. I will—”

“What will you do? You serve Monck,” Claire snapped at him, angry that he had broken his word to her. The fool would ruin everything when he alerted all of Edinburgh that he had arrived to save the damsel, Anne. “What will you do when he refuses whatever silly
request
you put to him? Will you defy him? Fight him? Mayhap kill him if your hand is forced? Nae, you will not! So, tell me, knight, how you will be of any aid to either of us?”

“I will bargain with him.”

Claire almost laughed right in his face. “And what do you have that he wants?”

“Connor Stuart.”

Her face went rigid. When he reached a hand to her, she sprang backward. “Claire,” he said, holding up a palm as if to stop her from taking off, which was exactly what she meant to do. “General Monck doesn’t know that your brother is dead. I will promise him Connor for Anne.”

He knew. The bastard knew she was Connor’s sister the entire time. With her hand on the hilt of her dagger, she considered the best way to injure him without rousing his friend. “I should kill you.”

“I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

She looked around. The Highlander hadn’t stirred. Her horse was close by. She could strike the earl and be gone in seconds. But first, she would hear why he believed what he said. “Why do you think the general doesn’t know my brother is dead?”

The Campbell’s gaze dipped to her hand. “Because,” he drew in a deep breath and then lifted his eyes to meet her murderous glare, “he sent me to find him.”

Chapter Seven

S
ave me from the kiss of the devil!

Claire’s dagger flashed in the filtered sunlight as she came to her feet. “I knew you were not to be trusted.” She lifted her hand to strike at him. “Your search ends here.”

Broad fingers closed around her wrist, stopping its descent with painful force. With a twist to her arm that nearly sucked the breath out of her, she was spun around and butted up against the hard, taut body of the Highlander behind her. His expression was dark, his gaze inscrutable as he secured her wrist against the small of her back. A harsh yank drew her body closer and her arm up higher along her back. She ground her teeth together in an effort not to cry out.

“Drop it,” he warned, with another slight twist to her wrist.

Glaring at him, she opened her fingers and released the dagger.

He snatched her sword from its sheath next and tossed it aside. His eyes never left hers, nor did he relax his hold. She struggled against his steel embrace, but he only slanted his mouth into an infuriating grin and lowered his face to hers.

“There will be nae more of that, lass.” The low timbre of his voice brought a strange quiver to her spine. He was at least two heads taller than she. His body encompassed hers, enveloping her in raw strength and heat. Her body went almost limp. He loosened his grip just a bit.

And then he crumpled to his knees, cupping his groin with both hands.

Now on his feet, Robert watched Graham go down with agony twisting his features. When Claire spun around, Robert took a cautious step back and let her run toward her horse, unopposed.

That is, just until her fingers reached for her reins, and then she, too, went down flat on her face. Still on his knees, Graham lunged for her, shackling her ankles an instant before his face hit the grass. With a forceful grunt, he pulled her back, flipped her over, and crawled atop her.

“Ye think his honor is mine,” he wheezed heavily, straddling her. He held her hands firmly above her head and let his gaze rake boldly over her panting bosom. “Ye’re mistaken. Lift a weapon to either of us again, and that includes yer knee, and I’ll bind yer hands, yer feet, and yer—”

Her teeth sank into his arm, changing his threat to a howl. She tasted blood, and then she was hauled upward, her body floating in midair. He set her on her feet with a rattle that disengaged her teeth from his flesh. He looked at his bloody wrist, then at the warning gleam in her eyes, and then he hauled her into his arms.

Claire had been kissed before; a chaste peck given to her by Kenny, the tanner’s son, when she was twelve, a stolen kiss from Sir Rupert the knave while she practiced with him, and then set him abed for a sennight. And from James, before he had left for England with Connor. But she’d never been kissed like this before. This mouth was demanding, utterly ravishing. These lips molded and caressed with such masterful skill it sapped the strength from her body. He stroked her deeply with his tongue, and the feel of it was so erotic, so intimate, she shuddered in his embrace.

He withdrew with two shorter, but no less arousing kisses before his eyes settled on hers.

“You leech!” she hissed at him. “If you ever dare—” Her eyes opened wide as he tore the left sleeve of her shirt from the shoulder. The right sleeve followed. Too stunned to speak, Claire watched him tug the sleeves over her balled fists and begin to bind her wrists. She tried to kick him, and he tied her ankles next.

“You son of a bleating goat!” she shrieked at him. “I will see you—”

“Fair warning, wench,” he cut her off in a low, deadly voice while he dug his fingers into her shoulders to keep her from falling over. “I will bind yer mouth next with the remainder of yer shirt.”

The remainder of her shirt included the part that covered her, and since she didn’t doubt his threat, she clamped her lips tight. Her nostrils flared with rage. Her eyes blazed with the promise of retribution.

“Sit.”

“Rot in hell.”

His hand cupped her nape and he heaved her mouth to his yet again, kissing her senseless. She was vaguely aware of his arm cradling her lower back, and her feet coming off the ground. When he released her, Claire found herself seated on her rump in the grass. Her lips tingled and her head felt light. Standing over her, the Highlander swept her with a warm, yet conquering gaze, then turned his back and strode to his friend.

“We’ll need a fire.”

“And some food,” his companion agreed. “We don’t have enough left for three.”

“Aye, see what ye can find. I’ll get a fire going.”

Claire watched the earl leave the glade and then looked around for anything that might aid her in escaping. Her dagger lay a few feet away, her sword even farther off. She glanced up at Troy, chomping at the grass. No help there. Finally, her eyes came to rest on her captor. Loathsome bastard, she cursed inwardly, while he stretched to pluck a thin branch from one of the surrounding trees. As if sensing her eyes on him, he looked over his shoulder at her, noted her murderous gaze, and chuckled. Claire bristled but said nothing, lest he force his mouth on her again. The thought of it sent an unwanted fissure of heat down her spine. Good God in Heaven, he knew how to kiss! No doubt he had kissed countless women with the same blistering ardor, sealing their fate—to pine after him like kittens mewling for warm milk.

“I am not a damned kitten,” she muttered.

“Did ye say something?” He dropped a handful of twigs into a pile a few feet away and turned to face her.

Against her will, she surveyed the length of him. From his soiled leather boots to the flare of his shoulders, he was a lean, muscular masterpiece.

“I have nothing to say to you, save that I have never hated anyone as I do you.”

“Ah, that would explain the fire in yer kiss, then.” He shoved his hand into the pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out a small piece of birchbark and a bit of dried peat moss.

“What you felt was my repulsion.”

He gave her a doubtful look before returning his attention to getting the fire started. He worked in silence, squatting to chafe the wood and ignite the tinder. Pursing his lips, he gently blew his breath into the wispy tendrils of smoke until the tiny flame grew stronger.

Claire grew mesmerized by the shape of his lips. Oh, but they were carved for pagan pleasures, achingly full and soft . . .

“How did yer brother die?” he asked suddenly, adding twigs and sticks to the burning tinder.

Claire blinked. “Enjoying the fleeting pleasure of my humiliation is not enough for you? Would you know the details of Connor’s death so that you can mock him, as well as me?”

His gaze on her softened as he straightened once again to his full height and moved toward her. “I mock neither of ye. I’ve nae doubt ’twas he who nurtured such fire in ye fer yer cause. Yer skill and yer fortitude reflect well upon him. I wish to know how a man such as he met his end.”

Claire looked up at him while he sat at her side, her gaze following the shapely length of his legs as he stretched them out before him and crossed them at the ankles. All that body, she found herself thinking—helpless to stop, all that muscle pulsing against her when he forced his kiss on her.

“He was betrayed,” she told him, hoping now that she had told him, he would take himself somewhere else. When she saw that he was not leaving, she heaved a sigh. “What does it matter to you, truly? You hunt him with a Roundhead. Were you not willing to deliver him to General Monck to be hanged in Edinburgh?”

He didn’t answer her, and she nodded, knowing he couldn’t, and turned away from him.

“How was he betrayed?”

“A meeting had been agreed upon between my brother and Lambert’s cohort, General Fleetwood. But it was a trap.”

Graham leaned in a bit nearer to her, touching her bare forearm when she wouldn’t look at him. “Claire, yer brother was a radical patriot. Why would he agree to sit with his enemy?”

She shook her head and laughed softly, as if at herself. Then she turned her head to meet his gaze. “Because General Monck asked him to do so.”

“Do you think it a good idea to trust her behind those trees?” Robert chewed on a root, grimaced at its bitter taste, and tossed it into the flames.

Sitting across from him, Graham passed his hand over the rest of the roots Robert had gathered and reached for the stale bread instead. “She had to relieve herself.”

“And you gave her back her weapons.” Robert peered into the shadows looking for her, but it was too dark to see. “If you live through the night, tell my sister I love her.”

“She will not kill us, Rob.” Graham laughed and popped a berry into his mouth.

“She trusts no one.”

“And with good reason.” Graham looked at him over the crackling fire. “Yer General Monck betrayed her brother.”

Now it was Robert’s turn to laugh. “You believe her tale that Monck is considering restoring King Charles to the throne?”

“I believe the general convinced Connor Stuart that he was.”

“It makes no sense!” Robert argued. “She tells you Monck and her brother were allies, but if the general was that close to Stuart and he wanted him dead, why did he not just do it himself?”

“I will tell you why.” Claire stepped out from beyond the trees and into the light of the fire. “My brother and his supporters fight for independence from English occupation. Their cause is valued highly by many. While the other generals fight over who is to be the next Lord Protector, General Monck bides his time quietly here in Scotland. He will make his move soon, though, when the others are at their weakest. But he will need the support of the people. Killing their champion would only gain him more enemies. So he had Lambert or Fleetwood do it for him.”

“I do not believe it.” Robert shook his head at her as she sat beside Graham. “The governor does not covet the title of Lord Protector. He cares for Scotland and will not leave it.”

“Aye, nor will he lose it to a restored king. He fought hard to gain it, lest you forget.” Claire gave him a pointed look over the fire. “He took Stirling in four days. Dundee, in two.”

“My uncle told me of the general’s victories under Cromwell,” Robert acknowledged. “But that was many years ago. Since then, he has sided with the other generals in nothing. He supports Parliament, not the military.”