A Highlander Never Surrenders (8 page)

Claire smiled faintly. “He has you duped. Just as he had Connor and James duped. God only knows what he has told Anne. She does not know of his involvement with Connor’s death.”

“Who is James?” Graham asked, and then took a swig of water from his pouch.

“A dear friend.”

The pouch paused leaving Graham’s lips. His eyes flashed at her above the glimmering light. “How dear?”

“Very dear.” Claire didn’t bother to look at him but kept her attention on Robert. “Monck swore to my—”

“Is he also dead?”

“Is who also dead?” She turned to Graham, a bit exasperated by his interruptions.

“This James, who is verra dear to ye.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him, trying to read his expression. He appeared calm enough, but his voice was tense, his question brusque. “Nae, he is not dead.”

“Thank the saints, aye?” he asked, watching her reaction.

“Aye,” she said sincerely. “I do, each day.”

“Good.” Graham smiled and flung his bread into the flames. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

After a moment of listening to the crickets around them, Robert directed his next question to his best friend. “Are you done?”

Graham’s lethal glare was all the answer Robert was going to get.

“Very well, then,” the young earl continued. “Let me ask you this, my lady. Why did Monck send me to find your brother if he knew Connor was dead?”

“Mayhap that is a question you should put to the general when you see him.”

“I intend to,” Robert assured her, then glanced at the sword in her lap. “We should get some sleep. I will take first watch.” He caught the faint grin on Graham’s face as his friend settled into his plaid. Let Graham think him a fool for not trusting that she wouldn’t slice off their heads in their sleep. She had every reason to want them dead, and she had it in her to do it. He eyed her as she set her head to the ground. He could see clearly why Graham was so attracted to her. She was fair, and self-sufficient. Too self-sufficient for his liking, though. He thought of her sister and how they could be so different. Why was the governor forcing Anne to wed?

“Lady Stuart?” He listened for her drowsy response. “When did the general send Connor to England?”

“Monck did not send him. Connor was already there fighting Lambert’s men in Cheshire when Monck sent him word of the meeting. He was killed on his way to London.” She shifted uncomfortably, then grew quiet again.

Robert thought the matter over in his mind. Something did not sit right with him. So many things made no logical sense. And then something occurred to him. Something that apparently struck Graham as well, for he sat up, and together they looked at Claire.

Connor had fought with Lambert’s men in August. If he had been killed two months ago, then who had attacked General Monck’s men outside Stirling a few weeks ago?

Chapter Eight

H
ow shall I escape that which keeps me from my utmost duty?

In the lavender stillness moments before dawn, Graham watched the low firelight flicker over Claire’s sleeping face. He took his leisure studying the impudent curve of her nose, the fine lines of her cheekbones, and the alluring slopes of her lips licked by shadows and light. The taste of that plump, parted mouth and the fervor in her resistance clung to his memory and made his blood burn. He’d kissed many lasses, but he never felt as if he’d go mad if he didn’t kiss them again. Was it the curve of that arrogant mouth that made him want to conquer her? The spark of resistance when she looked at him that made him hunger for her surrender? He was enjoying the fight, as any experienced warrior would. There was naught more invigorating than a worthy adversary, something he had found little of in his journeys. Aye, Claire Stuart was bonny indeed. The sight of her drove him to distraction, but it was her courage and conviction that sparked a desire for more than a victory with her.

A bit beyond the dying flames, the even rhythm of Robert’s breath ruptured into a snore, shifting Graham’s languid thoughts back to those more pressing. Connor Stuart was dead. Or was he? According to those he and Robert had questioned during their search for him, Stuart was not only alive and well but had taken up a vicious campaign against General Monck’s men, as well as Lambert’s. Who was this James Claire had spoken of? The way her tone turned soft when she admitted her relief that he was not dead had pricked Graham’s temper. What was it about this James that she liked so well? He had to be a member of the resistance, for Graham was certain Claire would not give her heart to a man who did not support her cause. Most likely James was a recruit of Connor’s, mayhap even a commander if he had spent enough time with Connor to have been “duped” along with him.

A movement caught Graham’s attention. His gaze slipped to Claire’s fingers closing slowly around the hilt resting on her belly. She lifted her head, looking first at Robert sleeping across from the fire. As her face tilted upward to find Graham, he closed his eyes and remained still.

She moved like a wraith along the violet shadows. Each footfall fell with the stealth and silence of a predatory cat as she moved away from the firelight. She gave a tug to the cap under her belt, then lifted it to her head and stuffed her thick braid beneath it.

Sword in hand, she made her way to her horse. Graham smiled. What was this pleasure she caused in him that led him to pursue her? He would let her run for a little while before catching her. Their agreement, he would be forced to remind her, was that she remain until the morn, and it was not morn just yet.

The sound of a man’s laughter from beyond the trees snapped Graham to his feet, careless if she heard him. She did, and to his disbelief and horror, she pointed in the direction from which the sound had erupted, and then charged toward it.

Without pausing to curse her haste, Graham sprang after her. She broke through the trees instants before him and crouched within the tall grass so fast, Graham tumbled right over her. He rolled back to his rump, then leaped at her.

“What the hell d’ye think ye’re doing, lass?” Shackling her wrists above her head, he covered her from foot to crown with his body.

“Can you not tell by their direction that their route will take them straight through the camp?” Her reply was a low hiss in the fading darkness. Graham could feel her eyes burning into him. She struggled beneath him and then stopped abruptly when he lifted himself off her shoulders, shifting his weight to his hips.

“And ye thought to save me and Robert by rushing headlong into their path knowing not if there was one man or fifty?”

“I stopped to count, but you crashed into me, you lumbering oaf. Now take yourself off me before I—”

“How many, Claire?”

“What?” She tugged on her wrists.

“How many men are there?” He held her still.

“I did not have a chance—”

“There are twelve.” He lowered his face to hers and whispered over her cheek. “And ye would have had nae chance against them.”

His warm breath caressed her earlobe and she found she could not protest. She could barely form a thought.

“They are MacGregors, and if they hear us skulking around in the brush, our death will be swift. Will ye remain silent and let me try to prevent that from happening?”

He took her silence to mean aye and raised himself slowly off her. “Angus MacGregor, ’tis Graham Grant,” he called out, facing the traveling men, and stood to his feet.

One of the men, a huge figure upon a chestnut behemoth, lifted his hand and halted the approaching troop. “Graham? Is it ye, ye bastard? Step closer so we can see ye.” An instant later, he hauled his great sword from its sheath and raised it over his head. “ ’Tis no’ Graham!” he shouted to the others.

“Hold! ’Tis me!” Graham held up his hands to ward them off.

“Graham Grant doesna bed lads by day or by night!” another man to the leader’s left called out.

Graham followed the tip of Brodie MacGregor’s claymore and turned to see Claire standing beside him. He looked at the cap tilted atop her head, frowned at it, then plucked it off. Her long braid unraveled and swung to her waist, revealing her true sex to the onlookers.

“Aye, ’tis Graham,” Brodie announced to all, with a sigh of great relief. “ ’Tis a lass he tumbles ’neath the moon.” He sheathed his blade and grinned openly at Claire.

“I have not been tumbled,” Claire corrected and snatched her cap from Graham’s fingers. “Save for when he tripped over me.”

“How the hell have ye been, Graham?” Ignoring her outburst, Angus dismounted with a heavy grunt. “ ’Tis been near a pair o’ years since we’ve seen ye at Camlochlin. Does Robert ride wi’ ye?”

“Aye, he sleeps in a nearby glade,” Graham said, leaving Claire’s side to be hauled into Angus’s crushing embrace. “What brings ye so far south?” he asked when his giant friend released him.

“We travel to Edinburgh,” Angus told him. “Callum was invited there by the governor, but he refuses to leave Kate or their babe. He sent us to—”

“General Monck sent fer Callum?” Graham’s jaw was rigid when he turned to Claire. “Fetch Rob.”

“Nae need. I’m here.” Robert sprinted forward from the trees. After a brief but friendly reunion with his friends, and assurance that his sister and her son were well, he repeated Graham’s query, asking what the MacGregors were doing near Edinburgh.

“Monck has asked to speak with Callum,” Graham filled Robert in while Angus slipped his hand into his plaid to retrieve a pouch of brew.

“For what purpose?” Robert asked, looking at Angus at the same time Graham did.

Angus swiped his knuckles across his mouth, then returned the pouch to its hiding place. “The general needed Callum’s aid.” Before saying anything more, he turned his head left, then right. “Might we get off the road and discuss this? There could be enemies afoot.”

Nodding, Graham led the entire troop back to the campsite. After refusing Robert’s offer to break fast with the roots he’d collected, Angus and the others sat around the dying embers of the campfire.

Now, with the veil of darkness fully behind them, Claire studied the Highlanders before her. So, these were the MacGregors. Seldom seen after the proscription, save for when a handful of their rebel warriors were butchering English and Scottish nobles alike, their propensity for violence made them a legend to be feared in the Midlands. Claire wasn’t afraid of them, though. No, she felt a kinship with the outlawed clansmen. They had fought back when all had been taken from them. Just as Connor had taught her to do. She was sizing up the dark-haired one called Brodie when his cool gaze met hers. He gave her a slight nod, as if recognizing the belligerence in the tilt of her chin.

“Now tell us what Monck wanted with Callum,” Graham asked the men.

“Who is Callum?”

Every eye turned to her, and for a moment Claire felt utterly exposed, acutely aware of the attention the men finally gave her.

“Who is the wench, Graham?” Angus’s eyes narrowed on her, taking in every inch, including the sword resting at her side. His deep auburn hair hung past shoulders a yard wide. His hard expression was made more dangerous by the long scar marring the left side of his face. Claire fought the temptation to look away from his piercing appraisal.

“She is King Charles’s cousin, Claire Stuart.”

Claire shot Graham a look of murderous intentions, which he answered by winking at her.

“Och, is she kin to the Lady Anne Stuart?”

Claire blinked and turned to him slowly. “What do you know of my sister?”

“We’ve come to fetch her,” Angus explained. “Callum . . . he is our laird,” he added for Claire’s clarification, “received a missive from Monck requestin’ that he come to Edinburgh to retrieve the lady and bring—”

“He gave my sister to your laird?” Claire bolted to her feet, and for the first time since Graham met her, panic marked her features. She looked around as if not knowing which direction to take when she fled. Then her lips tightened and her hands balled into fists. “I will kill him slowly for this.”

“Does she speak o’ Callum?” Angus leaned closer to Graham and whispered. “Because if she does—”

“She speaks of Monck,” Graham explained, lifting his hand to touch hers. “Claire,” he spoke softly, his eyes warming on hers when she looked down at him. “Yer brother did not teach ye to be so rash, aye? We’ll find out what this is about, and then ye and I need to speak.” She had planned on killing Monck all along. Hell, the wee fool was going to get herself killed.

“I’ll tell ye what ’tis aboot if ye can keep the lass from interruptin’ me.”

Graham nodded at Angus and closed his fingers around Claire’s hand. His tender pull brought her back down to sit beside him.

“The governor,” Angus finally got on to it, “told Callum that the Stuarts were in his care.”

Claire made a huffing sound, and Graham tugged her hand again.

“His missive said that he feared Parliament would soon be dissolved.”

“It has been,” Robert told him, then motioned for him to continue.

“He believes there is treachery among his allies. And that the lives o’ Ladies Anne and Claire might be in jeopardy. He wrote that they were to be wed immediately in his court, to men o’ his choosin’ as per his agreement wi’ their guardian.”