The Highlander's Triumph (12 page)

“And where was that?” Wallace asked.

“That I dinna know.”

“Ye want me to send the men into the wild Highlands
, blind?” The Bruce spread out his arms, irritation glinting in his eyes. A subtle hint that he might not be one-hundred percent well. Another clue was the absence of Julianna who never left her brother’s side and whose advice he was never short of hearing. Then again, she and Ronan may have been up late into the night.

Straightening his spine, Brandon prepared
for a fight with his future king. “They are Highlanders, hardly unaccustomed to the
wild
Highlands.”

The Bruce snorted. “Aye, but Ross plays dirty. And ye forget, he may be in league with the English, but he was trained as a
Highlander just as ye were.”

“I’m aware of that, and I dinna underestimate the strength of my men.”

Wallace stepped forward. “No one is misjudging the strength of your men, Sinclair. The Bruce is merely stating his concerns.”

Brandon took a deep breath, the fight gone from him. He nodded.
“As he should. Apologies, my lord.”

The Bruce shook his head, waved his hand.
“’Tis nothing. I’ve a feeling this is a trap. That ye were seduced into this plot.”

Brandon blew out a breath and looked up to the ceiling before speaking, afraid he’d start shouting again. “
There was no seduction.”

“Ye willingly believed her, then?” The Bruce winged a skeptical brow.

“Nay!” Brandon held out his arms in agitation. “I didna discuss this plan at all with the lass. She has no idea that we’re going to take her.”

The Bruce scowled, but Wallace leaned against a wall, a smile on his face. He liked it when he wasn’t the one arguing with their future king.

“If I were to call her to this chamber right now, she would have no inkling of what we speak?” Robert asked.

“Aye.
None.”

“And ye did not feel the need to warn her of our plans?”

Brandon ground his teeth. “Why would I? We dinna need her permission to carry out our mission.”

“Huh.”
The Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. “Yesterday ye weren’t willing to let the lass out of your sight. Today ye are using her as bait.”

Yesterday she wasn’t using him. Yesterday she wasn’t conniving. He’d still not figured out exactly why she’d seduced him.
When he’d confronted her, she wasn’t able to answer. Couldn’t even finish her sentence. He wasn’t going to wait around to find out why. She wanted to go back to Ross and King Edward—that much was clear—and he was going to hand deliver her.

Brandon pressed his lips together, gave each of the men a straightforward glance. “I think ye’ve misread my actions and intentions. The
lass is nothing more than a pawn. I gained her trust in order to do what must be done to take down our enemy—Scotland’s enemy.”

The men stared at him, assessing him, and Brandon prayed they wouldn’t see through
his pretense. Truth was, he’d been duped by a beautiful woman and while he wasn’t the first man to have been deceived, he certainly didn’t want his leaders to see him as a fool. To see him as weak.

Swallowing back the foul taste in his mouth,
he forced himself not to grimace and planted his hands on the table. The wood was cool, sturdy, beneath his palms, helping to steady him. “If ye lasses are through with your gossip, we’ve a mission to plan.”

Wallace and the Bruce chuckled.

“I ought to have ye whipped for a comment like that,” Robert said. “But instead, I’ll settle for sending ye into the vipers nest with your ballocks tucked tight against your arse.”

Brandon laughed then, a true laugh.
“I’ll drink to that.” He walked over to the sideboard, poured three small cups of whisky and carried them back. As much as they had been through together, seeing each other bleed, keeping each other alive, they deserved a moment of ease.

Scotland was at war with known enemies, and those too cowardly to step from the shadows.

Lord, pray Mariana had not betrayed him regarding the war, though she’d done so with his heart.

Chapter Twelve

“M
y lady, time to wake.”

Mariana blinked open her eyes, unaware of exactly when she’d finally
fallen asleep, but fully aware that it hadn’t been too long ago. Her head pounded, eyes felt heavy and dry. She blinked, tried to rub away the sting of not getting enough sleep. Every muscle protested as she stretched out her limbs.

The shutters weren’t open but
several candles were lit around the room
.
A different maid than the ones who’d served her the night before placed a linen cloth beside her wash basin.

“Open the shutters,” Mariana said, her voice gravelly even to her own ears.
Though she was accustomed to warmer air, she was also used to getting more sleep. Fresh cool air would help to wake her. “’Haps the sun will help motivate me to rise.”

“
I canna, my lady. ’Tis too cold, and still dark.”

Sure enough, a glance at the closed shutters showed not a lick of light filtering through.
“Why did you wake me then?”

“The Bruce’s orders, my lady.
”

That brought her fully awake.
Mayhap Brandon’s words with Robert the Bruce hadn’t been enough and now he wanted to speak with her personally. Mariana sat straight up in bed, a chill covering her skin in gooseflesh. Her stomach did a flip and her throat tightened.

“Why?” she asked.

The maid shrugged. “Said ye needed to be roused and dressed and ready to leave.”

“Leave?” They would cast her out in the mid
dle of the night? Was Brandon that angry with her? She’d never imagined he’d be so cruel, even with a bruised ego. King Edward had oft lamented that the Scots were barbarians and the Highlanders the worst of them all, but she’d never thought of Brandon that way, nor any of those she’d met thus far.

Wo
uld he prove to her that they were indeed heathens?

Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her bothered by it. She’d leave this place with her head held high and never look back. Those moments of bliss within his bedchamber were bittersweet memories now.
A portrait of a man that didn’t exist.

“Aye, my lady.
I can have a fruit pastry sent up from Cook. There’s enough sugar in one to keep ye awake for nigh on three days.”

“Nay
, I don’t like fruit tarts.” That was a lie, but with the way her stomach was clenching so tight any food was surely to retreat the way it came. She pulled herself, regrettably, from the warmth of the bed, her toes stinging against the cold planks of the floor. “Hurry up, then,” Mariana snapped, feeling instantly bad for taking her irritation out on the girl. “I’ll be glad to leave this place,” she muttered.

“Och, we’re not so bad.”
The maid lifted Mariana’s feet, slipping warm, soft wool hose over her toes, halfway up her thigh where she tied them with a ribbon.

Mariana kept her mouth closed, held out her arms and allowed the maid to dress her in
her own gown, which someone had attempted to clean and repair. Darker smudges could still be seen within the green where soot and dirt had made its home, and lines of tightly knit threads dotted the once jagged tears. Not the best of work, but it would do, and she was grateful not to have to wear it in the condition it had been in before.

“Who repaired my gown?” she asked.
“I wish to thank them.”

The maid smoothed out the wrinkles with her
hands and then placed Mariana’s silver looped belt around her hips—a gift from her mother on the day of her fifteenth summer. An apology or a bribe, no doubt. Where it hooked was a shiny onyx stone. Not the most feminine of gifts, but one she cherished all the same—not for what it represented, but because it was the only piece she had left of home. She fitted the small eating knife within its sheath into one of the loops.

“Cook, my lady.”

“Cook is also a seamstress?”

“And a surgeon when need be. This is a war camp after all. We all h
ave many duties.”

The maid’s voice was matter of fact, not condescending, but instructing all the same. Mariana wondered what other duties were this maid’s—and thought prior to her stint here she might have been
in charge of children somewhere, perhaps even her own.

Mariana nodded, not realizing until that moment that not only did the warriors suffer the ravages of this war, but everyone
else as well. She’d been so buried in courtly intrigue and her own misery, that she hardly noticed those around her suffering.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Jean, my lady.” Jean glanced up at her, an odd expression on her face.

Mariana wondered if anyone had bothered to ask before.
Stepping away from Jean, she reached under her pillow and pulled out her coin pouch.

“Please,” she said, pulling out two silver coins. “Take these.”

Jean shook her head. “Nay, my lady, I couldna.”

“Please, you must.
For your suffering.”

Jean
frowned, her wary gaze meeting Mariana’s. “I’ve not suffered overmuch. I have work here, and I’m safe behind the walls. If I may, my lady, please dinna assume that because the English have tried to ravage us that they have already won.”

Mariana absorbed Jean’s words, wishing she could somehow rid the country of its unwanted guests.
“These coins were given to me by the English king. Consider it a just reward for his intrusion. Keep it in case the day comes, God forbid it, that you are no longer safe here.” Mariana thrust the coins into Jean’s hands. “Go now. I will walk myself down to the great hall.” She turned away from the maid, unable to look at her. Unintentionally, she’d offended this woman. But what was worse, by being rescued by Brandon, Mariana had almost certainly led the English here, for they most assuredly followed at a distance.

Jean
thought herself safe because she was behind closed walls, but the woman had no idea the extent to which Laird Ross and King Edward would go to see that their will was done. Mariana was a prime example, left behind for the sole purpose of leading them to Wallace and the Bruce. If she’d believed in their cause, if she’d had a cruel heart, she’d not be standing here, willingly leaving. Truth was, Mariana didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. Somehow, despite what she’d been through, she maintained a warm heart.

Tears welled in her eyes. In the privacy of her chamber she let them drip down her cheeks, weaving warm tracks on her cool skin.
Her dreams as a child had never foreseen a life such as this.
Mais oui,
she had clean, beautiful clothes, food to eat and coins to spare, alas, she had no true pleasure save the moments she stole for herself.

Pressing her hands to her belly, she blinked up at the ceiling, let out a long shuddering breath. “Why?” she asked no one.

There would be no answer. There never was. In the past she took comfort in the knowledge that this must be the path God chose for her. Now, that comfort ebbed with each passing day. If she were to find her own happiness, wouldn’t that be something God wished for her, too? Perhaps she could when other people’s lives weren’t dependent on her choices.

Cloak in hand,
Mariana took one last look around the room. She pulled her dagger from beneath her pillow, and attached it to her thigh. Her coin purse jangled against her hip, beneath her gown. Nothing left of her here. She blew out the candles, the smoke curling up in white tendrils before dissipating into the air. Much like she would do. Here for a moment, gone the next. Darkness surrounded her. She felt her way along the floor with each step, until she pressed her hand to the doorknob.

It was time to go. Time to leave
Eilean Donan, Robert the Bruce’s camp—Brandon—and whatever hopes she’d had with it.

Mariana stepped into the hallway, lit only by a few torches spaced a dozen feet apart. The corridor was empty
of people but full of shadows. From the distance she heard a dog barking, another howling. But there were no other sounds. How early in the morning was it?

She
flung her cloak around her shoulders and rushed to the stairs, her gown swishing around her ankles the only sound. As she reached the last stair, she took a moment to rearrange her expression to one of serenity, hoping she revealed nothing to the men who would see her die. For that was what they were doing by tossing her into the night in a place teeming with enemies. Guaranteeing her demise. At least she had a dagger strapped above her knee should she have need to use it.

Unwilling to stand in the dark silence another moment, she entered the great hall, sur
prised to see only Brandon. A small fire crackled in the enormous hearth. No servants slept curled beneath woolen blankets, perhaps finding a place to bed down elsewhere, or already having woken. A single candelabra sat upon the long trestle table, every candle lit.

Brandon stood on the opposite side of the room, staring out one of the arrow-slitted windows.
He was fully clothed once more, boots, weapons and all. Her breath held seeing him there, and her heart broke all the more.

He barely looked at her
, a simple glance acknowledging her presence, as though she were less than nothing to him. Guilt or shame? She’d seen both on men’s faces more times than she could count, but with Brandon it was different. This time it was entirely directed at her, not a himself or a wife he’d left cold in bed.

Clearing her throat, she straightened
her shoulders, lifted her chin, prepared to get this ordeal over with. The sooner she was away from here the better. “Will you at least give me a horse?” she asked.

Brandon’s head shot up, brows knitted together. His gaze raked over
her, giving away for a minute that at least his attraction to her was real, before he too looked serene.

“Ye will have a mount.”

Mariana tried not to wince. Just like that—a mount to ride out on. Although she kept a straight face on the outside, inwardly she felt as though she was being ripped apart. How different this man was than the one she’d kissed and let inside her body.

“Would it be too much to ask for a skin of water and perhaps an oatcake or two?”

“It would not.” His tone was clipped, cold.

Mariana chewed her lip, unsure if that actually meant
that he was going to provide the requested provisions. He could only mean that it wasn’t too much to ask, even if he would deny her the luxury of food and water. Bitterness threatened to pull her down into its sour depths, but reason battled on. The man had been so kind to her before now. Even charmed her into believing he felt something for her beyond the contempt he exhibited now. Was there any piece of that man left, or had it all been a charade?

The room
grew thick with uncomfortable tension. She could no longer allow herself to be there. A woman could only take so much before she broke down. Mariana was not going to lose control in front of Brandon. She mourned her losses privately.

“
Très bien
. I shall be on my way.
Au revoir
.” She spoke quickly, without pause.

She didn’t wait for his response, but turned on her heel, intent on making it through the castle the way she’d come, hopefully finding the mount assigned to her outside in the courtyard. Barely through the door,
his voice stalled her.

“My lady.”

He’d not moved, or at least not much, judging from the distance of his voice. Even still, a shiver caressed her skin as though he stood behind her. Touching her. Mariana squeezed her eyes shut against the invading memoires of the night before. His sensual whisper against her neck. His fingers gliding up her thigh. His hips pressed to hers. “Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around,” she chanted in a whisper to herself. “Keep moving forward.” The way she always did—without turning back.

Her wayward feet did not obey her command. They remained rooted to the floor. If she’d not just stepped into the spot she’d have thought one of the maids played a trick on her, nailing her shoes to the floorboards.

“My lady, ye will not have to travel alone.”

Brandon was closer now, mayhap four or five feet away. Her body tensed, at war with itself on how to react—desire, fear, anger?