The Highlander's Triumph (13 page)

“Will you send an assassin with me?” she asked, keeping her spine stiff and voice stiffer.

“What?” Confusion filled Brandon’s voice, but she refused to take it for what it was.

He’d tricked her before, leading her to believe that he cared for her, that the memories she took would be sweet and not tainted with the vile fact that he’d used her.

“Don’t play games with me, my laird. I know what your plan is.”

As silently as he’d moved before, he was suddenly behind her. His voice like icy steel, cut against her ear. “What do ye know of my plans?”

He was angry. She could practically feel his ire radiating from his body. The heat of him seeped against her back, spreading all the way around her, but still left her cold. Mariana had been in many situations with an angry man.
King Edward was one of the angriest. He’d killed a servant at dinner one night when he didn’t like the way his wine was poured. He’d said it was because the wine was poisoned, but she’d seen the king berate the poor man the day before on his pouring skills.

But being with a murderer, as terrifying as it was, was nothing like having Brandon’s anger sliding over her.

Mariana knew people. Could read them. But with Brandon, she wasn’t an outsider deciphering a person’s intent and emotions, she was involved and her own feelings were getting in the way of figuring out Brandon’s.

“I know you intend for me to leave under the cover of darkness.”

“Aye. What else?”

“That you would send me into the wild without a moment’s hesitation.”
She took a deep breath. “To die.”

Brandon grunted. “Is that what ye think?”

She nodded. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she felt light-headed.

Silence greeted her for so long she nearly turned around.
If not for his chest pressed to her back, she’d have thought he disappeared. What was he thinking? What would he do? Was she right? Or had she gotten it terribly wrong?

“I’d no idea I left that kind of impression on ye.” Brandon’s voice was too low for her to sense whether he was angry or not.

“’Tis not an impression, my laird, simply a fact.”

Again he grunted. Mariana desperately wanted to turn around, to look into his eyes.
To ask him why he’d made her feel so special, only to toss her away like a used rag. But she wouldn’t. She had to remain strong, for her own sanity. She had to keep moving forward.

“If you will excuse me, I’m going to find my mount.”

Strong fingers gripped her shoulders sending spirals of unwanted, yet alluring, sensation coursing within her.

“I will not excuse
ye.”

Now it was her turn to be confused. “What?”

“Ye accuse me of being cruel. Of attempting to murder a noble born lady. I will nay allow ye to leave this castle with those foul assumptions. Ye can think anything else of me, but ye will nay strip me of my honor.”

Mariana gasped at the vehemence in his voice. His hands held her
in place, and good thing, because if she turned around she was bound to melt against him in apology, then slap him for his cruelty.

“I would never try to strip you of your honor, my laird.”

“And yet ye have.”

She shook her head. “I could not.
Never.”

“And yet,
ye have
.”

Mariana took a step forward, a little surprised when he didn’t hold her in place. She used her passive voice, t
he tone saved for all angry men, and one that helped her shut down, to distance herself from the situation. “Apologies, that was not my intention. I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

“Och, dinna take that tone with me, Mariana. I’m not some overlord bent on seeing ye cowed.” Air brushed her back as he stepped toward her once more. Sliding his hands over her hips, he pulled her back hard against him. “I made love to ye last night. Let ye play your game, called ye Des
ire. But the moment ye walked out, I knew that I was the fool. I dinna know what your purpose was in coming here, but I will not be led afoul again.”

Mariana’s breath caught, his words barely scratching the surface of her fazed mind.
Mariana shook her head again, and this time did turn around. Not so she could look into his eyes, but so he could see inside hers. “I would never play you for a fool. I’m not that kind of woman. I know we haven’t known each other long, and you have no cause to trust in what I say, but I pray you believe me when I tell you last night was one of the happiest moments of my life. A night I was going to cherish, until you stormed into my chamber and yanked it all away.”

Brandon’s face was unreadable. His lips in a firm line, his eyes locked on hers. She searched his gaze, wanting some reaction, but he’d not give her any, as though he’d erected a sturdy wall around himself, no longer allowing her to see inside his heart.
Lying to him, omitting the truth of who she was…seemed wrong. He had to know the truth, but she didn’t want to hurt him either.

She swallowed hard, and the words that blurted from her mouth were furthest from what she’d ever wanted to reveal, “I’m the English king’s mistress.”

Brandon looked stricken as he searched her gaze. He stumbled back a step, mouth slightly open in surprise. Tension, thick as mountain ice, surrounded them. Mariana’s knees grew weak and her stomach leapt into her throat. She wanted to pull her words back, wanted to erase this moment from both of their minds. She wanted to say something, anything to wipe the look of torment from his face. Willing her knees to be still, she pressed them together. Forced her belly to its natural place, and opened her mouth to speak.

But before she had a chance, Brandon spoke, his voice gruff.
“Then it would seem Fate has dealt us both a coarse hand.”

Chapter Thirteen

B
randon’s heart pounded a staccato beat rivaling that of a hundred warhorses drumming a path upon the battlefield.

The English king’s mistress?
Though he was certain he’d not heard wrong, Brandon wished he had. Longshanks had laid a path between her thighs before himself? He’d never given thought to the previous lovers of women he bedded, but Mariana was different. She wasn’t simply a woman he’d lain with. Their coupling had not been about gaining pleasure, but a mutual give and receive. A transferring of something deeper within their souls. The fact that his enemy had been inside her body, kissed her skin, smelled her essence, disturbed him immensely.

He loathed King Edward with a passion that threatened to overwhelm him.
Inside, rage clashed with jealousy. If the man stood before him now, there was nothing that would stop Brandon from running him through with his sword. Slitting his throat from ear to ear. Burning his insides as the man still breathed, then scattering his body in pieces from the north, south, east and west.

Before he returned to his seat in the northern Highlands, he wanted to see the bastard hanging from a noose he made himself—but now even more so for having laid claim to a woman that for a few brief moments, Brandon had thought could be his.

His hands clenched at his sides, jaw throbbed from grinding his teeth.

Mariana’s eyes were wide as she stared at him. But that was the only discerning set to her face. Her lips were flat, no curve up or down, and her brows were neither furrowed nor raised. She tried hard to hide how she felt, but Brandon could
see the regret within her eyes. He just couldn’t figure out if she regretted sleeping with him or telling him her secret.

“Say something,” she said, her voice husky with held in emotion.

Brandon swallowed and forced himself to speak. “Your horse awaits ye in the courtyard.” Not the words he wanted to say. Not the reaction he wanted to have. But what could he do?

She belonged to another man—his enemy.

The words he both longed for and dreaded did not leave her lips. There was no declaration of her loyalty to him. She’d not said she
had been
the king’s mistress, but that she
was
.

“I see.” Mariana lost face for a single second.

Brandon would have missed it if he blinked. Her lower lip quivered, and she rapidly blinked back tears. Then, as though she’d suddenly recovered, she lifted her skirts with dainty hands and turned away from him. Head held high, she marched to the archway, and disappeared down the stairwell that led toward the courtyard.

His feet remained rooted in place and he
was unable to move, unable to speak. He’d watched, disbelieving, until her skirts swished and vanished around a corner. The lass wouldn’t get far since they were on an island and the men waiting outside wouldn’t leave without Brandon. Even still, the fear that she’d walked out of his life forever made his chest burn.

Longshanks
’ lover. His enemy’s mistress. How many nights had she laid in his arms, laughing, kissing, feeding him almonds and grapes? How many nights would they lay together still, laughing at Brandon for falling for her ruse? The vivid images of her naked form entwined with the wrinkled, rough visage of King Edward made his stomach turn. Running a hand through his hair, he blew out a disgusted breath. He was an arse. The lass had shown she was upset, but that didn’t seem to fit with a woman who would run back to her lover. Or was he only seeing what he wanted to see?

Ballocks, but she was messing with his mind!

Mistress be damned. They had a plan in place and she was the bait. ’Haps it was best they’d had this spat and could now go their separate ways. They were obviously not meant to be together and a relationship would only get in the way of his plans. He was grateful for having fallen upon her, because she would now lead them to Ross and the king. He supposed he could think of their night of passion as spoils of war.

An image of her above him, hands pressed hard to his chest, her lips parted on a moan, eyes blazing on his… That hadn’t been the look of a woman thinking of another. He’d filled her
mind as much as he filled her body.

But she was right. They didn’t know
each other. And he couldn’t guess whether or not he could trust her.

Awareness of everything that stood between them
didn’t change what he was beginning to feel. A warmth that seized within his chest, directed at Mariana. One that would probably get him captured by the damned Sassenachs—or killed.

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered.

“That bad?”

Brandon whipped around to see his cousin Ronan walking down from above.

“Shouldn’t ye be with your wife?” Brandon asked.

“She’s sleeping like a sated—”

Brandon held up his hand. “Dinna tell me, please.”

Ronan laughed.
“Och, wait until ye’re happily wed to a siren.”

“A day that will never come to pass.”
His words were said heavily and with regret. He glanced at the empty archway, then forced himself to turn away from it. Pushing Mariana from his awareness was for the best.

Ronan frowned. “What’s on your mind?”

“The mission,” he lied.

“Are ye worried it will not play out?”

Brandon shook his head. It would play out. The problem was, how it played out.

“The woman then?”

He crossed his arms and frowned, silently admitting defeat. There didn’t seem to be a way to push her from his thoughts. “Aye.”

Ronan studied him, assessing as he always did.
“She’s beautiful.”

Brandon
tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck. The usual welcome relief of tension didn’t follow. “That she is.”

“Ye dinna want to leave her
with Ross and Longshanks?”

Not a question he had the right to ponder. What he had to do, what his duty to Scotland was, were both obvious. His own desires had no place here. Brandon had to think like a warrior. A true leader didn’t give concessions to their enemies. Well…not always.
Clearing his throat, Brandon said bitterly, “Nay, I dinna mind leaving her. She’s made her bed and I shall let her lie in it.”

Ronan furrowed his brow.
“Heavy words. What does that mean?”

Brandon clenched his jaw,
already regretting what he’d said. “Nothing. I will see ye when we return.”

He turned around, intent on leaving the great hall, but the sight that greeted him, made him wish he’d never entered it. Mariana stood in the doorway, her face pale, hands clenched together
in front of her. How much had she heard? His stomach plummeted to somewhere around his feet and he longed to run toward her, to take her in his arms and tell her he didn’t mean what he said. As stoic as she’d been before, she looked absolutely stricken now. Her lips quivered, eyes were glassy with tears. She’d heard most, if not all, of what he’d said. Knew that he didn’t mind her going back to Longshanks, in fact probably thought he preferred it.

“I—” She cut herself off and whirled around.

“My lady,” he called out, but she didn’t stop.

She disappeared the way she’d done before, through the blasted doorway.

“Good luck with that,” Ronan said under his breath.

Brandon ignored his cousin and chased after Mariana.

Mariana could hardly catch her breath. She ran down the stairs, sucking air into her lungs, but the air never seemed to get inside. Her throat was tight with unshed tears. Nearly blind, they watered so much, she could see only in blurs. One hand held her skirts up so she wouldn’t trip and the other slid over the roughened stone stairwell, stinging as jutted stone scraped her tender flesh. She tripped on the last stair, pitching forward onto the armory floor.

Her hands and knees slapped with
cruel measure against the stones, the threadbare rug hardly a barrier. She choked on a sob and prayed that none had witnessed her fall. Through the haze of her tears, she saw that she was indeed alone.

Mariana sat back on her heels and gave over to her tears. Oh, the awful things Brandon had said. The confession she’d made had only put a rift between them. He would blame her for the choices she’d not been able to make.
She’d never be able to look another member of this camp in the eye again. They must all know her past. Perhaps Brandon had guessed it long before she told him and that was another reason she was being cast out.

Swiping at the tears falling unabashedly from her stinging eyes, she wiped her hands on her skirts and pushed to rise. She took a few shuddering breaths, trying desperately to calm
herself. Steady. Soon, she would be back within the English court and could hopefully beg the king to let her go free. She didn’t know where she would go, the church seemed the best place, for she didn’t want to go back to France either. If Edward ever got word that she’d lain with Brandon, that she had feelings for him or that he might have even cared for her, he would use it against them both, and never let her go.

The look on Brandon’s face… He’d regretted her hearing
his words. His condemnation. Probably was embarrassed. Ronan had been the man who sent a lass to his room after all. Most likely knew that Mariana had paid the maids to let her lay with him instead. They obviously shared everything with each other. As if her face didn’t burn enough from the tears, now she was inflamed with mortification.

Footsteps hurrying down the stairs caught her attention. Not wanting to wait and find out who it was, she lifted her skirts and ran toward the door leading outside. She slammed it open so hard it bounced against the stone wall. Mariana didn’t bother to shut it, but instead ran down the second set of stairs to the main keep door, and burst into the courtyard.
Crisp night air washed over her, making the tears still drying on her cheeks freeze in icy streaks. Moonlight shone on the warriors who filled the space, some on horses, some beside. They were all here to witness her shame.

One
of the men stepped forward when he saw her, and she automatically took a step back, the heel of her boot catching, knocking her off balance. She reached out, gripping the door frame, and cried out when a splinter sank into the tender flesh between her thumb and forefinger. Yanking her hand away, she stared at the wound, unable to make out how deep and thick the offending splinter was.

“My lady.”
William Wallace’s voice was easily recognizable. “I have your mount.”

Mariana swallowed, ignoring the throbbing in her hand.
Judging from the many warriors and horses, this was more than simply being tossed into the wild. When Brandon said she wouldn’t travel alone, had he meant an entourage?

“What is happening?” she asked, walking up to Wallace and speaking in a low enough voice that she couldn’t be overheard.
The men surrounding them all pretended to be preoccupied.

“Ye dinna know?” Wallace’s face in the
dim night was indiscernible, but she could tell by his tone that he was skeptical.

“
I thought to be escorted by one,” she probed.

“Brandon?”
Wallace’s question seemed more a statement. He took her hand and pulled out the splinter like he did such all the time.