Betrayed (7 page)

Krayne wasn’t about to lecture on the underhand tactics. The other side had stalwart soldiers who’d been riding the marches for many seasons while his own team was made up of sons of sons with fluff for beards. He set off with the youngest pair and took a quick victory on the first enemy warrior they encountered. Once he’d bound the man’s hands with a length of vine, Krayne handed him over to the youths. “See ta our prisoner.”

With swollen chests and silly smiles, the lads marched off with the defeated man between them.

Krayne watched until they were out of sight, then set forth with stealthy footfalls to track down his next prey. He grunted with satisfaction when he found Aegus drinking from a stream that trickled into Wamphray Water. Aegus was on his feet before Krayne got close. They were well matched in instinct, strength and skill, and Krayne knew he was in for a good fight.

The men stared each other down, blades drawn, retreating and advancing wary circles in the clearing by the stream.

“Yer face paint is a sure and welcome improvement,” Krayne told him with a chuckle. He jumped aside as Aegus thrust forward, raising his sword at the same time to bring the hilt down on an exposed shoulder.

Aegus was too quick for him and they were face to face again.

“An improvement fer yer cause, certainly,” Aegus replied with a mocking smile. His blond good looks were never far from the brunt of a joke, and he accepted his fate with the nature of a sun-blessed god. “But I dare say it would take more than my deformity ta send the lasses aft yer sorry face.”

He lunged again. Blades clashed and stayed together, each man putting his strength into pushing the other back.

“’Tis not my face that keeps them coming.” Krayne clenched his jaw in the effort to not lose ground, and was pleased to see a sweat break out on his opponent’s brow. With a mighty heave, he pushed Aegus away and jumped back.

Aegus stumbled, but soon found his footing. He wiped his brow, grinning. “Aye, forgive me. ’Tis not always easy ta remember the difference ’tween yer face and yer arse—Argh!” He swung his sword up, blocking Krayne’s blow just in time.

The men parried with renewed determination, bringing down blow upon blow. The jesting fell silent, the only sounds the clash of steel and the occasional grunt. A film of sweat covered Krayne’s torso, adding an oiled tone to muscles prominent from exertion.

At one point, Aegus had him pinned to a tree. Aegus needed both hands on his sword to keep Krayne trapped, but he didn’t doubt he’d find a way to disarm his friend. Aegus’s breathing came hard, and his midnight-blue eyes sparkled when Krayne’s expression showed amused acceptance. “Ah, I smell the sweet torment of a forfeit ta make ye cry.”

Krayne made a half-hearted attempt to free himself even as he conceded defeat by saying, “And what pleasure will ye be seeking when supper comes around?”

Aegus arched a brow as he appeared to consider the matter. “A kiss from yer lady, I’m thinkin’.”

“Ye’ve had more than yer share of kisses from Gayle, I wager,” Krayne scoffed.

Aegus’s mouth formed a lazy smile. “Gayle may be a passion-tipped rose ’twixt a nettle o’ thorns, but ’tis the Jardin beauty I seek ta taste.”

A hot wind of fury flew to Krayne’s aid. He was free and had Aegus down on his knees at the count of three, kicking aside his sword before Aegus could draw breath. “The lady is not mine ta forfeit.”

Loss of a weapon signified defeat, so Aegus, shaking his head on a low chuckle, linked his hands behind his back and rose to his feet. “If ye say so.” His mirth, however, dried up when Krayne twisted the vines tightly, cutting deep into his wrists.

“Come now,” Aegus groaned. “Can we no longer jest?”

“Yer jesting leaves a sour ache in my belly,” Krayne muttered.

“Have we no shared women—?” Aegus stumbled forward from the hard shove at his back.

“Shut up, Aegus, afore I truly lose my humour.”

Krayne led his prisoner on a merry path back to the training field with more than one unnecessary shove. Damn Aegus and his loose tongue.
How ta rid his head of the image of another man’s mouth on Amber’s lips?

They left the wooded copse for sunlight and, as they came into sight of Alexander and the two camps of prisoners, Krayne spotted a lone figure streaking along the river for the castle gates.

“One of yer soldiers running fer his life?” Aegus mocked.

Krayne’s gaze narrowed over the distance.

Of a sudden, the man slowed down, stopped, then changed direction, coming straight at them. Before long, it became clear that he was as naked as the day he was born.

Some laughter and jovial commentary was heard from the camps, but Krayne recognised the flame flying beneath Red John’s chin and cursed. Krayne sprinted up to Alexander’s horse and mounted, barking down orders to his bemused captain. “Continue with the exercise. I’ll be dammed if I let that slip of a wench interfere with the run of my castle.”

Krayne galloped across the meadow and reared his horse to a halt as his path crossed Red John’s. “What in hell happened?”

Red John’s face turned the colour of a bleeding moon. “She seduced me. So help me, the scheming wench seduced me, then took my clothes and horse and fled.”

A roar tore through Krayne’s gut, but never made it past his lips. His jaw cracked down hard and his eyes burned black ice. “Get out of my sight!”

Red John jumped aside as Krayne reeled his mount about and took off along the dale as if chased by the hounds of hell. Red John was almost persuaded to spare a sympathetic thought for the seductive wench, but then the day was immortalised in Johnstone history amid much snickering. Red John lost his name to Red-Handed John, owing to being caught with his hand in the honey pot.

If only.

Krayne rode hard. If he acknowledged the tension in his gut, he steadfastly ignored that it stemmed from more than Amber’s escape.

The river turned at Nodding Ned in the first of a series of bends that hindered his view. He rode closer to the water line, digging his heels in for speed when he could no longer keep the ugly pictures at bay.

He’d kill Red John, so help him God.

And he’d throttle Amber.

Krayne pushed down the images of Red John’s hands invading skin as smooth as silk and told himself that he was only indignant on principle. He shook the rage loose from his head and concentrated on the outgrown roots and slippery ditches that flew beneath his mount’s hooves.

Red John had taken what was his.

Only, Amber wasn’t his and clearly she’d given freely.

Whether Stivin was aware or not, she was obviously easy with her favours and cared not a whit for abandoning the very lad who’d rushed to her defence.

By the time he reached the Annan, Krayne had nearly convinced himself that it was his duty to save his cousin from Amber’s sharpened claws, that taking her to mistress would indeed make Annandale safer for all other men.

He pulled at the bit to lead his horse through a dense copse of low-branched trees and grinned when he saw his prey attempting to cross the River Annan at a particularly treacherous point. The river narrowed temptingly but swirled strongly and gurgled over sagging pits eroded into the sandy bed. The stallion she’d stolen was half-Arabian and thoroughly intelligent. The more she urged him forward, the higher he kicked his hooves in protest.

“He’ll throw ye,” Krayne called out.

Amber spun her head his way and he saw recognition widen her eyes.

She stroked the beast’s neck and soothed, “Come on, Zuma, I won’t let you down. We can do this.”

Krayne’s humour faded when he heard her use the horse’s name.
Was there anything Red John hadn’t given her?

“Ye canna cross there,” he warned irritably. “The river bed is treacherous with holes.”

She flung her chin high and glared at him. “You
would
say that, wouldn’t you?”

Krayne watched her fight Zuma’s natural inclination and, when he’d had enough, he put his hands to his mouth and made the whispering breeze sound young Peter the stable lad had taught him.

Zuma preened his proud neck and gave a skittering kick, then turned around to face Krayne.

“Damn you,” shouted Amber. She was stiff from tensed nerves and fired with anger that she was now up against both man and beast.

Amber swung down from the useless horse.

And she ran.

As she should have run the last time.

Not looking back. Ignoring the pain spearing her injured ankle. At the edge of the grassy bank, she lifted her skirts and sped into the swirling flow. Her pulse raced and every breath she took seemed to go straight to her head. The river bed was mushy at her feet and the steep incline soon had the water reaching her thighs. Her next step found one of the treacherous holes Krayne warned of. She tumbled forward and instinctively reached out to break her fall. Her voluminous skirts billowed, caught the current and tugged her back before she hit the water. The sigh of relief stuck in her throat as two hands secured her waist in a firm grip.

She screamed and kicked as frustration unleashed a reckless fury.

“Behave yerself.”

The irritable voice so close to her ear signalled an opportunity. Amber lashed her head back hard and struck jaw. The curse grunted from behind was well worth the blunt ache at her crown. Slapping ineffectually at the hands digging into her middle, she was about to throw her head back again when she was shoved to the side and down, meeting the water face-first with an open-mouthed scream.

Krayne grabbed a fistful of hair close to Amber’s scalp and held her under with little effort despite her desperate struggling. He rubbed his bruised jaw absently while counting to ten. Slowly. So far he was concerned, the wildcat was fast using up her lives. His patience was near its end.

He yanked at her hair and she came up, coughing and spluttering. He turned her face up to him. “Had enough?”

She was gasping for air, but the glare blazing into him was a far cry from defeat.

He would have admired her spirit, if it were someone else’s problem. As it was, he was torn between dunking her again and kissing the memory of Red John from those lush lips.

How had she seduced Red John? With sweet seduction or hot passion? He instantly conceded there was nothing sweet or timid about Amber. It would have been so hot and passionate that Red John would never have guessed it for the performance it was.

Would I?

His jaw locked down as he mentally put himself into that position and let his eyes take a slow journey down the graceful curve of her throat to the swell of heaving breasts. His arousal was instant and unavoidable. Mayhap I would see through her performance, he thought with a black grin, but I’d be far and beyond caring any which way.

The flash of movement broke his distraction a moment too late. Amber’s elbow shot out and thrust up between his thighs in a crunching blow. He gagged, doubling over as pain exploded in his balls. Somehow, he willed the strength to push her to a safe arm’s distance and hold firm.

Christ, what had he been thinking?
Red John’s welcome ta this bitch!

Amber hit out wildly in all directions, but gave up when she struck only air and water. Either the Johnstone men had iron balls or she was doing something wrong. She cast a worried glance to the side, but Krayne was bent low and for all she knew he could be in the midst of a laughing fit. Judging by the fist still caught in her hair and holding her off, she certainly hadn’t crippled him.

Krayne started at Berwick and worked his way down to London, cursing every English woman he’d ever met along the way. Curse by curse, the pain finally started to recede, until he could just about grimace through the nausea taking its place and raise his head.

He found Amber staring at him, green eyes huge and rounded beneath a worried brow. She had reason to be scared.

Rising to his full height, he jerked her close and pushed her head under the water again before she could react. Once she was down, the frenzy of kicking and splashing only tempted him to keep her there until she went limp. He was tender enough in his groin to dread the ride home and would welcome the absence of a conscious witness.

At the count of seven, however, he knew he’d go no further. Apparently his fury had developed a conscience.

With little regard for her comfort, he hauled Amber up and pinned her to his chest with one arm wrapped across both her arms and waist. She was sucking in air, but had ceased all struggling, and he sincerely hoped he’d exhausted the wench. He carried her to dry land and rolled her from his arms onto the grass.

No sooner had he sat back, then Amber scrambled upright to face him with a breathless, “You nearly drowned me.”

“If I’d meant ta drown ye,” he replied blithely, “we’d not be having this conversation.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Amber turned a stiff shoulder on the cursed man and set her gaze across the river. Inside, she was trembling like the last corn leaf standing after Michaelmas, but she wouldn’t let him see that. For a brief moment back there, with the watery cold seeping into her skin and lack of air numbing her mind, she’d truly thought the end upon her.

If he heard the sarcasm in her voice, he apparently ignored it. “’Twas my intention ta reassure ye.”

Amber’s eyes turned back to him. In profile, his square jaw was clenched and his gaze fixed on the ground just beyond his feet. His mood seemed dark and sombre, nothing reassuring about it whatsoever.

“Do not pretend kindness on my behalf,” she told him. The hilt of the sword strapped to his back caught sunlight and glinted, a warning to keep her guard up. “You’re fit to kill me and the only thing that stands in your way is Stivin.”

Slowly, his head bent her way and their eyes met. “What matters is that yer safe.”

And maybe that was all that should matter, but Amber was too scared to let it go. His mood this morning had been sunny in comparison, and this morning he’d threatened to throw her into the pit. She didn’t want to think what punishments he might add now. “You refuse to listen to me. You think you know my uncle so well.”

“I do.”

“He’s a cruel, vindictive beast.”

“He is also a Scotsman,” said Krayne. “How long have ye lived here?”

Frustration screamed inside her head. These Scots seemed to speak a different language when it came to reason. “How can you
not
expect me to escape? If I were a man, you’d brand me a coward if I didn’t at least try.”

“If ye were a man, Stivin would be home and I’d never have met ye.”

“Well,” she huffed. “Forgive me for being a woman.”

His pause was hardly worth noting. “Yer forgiven.”

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at Krayne, watching for some sign of jest. There was none. His eyes were black and condemning, and served to peak her fury.

“You’re an arrogant barbarian with the manners of a pig,” she snapped, jabbing a finger into his arm. “Or mayhap you’re still overcome with madness because I hit you in the…” Colour stung her cheeks and the word refused to come.

One brow went up and his eyes remained on her with an expectant glint.

Amber ground her back teeth. She wouldn’t be intimidated. “What was I supposed to do? There are precious few options a woman has to defend herself.”

“Aye,” Krayne drawled, his gaze darkening dangerously, “and no doubt ye know them all.”

“And what if I do?”

An ominous tic started at his temple. “Have ye no more shame than ta trade yer body fer favours?”

The insult shocked Amber to her feet. “How—how dare you?”

Krayne jumped up to tower above her, arms folded across his massive chest. “Ye deny that’s what ye do?”

Denial was certainly hot on her tongue, until she edged her chin yet higher to look him in the eye. She couldn’t begin to read the storm brewing on his face, but she did see some truth etched into the harsh edges formed by his mood.

All right, she wasn’t exactly averse to using feminine wiles in a desperate situation, but what did it matter to him?

Worse, why did she care that Krayne thought her a whore?

“How dare you judge me,” she said coldly.

The set of his brow and the scorn in his eyes was too much to bear. Her gaze slid down the length of this mighty warrior, missing no detail along the way, and she had to take a step back for fear of punching that expression from his face. “You will stand there, all muscle and brawn, and attack my only means of defence?”

Krayne growled at the argument, refusing to admit she made a valid point. “God himself surely had a reason for blessing man with strength and ours is not ta question.”

Her hands settled on the flare of her hips as a spark lit her eyes. “And God surely had a reason for giving women pretty curves and the intellect to use them.”

Krayne opened his mouth to retort, but no answer came to mind. He drew his lips into a line and narrowed his eyes, determined to stare her down.

Unfortunately, those curves she spoke of were clearly outlined in the clinging wet gown. Cold peaked her nipples through the sodden wool, stirring desire in spite of his anger. Her hair was a knotted mess that had no right to summon the rush of blood to his injured groin. Her pale face set her lips in stark red relief, trapping his gaze as effectively as a sparkling stream to a man dying of thirst.

He wanted to acknowledge the truth of her words. He wanted to acknowledge it, then put it aside and take what she so obviously freely gave to all and any. He’d never had a virgin, so, by definition, he’d never bedded a woman he hadn’t shared with God knew how many others. Why, then, should this be any different? Why did he want to hunt down any man who’d ever touched her?

“Yer excuses are thin at best,” he said, striving for a neutral tone.

Amber gasped. She waved a hand from the sword visible above his left shoulder down to the dagger sheathed at his boot. “You’re armed from head to toe, and you call my only defence an excuse?”

“Yer body is not a weapon ta be wielded,” he roared.

“Nay,” she agreed, “but ’tis the only weapon I have.”

His movement was like a flash of lightning, and when she saw he’d drawn his sword, she paled. Dear Lord, she’d pushed too far.

He threw the sword down at her feet.

Startled, she jumped back, although the blade came nowhere near her body.

“Take it,” he ordered grimly.

She glanced at the sword. Back at his thunderous stare. Then, before he changed his mind, she lunged for the hilt with both hands and lifted it level with her shoulders, pointing the blade at him.

His lips curled on one side, but the result was nothing like a smile.

This was her chance. All she had to do was run straight into his chest.

She took a threatening step forward.

He didn’t so much as flinch.

Her arms, meanwhile, were starting to ache from the weight of the broadsword. If she was going to do anything, she’d best do it soon. He stood there, staring at her. Not with malice or amusement, she realised, but with genuine interest in what she would do.

Her resolve hardened. He probably thought she’d never dare. Well, she would. Any moment now. She braced her shoulders.

The sword grew heavier and heavier.

Now!

Her feet refused to move. Her arms sagged a little. The truth added extra weight to the sword. She couldn’t do it. She doubted she could take the life of any person, and certainly not this particular man.

Silver specks warmed his gaze and in that moment she saw a glimpse of the man beneath the laird. Krayne wore honour, loyalty and responsibility like permanent body armour; he could be more than the sum of his duties, but never less. He was immoveable and unbreakable, but not impenetrable. The longing in his eyes betrayed an invitation to invasion even as it warned of risk and doomed failure.