Highlanders (15 page)

“Is something amiss, Lady Rhoslyn?”

Rhoslyn started at the sound of St. Claire’s voice. The baying of the dogs and murmur of conversation brought her back to the present and she looked at him. He stared, brows drawn in concern.

“Nay,” she said. “Should something be wrong?”

“You appeared deep in thought.”

She shrugged. His gaze sharpened and she felt certain he thought she was mimicking his annoying habit of shrugging when asked a question. Her mouth twitched with an unbidden smile, but she managed to restrain the impulse. He lifted a brow. Rhoslyn shrugged again, then returned her attention straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw him study her for a moment before returning his attention to Lord Kinnon.

“I hear the rebellions in Wales are spreading, Lord Kinnon said. “Does Edward plan another campaign there?”

“Edward does not confide in me, but I doubt it,” St. Claire said. “The uprisings are not serious.”

Lord Kinnon grunted. “I suppose he is busy enough as arbiter and Sovereign of Scotland.”

“I imagine so,” St. Claire replied. “He has no easy task in that regard.”

“Edward knows what he is doing. He will choose wisely.”

Her grandfather snorted, but said nothing. Rhoslyn easily read his thoughts. By ‘choose wisely’ Lord Kinnon meant ‘John Balliol.’ Lord Kinnon was a supporter of Balliol, and she suspected he hoped to become one of St. Claire’s newest and closest friends in order to ingratiating himself into Edward—and Balliol’s—good graces.

“What think you of Edward as Sovereign of Scotland, Lady Rhoslyn?” St. Claire asked. 

She jerked her head in his direction. He stared, eyes intense—as always—but she detected something in his expression. Rhoslyn blinked. Was that mischief? It was. What trouble did he intend to make? Then the truth dawned. He, too, suspected Lord Kinnon was a Balliol supporter, and he knew she wasn’t.

“I think Edward would be wise to stay in England and leave Scotland to sort out her own problems,” she said.

“A dream, Lady Rhoslyn,” Lord Kinnon interjected. “Our leaders quarrel amongst themselves to the point that we canna’ decide who will lead in a single battle.”

“I imagine Wallace or Bruce would decide that without hesitation,” she said. “And our squabbling doesna’ mean an English king should be dictating to us.”

“Have ye a better idea?” he asked.

“Anything would be better than English interference.” She thought of Duncan and was glad he wasn’t here to hear her echo his words.

“Anything?” St. Claire interjected.

She met his gaze squarely. “Aye.”

“I suppose, then, I should be thankful my mother was Scottish.”

Rhoslyn couldn’t believe her ears... Everyone knew he never spoke of his mother, and considered himself every inch an Englishman, not a Scot.

“No’ Scottish,” her grandfather corrected, “a Scot. Ye didna’ say anything about being a Scot when Edward gave ye Dunfrey Castle. You flew the English banner—even at the Highland Games.”

“Where I believe I won every match I competed in,” St. Claire replied mildly.

Rhoslyn hadn’t attended the games that year, for Andreana had been ill and Rhoslyn refused to leave her side. But for months afterward, stories were told of St. Claire’s prowess as a soldier and his loyalty to his king...and, she recalled, the fact that he didn’t dally with the Highland women.

Luck eluded them that morning, and St. Claire called a halt in a small clearing three hours later when they hadn’t sighted a single deer. He was at Rhoslyn’s side as she brought her horse to a stop. He startled her by grasping her waist and lifting her from the saddle. She braced her hands on his shoulders and his eyes locked with hers as he lowered her. Her knees felt as weak as apple pudding when her feet touched the ground.

His fingers flexed on her waist and she suddenly realized her waist wasn’t as trim as it had been when she’d been Andreana’s age. Birth and the passage of time had rounded her curves. St. Claire couldn’t miss the difference between Andreana’s youthful beauty and Rhoslyn’s fuller curves—especially given how dazzling Andreana looked today in her dark green linen dress.

Rhoslyn couldn’t halt the flush of embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. St. Claire’s gaze sharpened. He hadn’t released her, and her embarrassment grew more acute when she glimpsed Lady Isobel glancing their way. The kennel master knelt, tying the hounds to a tree near a large boulder to their left and the rest of the party had moved a discreet distance away.

“Seward insists there is game aplenty here in Buchan,” St. Claire said.

Rhoslyn nodded. “My grandfather always returns home with game.” Why didn’t he step away?

“Did you lay a wager that he would beat me?”

“I did not.”

“Then you wagered that I would beat him.”

She shook her head. “Nay.”

“If you wager on me I will work doubly hard to win,” he said.

“I think you had better work doubly hard not to lose your horse.”

“I do love that horse,” he mused. “If you will not lay a wager on me, would you give me a favor?”

She frowned. “We are no’ at court in London.”

“True, but I am an English knight and you are my wife. It would please me to carry something of yours.”

“I have nothing.”

“The scarf in your hair is perfect.”

She had forgotten that scarf. Was Lady Isobel still staring? How could she not be? How could all of them not be staring? St. Claire stood so close she almost tasted his breath. If she gave him her scarf everyone would talk. Wasn’t that what he wanted? He released her and before she could step away he began unfastening the scarf from her hair.

“St. Claire,” she protested. “My head will be bare if you take the scarf.”

“This is the first time I have seen you cover your hair,” he said, his attention on the scarf. “You have beautiful hair. Why hide it now?”

He freed the scarf and she froze when he brought the fabric to his nose and breathed deep, eyes closed. Her heart began to pound. There was no way their guests could have missed a single thing that passed between them, and this...

He opened his eyes. “I will treasure this small gift, my lady.”

Rhoslyn tamped down on the urge to yank free. Gossip would follow if she were seen fleeing her husband. St. Claire grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. His mouth, warm and soft against her flesh, sent a prickle of awareness up her arm. He released her, then slipped the scarf between his mail shirt and shirt.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Aye,” she replied, though she didn’t think she could swallow a bite.

He tied the horses’ reins to a nearby bush, then slid an arm around her waist and turned toward the rest of the party. Some guests sat on rocks, others on fallen branches and the ground. They talked in low tones and ate the bread and cheese that had been packed for them. Rhoslyn wished she didn’t have to face them. Alec had been attentive, but other than a chaste kiss to her hand and the occasional endearment, he didn’t make public displays of affection. Affection? Nay, what St. Claire did wasn’t affection. It was to forestall any questions about the kidnapping.

They reached the picnickers and Lady Isobel called, “Lady Rhoslyn, sit with us.” She patted the large rock upon which she and Andreana sat.

Isobel was the last person Rhoslyn wanted to sit with, but she smiled and said, “Thank you, Lady Isobel.”

St. Claire released her and she joined the women. He gave her some of the bread and cheese. She accepted and couldn’t prevent her gaze from straying to him as he lowered himself onto the ground beside Lord Kinnon and two other guests.

The sun warmed Rhoslyn’s face. Her heart had slowed and the food had revived her so that she felt that the remainder of the day might not be so bad, after all.

“Will you walk with me?” Isobel asked. “We face several hours in the saddle, and I would no’ mind stretching my legs.”

“Aye.” Rhoslyn looked at Andreana. “Will you come?”

She shook her head. “I will stay here.”

Rhoslyn stood with Isobel and they strolled toward a cluster of daisies growing at the edge of the clearing. She squatted to pick a few while Isobel continued on. The horses nickered and Rhoslyn glanced up. Her palfrey skittered away from St. Claire’s horse and whinnied. The stallion snorted and shifted restlessly.

St. Claire rose and strode to the horses. He ran a gentling hand along the mare’s neck and she stilled. He turned to his horse and—the dogs began barking. Rhoslyn jerked her gaze onto them. They strained against their leashes, snarling. Then Lady Isobel screamed.

Rhoslyn surged to her feet as a large blur shot from the trees. Andreana’s screams mingled with the men’s shouts. The boar charged Isobel as she scrambled up the high rock near where the dogs strained against their leashes, snarling and growling. The boar bellowed and turned toward Rhoslyn.

She couldn’t reach the rock Isobel had climbed. Rhoslyn fell back two paces, scanning wildly for another rock. She spotted the kennel master racing past toward the dogs. The boar veered toward him. The man skidded to a halt, then whirled back toward the group as Rhoslyn stumbled toward a tree fifteen feet away.

An arrow whizzed past her. She glanced over her shoulder. The boar suddenly turned her way again. A spear sailed through the air and grazed the boar’s back. Blood spurted from the wound. He bellowed, lowered his head, and charged.

“Duck, Rhoslyn!” her grandfather shouted. “We canna’ shoot him with ye—”

Her toe snagged on something and she crashed to the ground. Pain splintered through her shoulder. She rolled onto her back, the snarls and growls of the hounds deafening. The boar leapt into the air. Rhoslyn screamed and brought her arm up. An arrow pierced the beast’s heart. He squealed. Another arrow tore through his hind quarters as he dropped like a stone onto her legs. His hooves scored the ground and he growled low. Two more arrows whizzed over her, stirring the hair on the boar’s neck and disappeared into the grass.

Rhoslyn started to push up, but movement in the corner of her eye jerked her gaze to the right. St. Claire stood, bow aimed as an arrow jettisoned from the weapon toward her. She jammed shut her eyes. The boar jerked and she snapped her eyes open. The arrow protruded from the creature’s skull, a hair’s breadth from her thigh.

Her grandfather dropped down beside her and shoved the boar off her legs. He seized her and pulled her upright. Her legs gave way beneath her and St. Claire caught her and swept her into his arms. Rhoslyn buried her face in his chest and the tears fell as if a dam had broken.

Warmth enveloped her and a low, deep voice whispered incomprehensible words. She went limp in St. Claire’s arms and cried until, at last, her sobs subsided and she became aware of the low murmur of voices, as well as the hilt of the sword pressing against her leg. St. Claire breathed deep and the solid wall of warmth her cheek rested against rose and fell with the action. Rhoslyn released a stuttered breath.

“Rhoslyn. Rhoslyn. Are ye all right?”

Rhoslyn recognized Andreana’s voice, and the tremor that made it sound as if she hovered on the verge of tears. Rhoslyn couldn’t find her voice, so simply nodded. The shock had worn off, and embarrassment set in.

“If you can ride, we will return home.” St. Claire’s voice reverberated through her.

“We need not return home,” she spoke against his chest.

“Nay, lady. I would prefer you return home.”

Her shoulder ached and she realized she did want to go home. Rhoslyn nodded He gathered her closer and started to stand with her in his arms. She pushed upright. As expected, everyone surrounded them. Her cheeks burned.

“I can stand, St. Claire.”

“Let him carry ye.” Andreana said.

“Andreana—”

“Please?” Tears shimmered in her stepdaughter’s eyes.

Rhoslyn sighed. “Aye, he can carry me.”

Andreana grasped her hand and pressed it to her cheek. A lump formed in Rhoslyn’s throat. How lonely and scared had Andreana been all those months Rhoslyn deserted her? Andreana released her and St. Claire stood. He called out an order for one of the men to pick up the boar while the rest prepared to leave.

“There is no need for everyone to return,” Rhoslyn said. “The day is young. Send a few of your men with me, and the rest of you continue the hunt.”

He shook his head. “Our guests may continue, but you ladies will return with me and my men.” They reached the horses and St. Claire lifted her onto the saddle. He turned and said to Lord Kinnon, “What say you, my lord, would you prefer to continue the hunt?”

A hard gleam appeared in his eyes. “I suddenly have a taste for wild boar—lots of wild boar. If you can spare your spearmen, I would see if there are any of that boar’s kinsmen in the vicinity.”

St. Claire nodded. “I will leave the archers with you, as well.”

Lord Kinnon smiled.

Minutes later, the party split up, and Rhoslyn rode alongside Andreana and Lady Isobel surrounded by fifteen of St. Claire’s guardsmen with him at the lead.

Chapter Thirteen

“I was so afraid,” Andreana told Rhoslyn after they’d been riding for a short time. “The archers could not get a clear shot of the boar because ye kept getting in the way.” She glanced at Rhoslyn. “I couldna’ bear to lose you.”

A lump lodged in Rhoslyn’s throat. How selfish she’d been. She lost a husband and son, but Andreana lost father and brother. Then Rhoslyn left her. She grieved just as Rhoslyn did. Rhoslyn had told herself she was going to the convent just long enough to clear her heart of grief, but if not for King Edward’s command to marry she would still be there. Perhaps her betrothal was God’s punishment for deserting her family. She started. If marriage to an Englishman was divine justice, how much more was her punishment to bear a child conceived in violence?

“God’s avenging angel,” Andreana said. 

Rhoslyn looked sharply at her. “What?”

Andreana stared at the men ahead. “Sir Talbot. I have never seen the like. When he notched his bow...”

“Not a hint of emotion moved on his face,” Lady Isobel finished for her. “He has ice in his veins.”

It did seem as though he was made of ice. Rhoslyn recalled how he stood forty feet away. Too far to reach her before the boar. Close enough for her to discern the intense concentration in his expression—and the determination. A contrast to the fury that had flashed in his eyes when he’d rammed his fist into Jacobus’s belly after the young man laid his hand on his sword hilt. But St. Claire hadn’t let his anger control him even then. The dispassionate tone of his voice had belied the flash of his eyes.

“The tales of his skill as a hunter didna’ do him justice,” Isobel said. “All three of his arrows found their mark.”

Rhoslyn looked at her. “The three arrows that felled the boar were St. Claire’s?”

“Aye,” Andreana said. “Ye ran in an erratic line. As I said, the archers and spearmen couldna’ shoot for fear of hitting you.”

“Some did shoot,” Rhoslyn said. “I saw the arrows, and a spear.”

Andreana nodded. “But if you hadna’ been in the way, they could have felled the boar with a dozen arrows. It is fortunate Sir Talbot stood beside the horses. He had a clear vantage point.”

“The man isna’ human,” Lady Isobel said.

Isobel’s voice held a hint of fear, but interest lit her eyes. Rhoslyn turned her face away in disgust. Only last night St. Claire had saved Isobel just as he had her. Maybe that gave Isobel reason to think he wanted her. Though he had immediately deposited her onto a chair and tried to disentangle himself. But then, all their guests looked on. To have settled Isobel on his lap would have been a direct insult to Rhoslyn.

She was fooling herself. Men seldom turned from a beautiful woman’s attentions. Alec hadn’t kept a mistress, but he was no young man. He had been good to Rhoslyn, attentive and caring, but his passion had diminished greatly over the years. St. Claire, on the other hand, was clearly a passionate man. Though he had made no attempt to bed her yet. Why?

Rhoslyn cast a furtive glance at Isobel. Her eyes remained on St. Claire’s back. Rhoslyn would wager a full harvest that the woman was envisioning the glow of firelight off his naked body, slick with sweat after making love to her. His large hand slid along her ribs to the curve of her waist then hip. Rhoslyn’s pulse skipped a beat when his fingers brushed her thigh, then traced a line upward to the curls between her legs.

Mortification jarred her from the fantasy. Sweet Jesu, how had her mind gone from knowing what Lady Isobel was thinking to seeing her own naked body pressed against St. Claire’s arousal? A strange emotion flitted across her insides and she found herself even more disturbed by the desire that stirred between her legs.

She swallowed against a dry throat. He was exceedingly handsome. She didn’t half blame Isobel for lusting after him. No doubt, most women did. But he had sworn fealty to a king who intended to rule Scotland by the might of knights like him. He was, in fact, Scotland’s devil, the enemy that would destroy them from within. How much easier it would be to hate him if angry horns jutted from his head, and his eyes blazed red with hellfire. Nay, she added after conjuring the image. Even as a demon he would be beautiful.

Rhoslyn’s attention snapped onto St. Claire when he reached for his sword. The snap of a twig beneath horses’ hooves sounded within the trees. The scrape of steel followed as the guardsmen drew their swords. Riders shot out from the trees on both sides of the road. St. Claire released his sword hilt, deftly unslung his bow, and pulled an arrow from the quill strapped to his saddle.

In an instant, Rhoslyn counted twelve men, swords drawn. Half a dozen of St. Claire’s guardsmen broke from the circle and met their attackers head on. The remaining nine men closed ranks so closely around them that Rhoslyn was forced to keep a tight rein on her horse to prevent it from shying. Andreana’s horse gave a shrill cry and started to rear. Rhoslyn seized the reins and yanked them downward.

“Hold her steady,” Rhoslyn ordered as steel rang against steel. 

An arrow flew from St. Claire’s bow. The arrow found its target even as a second arrow flew, then another. Rhoslyn’s heart thundered. All three arrows felled an enemy. An enemy warrior notched an arrow for a shot at St. Claire.

“St. Claire!” Rhoslyn shouted, but he had already turned, another arrow pointed, and let the shaft fly.

The man’s arrow flew through the air, missed St. Claire, and sailed past. A attacker reached him. A scream stuck in Rhoslyn’s throat when the man swung his sword toward St. Claire’s head. St. Claire yanked his sword free of its scabbard in time to block the blow. He parried, his blade moving in a blur as he drove the man back. Suddenly, he kicked his horse forward. The animal lunged and Talbot drove his sword through the man’s belly.

Her heart leapt into her throat when another enemy warrior shot past him, sword swinging. St. Claire wheeled his horse around so quickly that Rhoslyn could scarce believe it when he thrust the blade through the man’s back.

Andreana screamed. Rhoslyn jerked her gaze onto her. A nearby guardsman fell from his steed as an enemy warrior yanked his sword from the man’s neck. The man who had killed him charged the guards nearest Rhoslyn. Another barreled down on them to her left where Andreana sat atop her horse.

Rhoslyn’s heart pounded. The guardsman surrounding them edged closer to the three of them. The double attack was sure to break their line of defense and she, Andreana, and Isobel would be vulnerable. Sweet God, why hadn’t she brought a dirk? She hadn’t thought with all the men St. Claire brought that she would need a weapon.

“Lady Isobel,” Rhoslyn said. “Have ye a dagger?”

“If I had a dagger I would kill at least one of those bastards.”

The men reached them and two of the guardsmen met their steel with ferocious swings of their swords. One of St. Claire’s men landed a blow to his opponent’s neck that sent the man flying to the ground. Hope surged through Rhoslyn, but in the next instant, another half dozen enemy riders poured from the trees. She glanced at Andreana. Her step-daughter stared wild-eyed with fear. One of the riders bore down on them. Rhoslyn scanned the road. The fighting surrounded them. They wouldn’t ride ten feet before an enemy caught them, but they had to try.

“Ride!” Rhoslyn hissed.

Lady Isobel gave a sharp nod.

Rhoslyn tightened her grip on the reins. “Andreana,” she began, then broke off when St. Claire shot into view, sword raised.

One of the men bearing down on them jerked his head in St. Claire’s direction, but too late. St. Claire swung his sword and slit his throat in one clean cut. Blood spurted across his arm in the instant before the man toppled from his horse.

“Sweet Mother of God,” Isobel breathed.

St. Claire turned his horse, leaned forward in the saddle and galloped after the second rider. The man glanced over his shoulder, then veered right, narrowly missed two fighters and headed toward the trees.

Rhoslyn’s horse sidestepped, bumping Andreana’s horse. Rhoslyn tightened her grip on the reins, her gaze fixed on St. Claire as he swung his sword in an arc that caught an enemy warrior across his back. The man’s scream rose above the clash of swords. Her heart raced. The rumors of St. Claire’s ruthlessness in battle were true—and more. Ice did flow through his veins.

He whirled his horse toward one of the guards who was losing ground to his opponent, reached the fighters, and drove his sword through the attacker’s ribs. The man’s head snapped around and he slashed at St. Claire’s midsection St. Claire’s sword descended upon the man’s wrist, severing his hand.

“We must ride,” Rhoslyn shouted.

St. Claire’s horse skittered aside, and St. Claire turned him full circle. “Rhoslyn,” he shouted, “stay here. Others may be waiting in ambush.” He whirled back to the fight.

Panic caused her heart to race. St. Claire felled another warrior, then another. Rhoslyn gasped when one of the enemy landed a blow on his arm. St. Claire jabbed with his blade, piercing the man’s mail. The warrior retreated, tried to parry St. Claire’s assault, then wheeled his horse and raced down the road.

St. Claire shot past one of his warriors and drove a fist into the side of his opponent’s face as he raced by. An enemy warrior dashed through an opening between their guardsmen and Andreana. She shrieked. Lady Isobel forced her horse up beside them and lashed at the man’s face with her reins. He backhanded her across the cheek. She jerked to the side, but stayed on the saddle.

Rhoslyn kicked her mount’s ribs and the palfrey lunged forward. She did as Isobel had and lashed her reins across the man’s face as he grabbed Andreana’s arm. One of their guardsmen whirled and plunged into the circle and slashed at the man’s face with his sword.

A hand seized her arm and yanked. Rhoslyn’s grip on her pommel slipped. She snapped the reins across her attacker’s face. The leather cracked like a whip and blood sprang up in a line across one cheek and eye. He howled, and his grip loosened.

Rhoslyn kicked her horse’s belly and the beast lunged forward. She dodged left to avoid one guardsman, but slammed into an enemy’s horse. Rhoslyn jarred, and began falling from the saddle, but hung on. The enemy warrior retreated in his parry against one of the guardsman, and the guardsman drove his sword into the man’s neck. She turned her horse around and gasped when another man came up behind Andreana and grabbed her.

“Andreana,” Rhoslyn shouted.

St. Claire shot into view, sword slicing across the back of the man’s neck. The man toppled to the ground and seconds later, the last of the enemy raced away from them.

Andreana burst into tears. Rhoslyn urged her horse past the guard, dismounted, and helped her from her horse. The girl collapsed into her arms. She held Andreana close while Isobel knelt beside one of St. Claire’s men.

Rhoslyn glanced around at the fallen men. At least two dozen of the enemy lay dead or wounded. Not wounded, she realized. If any of the fallen men lived, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

* * *

When Rhoslyn entered their private solar, Talbot shifted his attention from Seward. The shock had disappeared from her expression, but her eyes were drawn at the corners. Seward stood, and she crossed to him without a word and nearly fell into his embrace.

“Stay strong, lass,” he said after a moment.

She nodded and pulled back. He led her to the bench near the fire where Talbot stood and they sat together.

“Did the hunt fare well?” she asked.

“Lord Kinnon shot a deer,” Seward replied. “And there is the boar. Mistress Muira is looking forward to carving him up.”

Rhoslyn gave a small smile. “’Tis a shame ye lost your wager with St. Claire.”

Seward cut him a glance. “Your life is worth the loss of my sword.”

“I did not win the sword fairly,” Talbot said. “We will save the wager for another day.”

Rhoslyn looked at him. “How far do ye think your brother is willing to go in order to have me?”

“As far as he has to. Today is yet another example of that.”

She nodded, but her eyes flicked from his and he knew she wasn’t certain Dayton was responsible for today’s attack. She believed—or at least wondered—if Duncan was responsible.

Anger had radiated off Duncan in waves last night—anger and the sense that he’d been cheated out of what was rightfully his—Lady Rhoslyn included. But would he stage an attack? Talbot suspected Duncan would take a more direct and easier approach. Poison, a knife in the back, maybe. It took money to induce men to risk their lives. Two dozen skilled warriors wouldn’t come cheap. Their attackers wore breeches, which made Talbot suspect they’d come from Stonehaven. More oft than not, the locals near Castle Glenbarr wore Highland kilts. The evidence pointed at Dayton. But Talbot had learned even the greatest fool could be dangerous.

“St. Claire and I think it is best if ye stay at Castle Glenbarr until we catch his brother,” Seward said.

“What?” Rhoslyn cut her gaze to Talbot. “That could be months, maybe longer.”

“He will not wait long before striking,” Talbot said.

“I will no’ be a prisoner in my own home.”

“I will catch him.”

“What if he was no’ behind the attack?” she asked.

“Who else could it be?”

She hesitated.