Highland Temptations: Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 12

  All eyes turned to her. “Nay,” Rufus murmured, his brows lifting. “Do ye?”

  “Och, nay,” she shook her head. “It is merely that I thought—I mean to say, if ye were to go to this trouble, would it not be helpful to know where ye might find your brother? To bring him home and make things right again?”

  “Aye, lass. It would be quite easy and neat, would it not?” Drew scoffed, shaking his head. “Life, sadly, does not go so easily.”

  She looked at the ground, gritting her teeth, remembering all too well how her brothers would dismiss her. How foolish, thinking she had left that behind.

  “There is no need for that,” Rufus muttered, tossing a handful of branches onto the fire, making it blaze brighter. “I, too, would like to know where my brother is. I would prefer it if he were someplace safe, and if I knew where to find him to tell him the time has come to go home.”

  “Of course, ye would,” Drew sighed.

  Davina watched this with great interest, and more than a slight bit of surprise. He defended her. For the first time.

  Judging by the expressions on the faces of those around her, she was not the only one who found this strange. No one spoke up.

  Something had changed.

  The silence became rather uncomfortable, stirring her to speak further. It meant taking a risk, as there was no way to know how her question would be taken, but she felt the need to say something or curl into a ball under the weight of the strain which suddenly spread over them.

  “Ye have not seen your brother? Not since before ye left to fight?”

  “What does it mean to ye?” Rufus challenged, eyes flashing. “Nay. I have not seen him. I know not where he went or whether he…”

  More silence. She wished she hadn’t spoken. All her questions did was add to the discomfort all around. She turned her face from them, staring out into the darkness. Though she saw nothing but a few glimpses of stars through the tops of the trees, it was better than looking into resentful faces.

  Was it her they resented? Possibly. Perhaps even likely. She had all but killed their leader. She had slowed them down. If it weren’t for her, they would be a day closer to their destination.

  Perhaps Ian had not been entirely in the wrong when he’d advised her to hold her tongue. To practice discretion when it came to speaking. She had been too busy hating him to listen much.

  Just because the men around the fire had spent hours looking for her did not mean she was one of them. They had searched for Rufus. Not for her.

  She was still nothing. No one.

  Except to the man who had saved her. The one who had just spoken up on her behalf. Yes, something had changed. And she did not know how to feel about it.

  They went about getting themselves ready to sleep, the men arranging their saddles and pulling up the blankets over their shoulders. None of them seemed too pleased with her, or with Rufus. It saddened her to think they’d taken sides against their leader, and all because he had taken her part.

  It also made her fear for her well-being.

  And, to her dismay, it made her fear that Rufus’s opinion of her would change for the worse.

  It was his turn to sit up first, guarding the fire and his friends. She waited until the sound of snoring and grunting came from each of the others before getting up and sitting on a fallen log near where Rufus kept watch.

  “Ye ought to be sleeping,” he warned without looking her way.

  “Ye happen to be the one who ought to sleep,” she hissed. “And ye know it. I know ye are strong and have spent a great deal of time out of doors, riding and hunting and fighting and such. But what we went through…”

  “I am the best judge of what I can, and canna manage,” he grunted almost under his breath, causing her to lean closer that she might hear him better. “I dinna need ye to worry over me, lass.”

  “I am not worrying over ye.”

  “What would ye call it?”

  “Worrying over myself.”

  He turned to her with a look. “How does this have the first thing to do with ye?”

  “For one, I would like to get to Killiecrankie without ye falling off the horse and perhaps injuring me when ye do. For another, now that ye took my part and angered your friends—”

  “I didna.”

  “Ye did. Ye angered Drew, at the very least.” She glanced over to where the man in question slept, long brown locks covering his face. He tended to sleep rather wildly, tossing his head from side to side as though he never ceased in his fighting. Even in sleep. “Ye do not have to do that,” she whispered, still watching Drew.

  “What?”

  “Speaking up for me as ye did earlier.” She turned to Rufus. “It was a mistake.”

  His brows drew together, his mouth pursing in a sour expression. “I did not.”

  “Ye did. Or, it seemed as though ye did. When Drew spoke sharply to me.”

  The creases in his forehead deepened. “Och, I was not defending ye, lass. I only agreed with ye. There is a difference.”

  “Is there?” She turned toward the fire, wrapping her arms around her legs. Wearing trews was infinitely more comfortable and serviceable than wearing skirts. She need not fret over covering herself, could ride without tucking folds of fabric around her legs. And they were warmer when the breeze blew cool, as it did now.

  “Ye dinna know?” Rufus asked, sitting beside her on the fallen log. His nearness was both welcome and troublesome at the same time. She knew she should move away, yet she did not wish to. He was warm. She told herself this was the reason why.

  “The difference between being agreed with and being defended? I suppose to do not,” she shrugged. “No one ever agreed with me before, and certainly there has never been anyone to defend me.”

  “Ye canna mean it.”

  “I do.” She shrugged again, looking at him. “I know how it sounds. As though I lie to earn your pity. I assure ye, it isn’t a lie.”

  “No mother? Sisters? Friends?”

  She snorted. “Friends? The MacFarlands have few friends. Always fighting, ill-tempered, nasty. Do ye believe anyone would allow their daughters to visit our land? Besides,” she added with a sigh, “I was far too occupied in the house after my mother died. Someone had to do the washing, the cooking, the managing of things.”

  “How old were ye when she passed, if ye dinna mind my asking?”

  “Ten winters.”

  His face went slack. “Ye managed a house full of brothers and cousins from such a tender age?”

  “Someone had to. Mother did teach me what to do,” she allowed. “Granted, it was quite a bit more difficult when she was no longer there to manage most of the work.”

  Rufus picked up a stick and dragged it through the dirt, carving a series of lines at random. “And there was no one there with ye? No one at all?”

  “No one?” she chuckled. “There was never any end to the number of men around me. Sometimes they would stay up long into the night, and I would fall asleep in a corner of the hall while waiting for them to go to sleep. I spent many nights in that corner. I learned to sleep with shouts and fighting and boasting all around.”

  “But no friends. No one to take your part.”

  “Nay. No one.”

  “Tis sorry I am to hear it,” he murmured, tossing the stick into the fire once it had outlived its usefulness. “No wonder ye happen to be so difficult to get along with.”

  She snickered and cast a withering look his way, though she hardly meant it. “Ye have a way of making a lass feel better about herself, I give ye that much.”

  Was it her imagination, or did he move ever-so-slightly nearer? The warmth of his skin seeped into her, loosening her muscles the way a few sips of wine did. Wine gave her this dizzy sensation, as well, the feeling that the world spun around her head.

  “I’m glad I spoke for ye, then,” he decided.

  “Ye are?” she breathed, wishing her heart would cease its betrayal. The way it raced, the way it
seemed to clench when their eyes met. The flickering of the fire reflected there, making her think of the man behind those eyes. The way he burned inside.

  “Everyone deserves to have someone speak for them,” he murmured. “You’ve waited long enough. I’m only sorry no one spoke for ye before now.”

  “I wish I knew ye a long time ago,” she confessed. “Granted, I would not like ye any better now had that been the case, as ye must be the most disagreeable person I have ever known, but ye would have given me hope that there were somewhat decent men in the world.”

  “Somewhat?” he asked, one eyebrow quirking up.

  “Somewhat. Do not ask for too much.”

  He tried in vain to strangle a chuckle. “I believe it’s time for ye to listen to your advice and go to sleep. Ye need to rest just as much as I do. I shall have my sleep when Clyde relieves me.”

  If only she could sleep. If only the hot, heady humming of her blood would cease and allow her to stop thinking, remembering, caressing the memory of each moment they had just shared.

  The fact that he watched her helped nothing. Even with her eyes closed, she felt the weight of his gaze on her. It pulled at her, making her want nothing more than to curl up in his arms, against his chest. Closing her eyes and resting her head and letting him hold her until she sank into blissful darkness.

  18

  The lass had been correct about one thing, Rufus hardly had the strength to ride until midday.

  Never in all his years had he not been able to ride for hours on end with little more than a sore backside to trouble him. There had been times when he’d sat in the saddle for a solid day, even two, only stopping to switch out horses every few hours. His stamina had never failed him, even after battle.

  Until now.

  He found himself leaning against Davina’s back, using what little support she could offer. It was better than nothing—he would otherwise slump forward over the horse’s neck.

  She bore his weight without complaint. Without even mentioning it. Anyone who happened to observe them would think he rode a bit too close, perhaps. That he ought to give her more space. Not that he was too weak to hold himself up for hours at a stretch.

  Too weak. Yes, he was weak. For the first time in his life, or perhaps the second time. When he was a bairn. He was now little better than a bairn, once again depending upon a woman.

  If only she was not so pleasant to lean against. If only her warmth and the scent of her skin weren’t so enticing, the feeling of her soft curls against his cheek. The sort of feeling that inspired thoughts in a man, thoughts he ought not to have toward a woman supposed to be his captive. The enemy.

  Thoughts of quiet whispers and tender caresses. Of her curls trailing down his chest, splayed out over a pillow. Of her small hands clutching at him, holding the back of his neck, tangling in his hair…

  He realized in horror that he was beginning to stir, and pulled away from her before his yearning became clear. All he needed was for her to scream in horror at his inability to control himself. Yet another weakness.

  Rather than indulge in further fantasies, he turned his thoughts to her brother. What would Ian MacFarland think if he knew his sister had confided so much of herself? That she had confessed to being not merely unhappy but miserable and ill-used and utterly alone?

  On reflection, he decided the beast would not blink an eye at the revelation that his sister had lived in misery for most of her life. Lonely and little more than a slave. He had not cared at the time, while forcing the lass to live as she had. Why would guilt suddenly take root in what passed for a heart?

  No, he would care more that she had share it all with the enemy. That would be a thorn in the man’s breast, for certain. Rufus considered bringing this up, using it as a barb to throw the man off and cause him to question anything else the lass might have shared.

  He might use her quite handily, in fact.

  Did he want to? That was the question. The fact that it was a question at all turned his stomach.

  “Are ye well?” Davina whispered, turning her head to the side that she might speak over her shoulder. Her fine, delicate profile was visible through a few errant curls which hung loose from where she’d gathered her hair with a length of bandage. She had even tied it in a bow, which struck him as both strange and fanciful.

  “Aye. Well enough.”

  “But tired.”

  “Quite,” he admitted in a strangled whisper. “As ye well know by now.”

  She cleared her throat, looking around at the others who they rode behind. They’d taken the last position purposefully, that none of the men would notice Rufus’s exhaustion—or, more likely, that they would not have to pretend not to notice for the sake of preserving his pride.

  “Would it be possible to take a room in Killiecrankie?” she asked no one in particular. “I would love nothing more than a hot bath and a bowl of stew, though I understand if it would be too great an expense.”

  He might have kissed her then, so great was his relief and gratitude. She understood without being told how he longed to sleep in a bed, to soak in hot water that might help his tight muscles unbunch themselves. A hot meal, served in a tavern, and a mug of ale. Perhaps an entire flagon.

  Yet she would not leave the asking of it to him. Instead, she pretended the desire was hers alone.

  Not for nothing had she mentioned the stew, either, for Tyrone and Drew had both grumbled loud enough to hear earlier in the morning over how tired they were of eating what little they’d been able to catch. The thought of a hot, savory bowl of stew would certainly color their decision.

  And it did. “I would not protest a bed for the night,” Tyrone was helpful enough to murmur, looking over his shoulder. “Ye make a strong point, lass.”

  “Aye,” Drew agreed. “I believe among the lot of us, we can certainly afford a few rooms. One for ye alone, of course,” he added with a nod to Davina.

  “That is very generous of ye,” she replied with a smile Rufus could hear in her voice. How had he missed how clever she was? Not merely clever when it came to getting the better of another in an argument, but at getting her way without speaking plainly what it was she wanted?

  The lass had spent her life in the presence of men, after all.

  The woods began to thin as they drew nearer to Killiecrankie, the few outlying cottages marking the change from uninhabited wood to civilized land. The road went from narrow, stony and overgrown to something resembling what one would find in a village. They no longer had to ride single-file but could ride two or even three abreast.

  “Did ye know the Highlanders fought bravely here in the rebellion?” Rufus asked Davina, more out of the struggle to keep himself alert than out of any desire to speak.

  “Nay, I did not. I’m afraid I’m quite ignorant of many things,” she admitted.

  He would have wagered nearly anything he owned that just the opposite was true. There was a great depth of intelligence which she strove to conceal.

  “The Battle of Killiecrankie was a great victory,” he explained, recalling the words his father had used when recounting the same story. “It took all of ten minutes for the Jacobites to overwhelm the government forces. Ten minutes, lass. That is all it takes for a Highlander to declare victory when he knows what it is he fights for and believes in it strongly enough.”

  “It seems a shame the same could not be true this time.”

  “Well said,” he snorted with a roll of his eyes. She could not see it, but that did not stop her from clucking her tongue as though she had. Clever lass.

  They remained silent down the road to Killiecrankie, looking at everything they passed. The smithy, the baker. Another baker. An apothecary. Several inns, which he looked at with longing in his heart. To sleep through the night without having to keep watch.

  “If I remember correctly, this is the most highly regarded tavern of the lot,” Drew explained with a nod toward a structure of stacked stone, its thatched roof fresh after
early spring repairs. Drew was correct about how popular the place was, as over a dozen horses and carts sat outside well before midday. Their group had made good time along the road.

  “Keep a watch for anyone who looks to do us harm,” he murmured to Clyde, who responded with a firm nod and a glance at Davina. Rufus was certain then that the man would kill anyone who placed their hands on the lass, and this might have been just what she needed at the moment, as he could barely walk a straight line thanks to the bone-aching exhaustion he suffered.

  Unlike Brodric’s tavern in Perth, no unconscious bodies flew through the doorway when Rufus stepped inside. He considered this a strong start. Then again, Drew had not yet closed his hands around a mug, so there was still a chance of violence.

  “Ask about the place,” he murmured to his cousin, who began walking among the men who’d already made use of the tavern’s accommodations so early in the day. Some of them seemed to already be unsteady, swaying in their seats and laughing a bit too loudly at nothing in particular.

  Perhaps one of them had heard of his brother’s fate after Ian MacFarland’s visit to Moray Firth.

  “Might I be of help?” Davina tugged at the sleeve of his tunic.

  He looked down at her eager upturned face. “How would ye go about doing that?” he asked.

  “I might mention my brother’s name, find out for ye if he has been here as of late. Perhaps—”

  Rufus stopped her with a raised hand. “Nay, lass. I dinna like the notion. And what reason would ye have to help us?”

  Her mouth fell open. Thick eyelashes fluttered over steely eyes. “I—I thought I might—”

  “Dinna worry yourself over us,” he assured her, hands on her shoulders, pressing her down onto the closest bench. “Rest yourself. See to finding out how we might get a bowl of stew into us all.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I see. I’m capable of seeing to the food and nothing else.”

  He rolled his eyes with a sigh. “I didna mean that.”

  “But ye said it.”

  “What difference—never mind,” he decided, stopping himself before the situation could blow up into a fight. From what he knew of the lass, the clenching of her jaw and hardening of her eyes were not a good sign.