The Highlander's Triumph (17 page)

That only put Mariana in more danger. If Ross knew
Brandon and the men would come after her, that the sight of blood would spur their vengeance, then Mariana was in more danger than Brandon previously thought. The king would not stand for her to be in league with Scots.

But they couldn’t know. Could they? Would Mariana tell them, lead them all to their deaths? Was she so deceitful that she would risk her own life to put an end to theirs? Brandon shook his head. He couldn’t,
wouldn’t
believe that.

Ho
wever violent Ross was, Longshanks was a conniving, vile demon. There was no end to his cruelty and he would surely meet out his anger on Mariana. Flashes of her bloodied and whimpering stormed his mind in a wide-awake nightmare.

They had to get to her.
And now. Before Longshanks chose to punish her. Before it was too late. Before Brandon lost the chance to confess his true feelings for her. That he wanted a future with her. That he was willing to change everything if only she would be his wife.

The sea air was stronger now, the salt mixing crisp
ly in the breeze. Brandon leaned back on his horse, sniffing. They were close to shore again. For a moment, Brandon feared they had only followed their own prints back to Eilean Donan. That the mist surrounded castle would loom ahead of them, Robert and the others waving their arms in welcome.

He held up his hand for the men to slow. Through the trees he spied a road ahead. Brandon swirled his hand in arc in the air and four men departed from the group to scout out the road.

“Do ye know where we are?” Wallace said in a low tone, pulling his horse beside his.

Brandon shook his head, eyeing their surroundings and taking in the sparser trees, the road, what appeared to be a castle some distance away.

“’Tis Ion Dubh Castle.” Wallace stared straight ahead, his lips pressed together in a disappointed line.

“Ion Dubh?”
Brandon asked. He’d never seen the castle before. Nudging his horse closer to the road, he saw that the fortress sat upon a rise overlooking the sea. The sounds of splashing could be heard in the distance as waves crashed upon the cliff.

“Aye.
Now that we are here, I’m almost certain King Edward has taken claim of it.” Wallace’s voice was filled with anger.

Brandon studied his leader, wondering at the complexities of the man, what happened in his youth to make him so rough.
“Why?”

“Ion Dubh has remained vacant
for the last several years. A fighting ground between the MacLeans and the Ross.” He shrugged. “If I remember, the men called a truce some years back that neither would claim the castle until the other was willing to pay its worth in silver. No one dare to come near it, else they face the wrath of two clans coming down on them.”

“And neither has been willing to pay
each other the silver?”

“I wouldna know, but my guess is, either MacLean paid or Ross simply claimed it in Longshanks’ name.”

“Mariana is in there.” Brandon reached inside his sleeve to feel the folded up cloth of her gown, rubbing his thumb with care over its softness.

“We can only hope.”
Wallace gave him a glance that said he felt anything but hope.

Not what he’d been
looking for in the least. Wallace had to have faith, couldn’t put those sorts of doubts in Brandon’s mind. Not now, when everything was at stake.

Brandon turned away, studying Ion Dubh.
The task at hand seemed more grim by the moment. He could barely make out the outskirts of the castle, only that it was at the top of a steep rise—one that would be difficult to climb and impossible on horseback. There appeared to be plenty of brush along the rocks to hide from archers, but making it to the top alive would be risky. The only other way looked to be a main road, much like that of Eilean Donan—in other words, also impossible. “How do we get in?”

“That is something we’ll have to figure out. The place will be crawling with English b
astards and traitor Scots alike.” Wallace jutted his chin toward the fortress. “Might be able to get in by the water. There’s most likely a port of some sort. No use having a castle by the sea if ye dinna use it.”

’Twas nearing dusk.
Only an hour or so left of sunlight.

“The maggots will be on high alert,” Wallace pointed out.

“Aye, as will we.”

“No fires tonight.”

Brandon slowly nodded his agreement. “’Haps ye and I should go at sunset to look at the water and see if there is a way in?”

“An excellent plan.”

By this time tomorrow, Brandon planned to have Mariana in his arms and be well away from Ion Dubh Castle.

Chapter Seventeen

O
utside, thunder crashed and rolled, drawn out in long dramatic booms. Lightning sizzled and popped, firing bolts into the trees beyond the road below.

Mariana cracked the shutter against the lone narrow window in her room, and gazed outside. An icy wind burst in gusts into the
opening, but she didn’t mind the cold. She needed to see outside. If not to gain some idea of where she was, to see if there was any hint of Brandon coming to her rescue.

Rescue.

She belonged to Longshanks. And in his eyes she was home. But this would never be home. There was only one man who could give her that. And it wasn’t King Edward. In her heart she was no more than the king’s prisoner. While the doors weren’t barred and there were no guards, she didn’t have the right to make her own choices. Any and all decisions were made for her. He would never let her go. Not willingly. He would kill anyone who tried to take her from him. Or he would kill her. What she wouldn’t give to have the right to choose. To fulfill her own destiny, to no longer cow down to those more powerful.

Biting her lip, she realized what she truly longed for—in addition to a draught of
liquor to dull the pain in her arm—was for Brandon to steal her away. To charge the castle, like she’d dreamed the barbarian Scots would do.

Oui,
since setting foot on Scottish lands, she’d dreamed of the warriors storming the various castles they’d stayed in. They took mercy on her, all while acting out their revenge on the men who made them suffer.

Mariana was kept at court, but that didn’t mean she was ignorant to the destruction
Edward laid around himself. Kinterloch was not the only village they’d burned—others had been pillaged too. Mariana had never laid witness to the acts, but they’d passed through the villages. Edward always blamed the Scots for the destruction, but now she had serious doubts. He’d been the one to do it.

Tremendous rain drops splattered on the stone casement, ricocheting onto her fingers and face.
The sky was a dark grey, the sun trying valiantly to shine through the storm clouds was sorely defeated. Thankfully, the temperature had not dropped overmuch, causing the raindrops to remain liquid rather than ice.

The castle sat high on a ridge, overlooking the sea and the land beyond. From her room, Mariana didn’t have a good vantage point of the sea, but she could see the road.
The way out. Had Edward chosen this room so she could see her escape just beyond her reach? Most likely.

She frowned down at the grounds, slowly turning from dirt-packed to a sloppy, muddy mess. Mariana had never asked Edward for anything.
Had never begged him to let her go. To give her in marriage to another. Never voiced any complaint.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t read it in her eyes. He had the uncanny ability to see within someone’s soul.
To read their true heart’s desires. And the callousness within his own heart to tear it all away.

Mariana could not underestimate King Edward. She’d best move forward with the knowledge that he did know what she truly wanted—to leave him and this place. And that he may even know she’d fallen in love with another.

Fallen in love?

A
gasp escaped her, and her hand fluttered to her chest where her heart suddenly felt like it beat at triple its normal pace.

In love?

“Oh,
mon dieu.
” It was true. She was utterly, unequivocally, in love with Brandon Sinclair.

This was terrible.

Horrible.

A disaster.

She stared hard at the charcoal and white swirls of the storming sky. Why did she have to fall in love? That would make not being with Brandon all the more painful.

For in truth, he wasn’t going to come and rescue her. He’d most likely moved on already, ’haps already finding comfort in one of the willing maids’ arms.

She slammed the shutters closed, and pinched the tender flesh of her finger in the process. “Ouch!” She stuck her finger in her mouth.

Well, if she wasn’t just one pathetic woman. She hobbled toward the chair set before her hearth, her hip covered in bruises from being tossed of
f Ross’ horse. Her injured arm, splinted and held within a sling at her waist—and now a sore finger.

Mariana dropped into the chair, grateful for the cushion against her rear.
All she could do now was wait. She felt like a prisoner within the chamber. Edward hadn’t specifically given the order for her to be held inside. The door wasn’t locked. But if she ventured out, she ran the chance that Ross would accost her, or Edward himself would demand more answers regarding Wallace and Brandon. Answers she couldn’t give.

She supposed having the ability to leave was good enough for her, and staying behind the closed door, she had a better chance of staying safe and sane.

The door handle jiggled, making her belly flip up into her throat. She held her breath, bracing for whoever entered.

“Thank God,” she muttered when the older maid who’d helped to set her arm entered with a tray of food.

“Morning, my lady. I’ve brought you something to break your fast.”

“My thanks, Mrs. Busby.”

The older woman smiled. “So you do remember me.”

“How could I forget?”

Mrs. Busby’s husband was killed in a freak gardening accident—crushed by a man the king had tossed from an upper window at Westminster Palace. Mariana had been in the garden at the time, and promised the woman she’d find her employment, which she did, but hadn’t seen the woman since. At least two years had passed since then.

Mrs. Busby
nodded, her eyes solemn. “I am glad to see you up and about. After you eat, I could change you into a gown, though you should be in bed resting.”

Mariana smiled. “There is no need.” If she dressed in a gown, she might be deemed well enough to accept visitors—which she did not want to do.

“Eat up now. You need your strength.” She wagged her finger at Mariana. “And drink that tisane, ’twill help with the healing of your injuries.”

Mrs. Busby didn’t know the half of it. Mariana
needed more than food and tisanes to heal and grow strong. Peace of mind would be a good place to start. Brandon would be another…

She
leaned over to study her breakfast. The scent of porridge wafted from the bowl. A little milk and honey had been drizzled over it. A steamy cup of tea and a sliced apple accompanied the meal. Mariana picked up the spoon and swirled it around in the porridge, making a divot in the middle.

“There is some talk of His Majesty traveling to France when this business is done.” Mrs. Busby spoke casually as she fluffed Mariana’s pillows and straightened her bed sheets.

She set down her spoon and took a gulp of the warm tisane.

“Talk of his marrying Princess Margaret.”

“Margaret?” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She and Margaret had played together as children. Now her childhood friend would marry Edward…

“Aye, did you know her?”

Mariana did a slow blink, praying to God that Edward disposed of her before Margaret ever crossed his threshold. That would be the worst sort of mortification. Mariana would toss herself from an upper window before she faced her childhood friend to tell her she would be sleeping with her husband on the nights her wifely duties were not required.

She managed a stiff smile and bit into a crisp apple slice. “I may have met her once or twice.”

“I’ve heard she is beautiful.” Mrs. Busby moved from tending the bed to stoking the fire.

“Any word on when that might be?” Mariana tried to keep her voice casual.

Mrs. Busby shrugged. Not exactly forthcoming with information, but at least Mariana’s question hadn’t piqued the maid’s interest. “No telling. Just a lot of talk right now. You know more than any how negotiations must go.” The older woman gasped, pressed a hand to her cheek. “My word, I can’t believe I just said that. Please accept my apologies.”

The woman’s eyes were filled with regret. Mariana pressed her lips into some semblance of a smile. “There is no need to apologize. We all know how I came to be here, and what my place is.”

Mrs. Busby swallowed, her throat bobbing with an audible gulp. “All the more reason I should have watched my tongue. This marriage business is bound to distress you.”

For reasons Mrs. Busby was obviously taking out of context. Why did everyone believe that Mariana must be in love with the king?

“Indeed, ’tis distressing. Alas, what am I to do about it?” She gave a dainty shrug, allowing the maid to believe what she would. “I am beholden to my king, and I will do whatever it is he asks.”

With that said, she turned back to her cooling porridge. The boiled grains felt heavy in her belly as her stomach churned.

“I think I should like to rest.” As gracefully as she could manage, Mariana stood and walked slowly to the bed. “If you’d let everyone know I’m not to be disturbed?”

“Aye, my lady.
Aye.” Mrs. Busby backed out of the room, her head down.

Mariana slid carefully onto the bed. Lying on her back, she stared up at the ceiling,
thinking about Brandon, his enchanting eyes and mischievous smile. The easy way he spoke with her. She escaped into the dark night that she and Brandon made love. A memory she’d worried would leave a bitter taste on her tongue, but which in reality saved her from falling apart.

She closed her eyes, and could
almost feel Brandon’s touch, his lips skimming over hers. At first, the memory of his caresses, the moments of abandon where she felt she lived in a dream comforted Mariana. But as the minutes ticked by, and she longed desperately to see Brandon again, those precious flashes only haunted her. Teasing her with what she couldn’t have.

Mariana was grateful when Mrs. Busby’s tisane took effect, lulling her into sleep.

“Are ye ready?” Wallace eyed Brandon as though he were preparing to leap off a cliff.

“More than ready.”
He wasn’t going to wait any longer to take control of this situation. To get Mariana back and put Ross down.

“’Twill be dangerous.”

Brandon winged a brow at Wallace. “That I am aware of. Where has your confidence gone? Ye’re the man whose defeated countless English, rallied the country to join you in the fight for our freedom, our very lives. Ye are our guardian, and yet ye seem to have doubts about this mission.”

Wallace clasped his shoulder, studied him, his bushy brows knit together in a frown. “A man is only good with his sword when he is nay compromised.”

“I’m nay compromised.”

“Aye, but ye are. Ye’re consumed with thoughts of
the woman. I can tell ye now, from experience, ’twill get someone killed.”

Brandon swallowed. He’d heard rumors of Wallace having lost a woman. Knew
the man’s cousin had been killed a few months prior. Many of his men, long since in their graves. He turned serious eyes on Wallace. “I willna let my feelings for Mariana get in the way of this mission.”

“And what is the mission?”

“Extract Ross from Ion Dubh.”

Wallace let go of Brandon’s shoulder and gave a single, solid nod.
“Aye.”