Highlander's Redemption: The Sinclair Brothers Trilogy, Book Two (11 page)

“When should
you
?”
Though she felt foggy with fatigue, she didn’t miss what he had said.

“Aye, lass. I can
tend to Burke. You need to rest.”

“What about you?” She
realized that he hadn’t slept since the night she had stowed away in their
wagon—two days ago.

He scrubbed his
hand over his face, but didn’t try to deny his own exhaustion. “Why don’t we
take turns?” he said finally.

“Very well. You’ll
go first,” she said firmly. He started to argue, but she interrupted him. “I
slept a bit in the wagon. And besides, I need to prepare some of this yarrow
and make a fresh batch of this brew before I can rest.”

He still looked
like he wanted to object, so she placed a hand on his shoulder to still him. Despite
their exhaustion, both of them seemed to grow alert at her touch. “Sleep,” she
said softly, then gave his shoulder a little push to get him to lie down. He
mumbled something about stubborn lasses, but he let himself be tilted over to
the ground. She watched him settle his arm underneath his head and close his
eyes, not bothering to find a more comfortable position. Within a minute, she
could hear a change in his breathing as he slipped into sleep.

She let herself
gaze down at him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. He still looked
fierce, even in sleep. His dark hair was disheveled, and several days’ worth of
stubble covered his jaw and cheeks. Though he was relaxed in sleep, his muscles
were still corded and well-defined. His large chest rose and fell rhythmically
with his breathing, and even lying down he looked like a giant.

But there was also
something incredibly intimate about being so close to him as he slept. He was
completely vulnerable. Jossalyn doubted that very many people ever saw him like
this. Based on what she had observed, he was normally guarded and cautious, but
here he was, stretched out a mere foot away from her on the ground in a deep
sleep. She suddenly had to fight the urge to lean into him, inhale his scent, and
run her fingers along his hard jawline to feel the bristly stubble there.

She shook herself,
forcing her eyes back onto the pot on the fire. She went about adding more
water and stuffing more yarrow in along with the strip of cloth, all the while
telling herself not to think about Garrick—not think about him sleeping next to
her, not think about being pressed against him again, not think about what
their next kiss would feel like.

Despite her best
efforts, the dark and inexplicable desire had taken root in her, and there was
no going back.

Garrick woke to
the sound of thunder. He jerked upright, reaching instinctively for the
fletching dagger that he always kept in his boot. Suddenly, his eyes locked on
Jossalyn, who was frozen in surprise in front of him, her eyes wide and
startled.

“Sorry,” he said,
easing his hand away from his dagger. “Habit.”

She let out a
breath and nodded, relaxing somewhat. She had been working over the fire,
stirring the mixture of plants, water, and cloth inside the pot. Despite her
diligent attention to the task at hand, she looked haggard and exhausted. Her
golden hair was mussed and coming out of its braid, her shoulders slumped
forward, and he had noticed dark smudges under her eyes a moment ago when she
had been staring at him.

“How is Burke?”

“About the same,”
she said, her brow furrowed. “But he took more tea, which is good.”

He stood and went
to her side. “You need to rest, lass.”

“But you only
slept for a few hours,” she responded, but there wasn’t much fight in her
voice.

He actually felt
surprisingly refreshed. He was used to sleeping outdoors and working long
hours. He doubted that she was, though.

He glanced up at
the sound of another roll of thunder, and noticed that the storm that had been
brewing to the west earlier in the morning had now arrived. As if to prove his
observation, he felt a large raindrop hit his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be
out in this storm anyway. I can watch over the fire. You go check on Burke and
get some sleep.”

She only nodded,
confirming for him just how tired she was. She disappeared inside the shelter
for a moment, but then reemerged.

“He’s still
asleep, but there’s not enough room in there for both of us,” she said wearily.

Garrick glanced
around for a spot that would work as a second makeshift shelter during the
storm. Several more drops of rain had fallen, and the sky was growing
increasingly dark despite the fact that it was midday. Not far from where Burke
lay underneath the overgrown leaning logs, there was a slight inward curvature
to the rock face. If he could gather enough fallen trunks and branches, he
could create a second lean-to that wouldn’t look out of place.

He set about
dragging several tree limbs from the forest floor to the rock outcropping,
propping them against the rock to create a little space underneath them for
Jossalyn. Once the structure was in place, he covered the logs with freshly
fallen branches that still had leaves or pine needles on them to provide more
protection and make the lean-to blend in more. When he was satisfied, he peeked
inside. Even as the rain started to come down in earnest, the inside of the
little structure was staying dry.

He turned away
from the shelter, only to find Jossalyn staring at him, and unreadable look on
her face, but a softness in her eyes. Feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny,
and not wanting to think about why her soft look made his chest pinch, he
cleared his throat and said gruffly, “That should do.”

“Thank you.” She
kept her large green eyes locked on him as she approached, only breaking their
gaze so that she could duck her head down and crawl into the shelter. One more
idea occurred to him to make her sleep more comfortable. He went to his
saddlebag, which was still next to the fire, and retrieved an extra length of
plaid, then went back to the new shelter and knelt in front of it.

“Here,” he said,
extending the plaid toward her. He realized suddenly that perhaps he was
fussing too much over her. He berated himself silently, reminding himself that
he was supposed to be keeping his distance from her. Why should he overexert
himself just to make her comfortable?

A voice in his
head whispered to him that he wasn’t exactly living up to his self-appointed
title of villain very well. But just because he was an assassin in Robert the
Bruce’s army didn’t mean that he was a cold-hearted bastard. What was so bad
about trying to make the lass comfortable, especially when it was his own
blockheaded and moon-eyed “rescue” of her that had put her in this situation?

She took the
proffered plaid but was gazing up at him with that look in her eyes again—a
combination of tenderness and desire. He had to get out of there before he did
something stupid again.

“I’ll be back,” he
said tersely, standing.

“Wait! Where are
you going?” A thin edge of concern cut through the surprise in her voice.

“Hunting.” They
could use some fresh food, but the real reason was because he needed to calm
his mind and straighten out his thoughts, and nothing did that better than
having his bow in his hand.

“Oh.” Just as he
was turning away again, she called after him once more.

“I was
wondering…why does your bow look so strange?”

He couldn’t help
the smile that quirked up one side of his mouth. So she had noticed. As far as
he knew, he was the only Scot with a recurve bow from the Holy Land, and likely
the only one in all the British Isles.

“It’s called a
recurve bow. You’ve seen normal longbows?”

She nodded.

“Then you’ll know
that they are long and almost straight, and can be as tall as their shooter. They
are made out of yew, which makes sense in these parts since it’s fairly common
and sturdy wood. They are also easy to make, which is important in wartime,
like now, because it doesn’t take as much time or skill to produce them. What
did you notice was different about my bow?”

She thought for a
moment. “It was curved or warped somehow, and was a bit shorter than the bows
I’ve seen. The two ends seemed to be going the wrong way.”

He nodded. “That
makes it far harder to make, but more accurate and precise. Most English armies
line up in long rows and shoot a swarm of arrows at their opponent, hoping that
some of them reach a mark, but relying more on sheer numbers rather than
accuracy. My bow is designed to be shot from horseback or among tree cover, so
it is more maneuverable and precise.”

He surprised
himself at his own loquaciousness, but he felt a twinge of pride, not only for
his bow, but also for the fact that she had noticed it.

She tilted her
head to the side a little. “Where did you get it?”

“The Holy Land. I
was on a mission.” He almost added that he had been hunting a target for the
Bruce, but decided to withhold that information. For some reason he didn’t like
the thought of her picturing him hunting down and killing someone on the order
of the King of the Scottish rebels. He shouldn’t care what she thought of him,
but he did.

Her eyes widened
in amazement, and he reminded himself that most people never traveled more than
a day or so away from their homes. In her case, she had moved from England to
the Borderlands, and was now in Lowland Scotland, but her circumstances were
rare and unique. He had seen more of the world than most people could dream of.
Working for the Bruce had taken him to Ireland, France, and even the Holy Land.

Though he believed
in the importance of his work and was honored to call the Bruce his King and
commander, the reminder about how different his life was from hers sat like a
stone in his stomach. Yet another piece of evidence that the two of them could
never be together.

That thought
startled him, for he didn’t realize that some small part of him was still
looking for a plan that would allow him and Jossalyn to be together. He
shouldn’t need to collect evidence for why it wouldn’t work. He should already
have moved on from his little fantasy.

“I won’t be long,”
he said, turning to go again, “but you should sleep.” He had to get his head on
straight before he forgot all his reasons and logic and duty. Because if he
didn’t start thinking clearly, he would join her in the shelter and do
something that no amount of reason or logic or duty would undo.

The rain was
finally unleashing its full might, just in time for him to be trying to keep
their little fire alive. Upon his return from his hunt, he had stowed their
saddlebags inside Burke’s shelter to protect them from the mounting downpour.
Then he had skinned, cleaned, and skewered the rabbit he had shot. Now he was trying
to roast it over the meager flames, but the rain seemed to have other plans.

Both Jossalyn and
Burke were still sleeping, Jossalyn peacefully inside her dry little shelter,
and Burke somewhat fitfully. Garrick had forced more tea down his throat and
had changed the dressing on his leg a few more times, but Burke’s fever still
burned, and the wound looked angry and enflamed.

He had thought of
rousing Jossalyn, first to have her check on Burke to see if anything else
could be done, and then to share the rabbit with him, which would have been
done cooking by now if the skies hadn’t decided to open up and nearly
completely douse his fire. It was already sometime between late afternoon and
early evening if Garrick could judge correctly through the heavy cloud cover. She
had been asleep for several hours, but he was glad he hadn’t roused her. She
needed it, and who knew when they would get a place and time to rest again?

Unfortunately, his
bow had offered him little in the way of solace or clarity as he had hunted. He
still had no idea what to do about Jossalyn. He knew that he couldn’t keep her
with him, at least not after Burke healed—God willing. He still wouldn’t let
himself wonder what would happen if his cousin, his brother’s right-hand man,
and, he grudgingly admitted, someone who had become a companion and friend to
him over the last few weeks, somehow didn’t pull through. He had to believe
that Burke would make it, and that they would still be able to complete their
mission together.

When—not if—Burke
was well enough to ride, they would need to continue heading north, and fast. But
Garrick had to get to the Bruce, whereas Burke needed to report back to
Garrick’s brother Robert. Although Robert was still Garrick’s Laird and leader
of the Sinclair clan, the Bruce’s position as the King of Scotland trumped his
brother’s authority over him. Burke could report back to Robert on what they
had learned in the Borderlands about Warren’s movements, and Garrick would deliver
the news of Longshanks’ death and the crowning of Edward II to the Bruce.

But where did that
leave Jossalyn in all of this?

He still didn’t
like the idea of just leaving her in some random village in the middle of
Scotland. He hated to admit it, but he felt too protective of her to do that.
Though her healing skills would be welcomed anywhere she went, the farther into
Scotland they traveled, the less amenable people would be to having an English
lass in their midst. Some would likely distrust her, while others might even be
openly hostile toward her. Plus, word of a bonnie English lass in the middle of
nowhere in Scotland would likely draw attention. Her brother might be able to
find her, or maybe someone looking to kidnap and ransom her would be drawn in. Either
way, her presence would stand out like a sore thumb and draw unwanted notice.

But he couldn’t
very well just take her with him—could he? Though he longed to cling to any
thread of an idea that would mean that he could stay in her presence longer, he
couldn’t think desperately or let his desire for the lass cloud his judgment. He
couldn’t involve her further in the rebellion—it wasn’t safe for her to be in
the middle of a war. And besides, he doubted that the Bruce or the others in
the army would appreciate him bringing an English lass—and Raef Warren’s sister
no less—into their secret camp.

His mind continued
to churn all of this over, still unable to find a solution.

Just as he was
about to give up on the rabbit ever getting cooked, he heard the distant whinny
of a horse and froze.

He strained to
hear through the patter of rain in the trees, praying that he had been
mistaken. But then he heard it again—another whinny, just a bit to the left of
where the first one had come from.

He bolted upright,
and in a flash had kicked dirt over the fire, rabbit and all. Luckily, the
ground was soft and damp enough that the fire was quickly smothered, and the
ground looked relatively undisturbed. He grabbed his bow and quiver, which he
had wisely kept with him after his hunt instead of returning them to where the
horses were stowed. His mind tried to picture how well the animals were hidden,
and he prayed that they were resting quietly behind the thick screen of shrubbery
that blocked the entrance to their little cave.

A cursory glance
around their makeshift camp didn’t reveal any obvious signs of their presence. Then
again, someone was about to stumble upon them, and Garrick would bet his bow
that it was Warren and a small English army. But the ground hadn’t held their
footprints, and the two shelters looked to be naturally-occurring.

He quickly ducked
his head into Burke’s shelter, but his cousin was still sleeping relatively
soundly, so he covered the entry with a few extra branches and went to
Jossalyn’s lean-to. She was curled in a ball on her side, her blonde hair
splayed across his plaid, which she was using as a pillow. At any other moment,
he would have lingered to drink in the sight of her, but as it was, there was
no time to indulge himself. He eased his way inside the shelter, though the
quarters were tight, and pulled another few needled branches behind him to
cover the entry as best as he could.

Just then, he
heard the snap of a branch, closer than the whinnies had been. Someone—or a
group of people on horseback—was nearly on top of them.