The Highlander's Triumph (2 page)

“Tell me, lass.
Does Barclay still live? I’ve need to hear who we’re fighting.”

“Barclay is
alive. He’s not a bad man in his own way. He’s a follower. Caved when Ross first raised his fist.”

Just as the Bruce suspected.
Barclay was afraid of Ross. Not many weren’t. Brandon and his cousins weren’t. The Bruce wasn’t. But that was because they’d already seen through the man. Knew they could beat him. Had been fighting against him for months. Others weren’t as willing to put their necks out when a man, half-crazed, showed up on their doorsteps and demanded cooperation or death. Brandon was fairly certain that was the stipulation. While Ross was gaining much from his alliance with Longshanks, the English king, he wasn’t one to pass it on to anyone else. Nay, Ross would hand out punishments if his wishes weren’t followed.

“How long were ye here?”

Mariana shook her head. “Not long.” Her voice was soft, but scratchy, a reminder of what she’d been through and Brandon’s previous promise that she didn’t have to talk.

His own throat was starting to feel scratchy from the smoke blowing on the wind.
The fire had already conquered at least half the village, and the spots where it still blazed showed no sign of relenting.

Marian
a coughed delicately, her shoulders quivering against Brandon’s chest. He resisted the urge to stroke his hands over the gentle curve of her shoulders. Instead, he managed to do the gentlemanly thing and pulled his waterskin from its place attached to his saddle.

“Take a sip, lass.”

Mariana turned her glorious blue eyes up to him, and gave a grateful smile. “My thanks, my laird.”

Brandon gave a stiff nod. Wanted to tell her to call him by his name, but knew that would only seem odd to a lady he’d just met. She took hold of the waterskin, her cold fingers brushing his.

“Ye’re cold,” he muttered.

Mariana shook her head.
“Just thirsty.” She drew the waterskin to her lips, wrapping their pink, plushness around the rim and taking a deep pull.

Brandon’s mouth fell open and his eyes were riveted to the si
ght—a number of sinful thoughts running wickedly through his mind.

“Thank you.” She handed him back the skin, her eyes starting to droop.

“Are ye tired?” he asked, feeling as though he stated the obvious. Her lids were heavy, her face pale. The lass was completely worn out.

Mariana nodded. “I feel so weak.”

“’Tis from the smoke. Rest, lass. I will wake ye when we make camp.”

Mariana wiggled in his lap—driving him crazy with the way her bottom hit his thighs and groin—until she found a comfortable position. She laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes. How easily she found her ease in his arms. Brandon was stunned.

Before he could think more on it, his men returned from their search, no villagers with them. Brandon frowned, his anger growing.

“We saw no survivors, my laird.”

Brandon gave a jerky nod, then turned his horse back in the direction they’d come. “Let us find the others.” If Wallace wasn’t back with Ronan and Julianna, then they might very well need to ride through the blazing village.

Ronan and Julianna met them halfway. No signs of their enemy and
no signs of survivors either.

“Who is this?” Julianna asked Brandon.

Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but Mariana roused and lifted her head. She stiffened, her back becoming straighter.

“I am Lady Mariana,
” she said with her silky accent.

Odd how the sound of her tongue made Brandon want to pull her closer, touch her
sensitive spots and hear her speak his name.

Julianna
frowned. “What are ye doing here?”

“I was sent by His Majesty, King Edward.”

Fire flashed in his cousins’ woman’s eyes, just as shock at her statement made his blood run cold. Longshanks had sent her? What in blazing ballocks was she talking about?

“Put her down. ’Tis a trick! We just left several others. The fire was a trap to lure us in. There are archers and warriors hidden in the woods to the west—most likely all around us.” Julianna pu
lled her sword from her saddle.

Brandon
pressed his lips firmly down in a frown and glanced at Ronan with question. Julianna acted as though Mariana might attack them. The lass stiffened further in his lap and again he wondered if she had a hidden dagger. Despite her omission, his gut told him she was not his enemy and he tended to trust his instincts. They weren’t going to leave her out in the cold, or lynch her.

If Ronan didn’t
rein Julianna in, Brandon wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold his tongue. Normally, Julianna was more cautious, gave no signs of her true feelings, but now she was acting completely different.

“Laird Sinclair, on behalf of my brother, your leader and future King of Scotland, I order ye to put the woman down. She is our enemy.”

Mariana clutched
her hands to Brandon’s chest, her cupid lips forming a bow full of fear. “My laird, please dinna let her hurt me,” she whispered.

Ronan reached out a hand and laid it lightly on Julianna’s arm.
The man certainly had patience when it came to his woman—and some sort of magical power. Julianna seemed to stand down.

“What is your purpose, Lady Mariana?” Ronan
asked, the voice of calm and reason.

Brandon couldn’t help feeling like they were interrogating the poor lass. Couldn’t they see that she was struggling to breathe, to stay awake?
Whatever her purpose, she wasn’t a danger to them now.

Mariana shuddered.
“I…I…” And the woman lost consciousness. Anger surged within Brandon. They’d scared her half to death.

Julianna bristled.

“We’ll take her with us. She can give us the information we seek,” Ronan said sternly. “Any sign of Wallace?”

Brandon shook his head, his grip tight on
Mariana. He’d vowed to keep her safe, and damn if he wasn’t going to see that vow through—even if he had to fight every man
or woman
to see it done.

Chapter Two

H
ammering on the north wooden wall broke the stifling, tension-filled air. Mariana shivered, every muscle tightening.
Oh, mon dieu! Pray be survivors
. The horrifying memories of Ross and his men galloping through the village, flinging torches and oil onto the buildings burned with a vengeance throughout her mind. Their wicked smiles and laughter as the people screamed out in fear was an image of such wickedness, she was sure to never sleep well again.

At the sound, Laird Sinclair
swiveled his horse around in time for her to see a large warrior and several men charge through an opening created in the burning wood. Mariana gasped at the horrendous sight, forced her eyes to remain open and braced herself for an oncoming attack. Who was the man barreling toward them?

“’Tis Wallace, my lady,” her rescuer whispered
, as though reading her thoughts. “Ye’ve no need to fear him.”

Mariana relaxed, but only slightly. She truly had no cause to trust this man or the one charging toward them, but she did all the same. There was something about Laird Sinclair’s eyes—blue and flawless like a summer sky. His hair was dark
, black and shiny like a raven’s feather, giving him the look of a warrior god.

The moment he pulled her into his arms she’d felt safe. Felt a keen sense of awareness toward him
, too. Every inch of her skin tingled, and where he touched grew hot. An instant attraction, one she’d never experienced before now. Instinctively, she knew the man would be intense and virile in the bedchamber.

Her skin heated at the thought. No maiden was she. Mariana had been trained as a young lady in the arts of pleasur
e. A lady she was—but was first the mistress to the French king at age fifteen. Her family hoped for an advantageous marriage by giving Mariana over to their sovereign’s pleasure. Their ploy worked—except for her elderly husband’s untimely demise. Since then, she’d been used as a mistress to men, a means to gain information, make peace. Indeed, she was a spy of sorts, and the good she’d been able to do thus far had been worth the unpleasantness of spreading her thighs for men she did not desire.

But Brandon
Sinclair… This man she wanted, but she had no excuse to give in to her desires. Her body was not her own.

The warriors grew closer. This Wallace she’d heard much of from the English King. Edward hated him.
Feared his power—though he’d never admit to it. Wallace and his men were covered in black soot. Like demons rising from the flames, the warriors rode toward them. Upon closer inspection as they neared, it was obvious the men were weary—much like herself. Breathing in the smoke as she removed blockades Ross’ men had used to trap people, battered down dozens of doors and searched for anyone she could rescue, had taken much from her.

“Any survivors?”
Brandon asked.

The rumble of his chest against her back startled her. Mariana sucked in a breath, frustrated with how meek she appear
ed. If King Edward knew she was this close to his enemy, he’d burst from his anger. What would he have her do? Gain information most likely. And he’d have her seduce Wallace to do it. Probably even issue her a command to take her knife to the rebel leader’s throat while he slept.

She wouldn’t do it—not the knife nor the seducing.
For now, Edward had no idea that she was with these people, and she would like to keep it that way.

Wallace shook his head, disappointment etched in his brow.
“Looks to have been torched purposefully as we guessed.”

Laird Sinclair stiffened, most likely feeling
his leader’s discontent. Mariana felt it, too. How could one man be so cruel and evil? To torch a town, burn people, heedless of the lives he took or ruined. ’Twas a horrid way to die, and she could still hear the screams of those inside. Though she knew none of them personally, had only been a guest of the town for less than a sennight, that mattered little. Compassion and humanity compelled her to feel the loss of those lives, bound her to say a prayer for their souls and wish for Ross to die a most painful death.

“Aye,” Ronan said. “We learned as much from a group by the burn. They were left to capture us.
’Twas a trap. Their group was shot dead, save for a couple of women and a child, by their own men.”

“Damn,” Bra
ndon muttered, his expelled breath tickled the nape of her neck.

If possible, his muscles tightened more, his grip around her waist tense. Mariana’s trade obliged her to study body language, and Laird Sinclair’s wasn’t hard to decipher—the man was filled with anger. How could she tell him she was in bed with his enemy’s sovereign? He would surely kill her on the spot—after torturing her for information.

“Any sign of Ross?” Wallace asked.

The ones Brandon referred to as
Julianna and Ronan shook their heads and said, “Nay,” in unison. As they continued their report, they held hands, so very romantic and sweet. Was there any hope that one day, she might too find comfort in the arms of a man? Have someone she could turn to in times of need? A man to love and cherish and vice versa? ’Twas what she longed for most.

“The men said they’d been waiting for us. That Ross expected us to come. That he wanted me left alive,” Julianna said. “But before we could gain more information, arrows flew from the woods hitting the men in their backs.” The woman was beautiful. Not in the French elegant sort of way, but a rugged, earthy beauty. High cut cheekbones, large almond shaped eyes and blondish-red hair that shone. For all her rough exterior, the woman obviously took care of herself.

Mariana did what she did
best, she listened intently while pretending to do anything but.

“Traitorous lot,” Wallace said with a shake of his head.

“Aye,” Julianna said. “We’ve no way of knowing their numbers or if Ross is among them.”

“The lady will tell us,” Wallace said with certainty
, turning his attention back to Mariana and Laird Sinclair. Mariana held her breath, keeping her eyes lowered.

Laird Sinclair
shifted, his thighs quivering beneath her bottom. She sensed his need to bolt, and with it, realized he truly did mean to protect her.

Under his breath he whispered, “
They’ll not put ye through the wringer, lass. Ye’ve already fought off a blaze and given me your trust. I willna let harm come to ye.”

Mariana didn’t want anyone to know what he’d said, so she squeezed his hand in reply, feeling the roughened skin beneath her softer fingertips. His hands were huge compared to hers—engulfed her completely.
A hand that she could hold. Someone she could depend on. Her heart constricted, belly did a little flip.
Oui
, she could picture herself with Laird Sinclair. An odd thought considering they’d only just met.

“Aye, she will tel
l us,” Julianna chimed in. ’Twas a dare. Through her lowered lashes, Mariana could see the challenge in Julianna’s eyes.

Brandon squeezed Mariana gently
on the waist. His gesture told her without words that it would be all right.

“Let us get to cover,” Ronan said
, eyes scanning the horizon. “We are being watched.”

Mariana
, too, felt the invisible eyes. Much like at court when she was with the king. From outward appearances they would be alone, but she could always feel several sets of eyes watching and she wondered from which cracks in the walls they spied. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought. Word traveled fast. Was one of Edward’s spies now running to tell him that his mistress was in the arms of a Scot?

Mariana closed her eyes, letting the exhaustion she felt take hold. Pray let Laird Sinclair keep her safe.

If Ronan and Julianna had just witnessed people of Kinterloch being shot by their own people, there was no telling what any lurkers would do to them. Shot in the back might be a welcome end compared to other such evils Ross was likely to come up with—though they wouldn’t go down without a fight. Brandon would hack down any enemy bastard he could, arrows protruding from his back and all.

Not willing to take his gaze from every possible hiding place—woods,
boulders, shrubs, a few outbuildings, Brandon followed Wallace back onto the road toward Eilean Donan Castle. Mariana slept in his arms, mumbling between soft snores. He couldn’t make out what she said, and a few times had to clench his jaw to keep from laughing for she sounded jovial and spoke gibberish in a high-pitched tone like a wee fairy.

Within a half-hour, feeling that
they were a safe distance away, Wallace bade them to stop and make camp. He and his warriors had to be exhausted after going into the flames. They were still covered in soot—only now sweat made flesh-colored lines through the black.

Lady Mariana had
fallen asleep in his arms but as soon as he pulled his horse to a stop, she shifted, stretched her arms and blinked up at him.

“We’re going to make camp here,” Brandon said softly.

Mariana nodded her acceptance, but glanced wearily around the camp. Wallace had yet to interrogate her, but it was coming soon. She most likely feared the questions, just as Brandon feared her answers. He’d yet to find out exactly what she was doing in Kinterloch, besides being sent by Longshanks to stay as a guest of Barclay.

“My lady…” Brandon shifted in the saddle and watched as those around them began to settle. “Is there anything I need to know before ye are approached by Wallace?”

Mariana shook her head a little too quickly for his liking.

“Are ye certain?”

She nodded.

Brandon frowned. She trusted him to keep her safe, but not with any information.
Interesting.

He dismounted from the horse and reached up, hands settling on her delicate waist and
lifted her down off the horse. Mariana’s head reached to just below his shoulder. She gazed up at him with questioning eyes. Opened her mouth to say something, but then shook her head and looked away. He’d not pry it out of her. When a mare was skittish, one didn’t pounce. Waiting patiently would often be enough for the mare to come forward. Mariana was no horse, but she was skittish. Mayhap waiting for her to open up would be enough, save for the fact that Wallace would soon be questioning her.

Mariana shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. Spring was on the way, but winter’s chill still made the air crisp.
Her singed cloak and the plaid blanket he gave her weren’t enough to keep her warm. They were far from the heat of the blazing village. Their breaths puffed out before them in white clouds, mingling. Brandon’s eye was caught by the way Mariana bit her lip. He wanted to bite her lip, then lick the sting away.

“Can I offer
ye my cloak?” He swung the wool fabric from around his shoulders, not giving her time to answer, and settled it around her form.

His cloak engulfed her completely, pooling around her feet.

“My thanks.”

Brandon
nodded, his body tense with desire and alert with a sense of danger. A danger that this woman presented even more so than their enemies.

’Twasn’t that he thought her physically capable of harming him.
Quite the opposite—she had a body built for pleasure and he couldn’t stop thinking about all the sinful things he wanted to do with her. Nay, the danger she posed was entirely different. Danger to his peace of mind. His solitude. The life he’d carved out for himself. Aye, he was laird and chief of his clan and someday he would have to marry. But he’d no plans to do it now. Not when the country’s stability hung in the balance. He refused to tie himself to a woman and produce heirs that would only suffer. Nay, he had to help rid Scotland of its enemies first. Then he could think about settling down with a wife and making bairns.